Janice graduated from Whitman College with a B.A. in history and then received a master's degree in library science from the University of Washington. She was a branch librarian for a public library system until she began selling her own writing.
She has written six novels for young adults and one picture book for the read-aloud crowd. ROSAMUND was the outgrowth of all those hours spent reading to her own daughters, and of her passion for growing old roses. Two more of her favorite books were the historical novels: WINTER OF THE RAVEN and THE ISLAND SNATCHERS, written for Tor/Forge and now available in ebook format for the first time. The research was pure indulgence for someone who set out intending to be a historian.
Janice raised her two daughters in a small, rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She spent many years as an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter, and foster kittens often enlivened a household that typically includes a few more cats than she wants to admit to.
Janice loves writing books about both love and family — about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her Superromance novels are frequent finalists for Romance Writers of America RITA awards, and she won the 2008 RITA for Best Contemporary Series Romance for SNOWBOUND.
Visit her website at www.JaniceKayJohnson.com.
A Note from the Author:
Thank you so much for purchasing my book. If you enjoyed the book, I hope you will take a moment to help me get the word out to others by posting a review on Amazon or Goodreads - or “like” my Author Page on Facebook to get future updates.
I also love to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact me on Facebook or via my website at www.JaniceKayJohnson.com.
Catch up on Grant and Cassie’s story.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first book in the Desperation Creek series HOME DEADLY HOME.
HOME DEADLY HOME
(Book 1, A Desperation Creek Novel)
PROLOGUE
One shot, one kill.
Satisfied, he took a last look at the effect. Dead man, smiles all around.
He’d wait until he was back at his truck to make that call to hurry things along. Of course, he’d toss this phone after, so he didn’t have to worry about the GPS being traced. He didn’t make a habit of carelessness. Never had, never would.
Tempting as it was to linger, enjoy that first shock and dismay, then watch the cops bumbling around, he’d hear all about it later. Maybe he’d get lucky this time, and either the local football star aka the sheriff himself or that new young detective would prove halfway competent and give him a real chase. That was the fun. The kill? It was almost too easy for a man with his skill and imagination.
Still – he was pleased to have proved once again that he was as sharp as ever, even when it mattered as never before.
Packing up his rifle, he smiled. Excellent beginning.
CHAPTER ONE
Cassie Ward ignored the first few rings of the phone. Finally, annoyed, she glanced up to see Helen’s desk empty. Like everyone else working at this weekly newspaper, Helen multi-tasked, in her case as receptionist and phone person as well as filling in anywhere else needed. Last time Cassie had surfaced, Helen had been putting together the community calendar before she moved on to classifieds. She’d probably taken a restroom or coffee break.
No choice but to grab the phone. “Managing editor.”
“Would you be Cassandra?” Low and slightly muffled, a man’s voice. He sounded as if he was savoring her full name, a creepy notion.
He had her full attention. “I am.”
“A newspaper reporter who will never be believed.” He chuckled.
Cassie stiffened. She’d heard the joke before - her name did have a certain irony – but never in a tone that raised her hackles.
Did this guy know her? She wanted to feel sure the voice wasn’t familiar, but couldn’t. He was altering it somehow.
“Who is this? What can I do for you?” she asked briskly.
“It’s more what I can do for you. If you want some real news, I suggest you go see Curt Steagall. Out at the—”
“Circle S. I know it.”
“Front page,” he murmured.
“Sir?” But she was talking to herself. He’d cut her off. Cassie muttered a few choice words under her breath. Andy Sloane was off working on something else, and she still had a ton to do to get the paper ready to send to the printer tonight. Even so, she couldn’t ignore what he’d said, little as that was. Her current front page lead had to do with a construction project impacting businesses on Main Street. What she considered real news was undeniably thin on the ground hereabouts.
The caller might well be a nutcase. They got those. He could also be some regular guy who thought it was funny to get her stirred up. Or, hey, this was a real tip, delivered with unnecessary drama.
There was another alternative, she realized: a nutcase who had called to deliver a real tip. Now, there was an unwelcome notion.
After a minute, she sighed, dug through a drawer until she found the local phone directory, an even skimpier book than it used to be, and looked up the Steagall’s number. If they had only cell phones… Nope, there it was. She dialed.
“Circle S,” a woman said. “Karen speaking.”
Cassie vaguely remembered Curtis Steagall from school. He’d been three or four years ahead of her, and therefore scarcely on her radar, or she on his. His father ran the ranch in those days, she did know that. Dad had probably told her whether Roger Steagall had died or retired or what, but she must not have paid attention.
Cattle ranching had been the dominant industry in this rural, eastern Oregon county until the past four or five decades, when raising beef cattle had become less profitable, and giant ranches owned by agri-businesses had increasingly driven small ranchers into selling out. Half a dozen local ranches still made it, though, and a good number of other local citizens ran some cattle and called themselves ranchers even though they held other jobs to pay the bills. The Circle S was a good size spread.
“Karen, this is Cassie Ward from the Hayes County Courier. I wonder if I could speak to Curt.”
“Well, not right this minute, you can’t. He’s out feeding stock.”
Sun high in the sky, of course he was. A crisp, cold day like this would be ideal for spreading hay. After a white Christmas, snow had lingered, thin and spotty, the earth frozen solid. His herd would be able to lip up most of the hay before they trampled the ground into a mucky mess.
Without prompting, Karen added, “I expect him back in the next half hour, give or take a little. He’ll be hungry.”
“Do you mind if I come out to the ranch?”
“Of course not, but…is there something I can help you with?”
“I wish I knew,” Cassie said with complete honesty, “but since Curt’s name was the one I was given, I’d like to start with him.”
“All right, then.”
*****
Wasn’t that a strange phone call? Karen shook her head as she cut thick slabs of roast beef for sandwiches. What could a reporter want with Curt?
Maybe just a comment for some article about the ranchers butting heads with the BLM. The bureaucracy, or the incompetence, or the intentions of the federal Bureau of Land Management were part of plenty of conversations in ranch country, here in Oregon and across the west. Newspaper editorials, too. The BLM and the Forest Service and the soil conservation people and what not. The supposed experts were like ants on spilled sugar. The woman might just be looking for confirmation of information she’d gotten elsewhere. Even though that mess down at Malheur Wildlife Refuge when some angry ranchers staged a revolt had happened awhile back, it did still have people talking, and Curt had spoken out at the time.
Karen settled as she slapped mustard on the bread. That had to be it.
As she started warming soup, she tried to remember what she knew about Cassie Ward, who’d taken over Hayes Count
y’s only newspaper from her father after he had a stroke two or three months ago. She’d been told Cassie was a local girl, but one who went away to college and never came back except for visits. Dixie Percell said Cassie had been working for the Oregonian, over in Portland.
Nobody argued she didn’t know what she was doing, managing the paper. She grew up at her daddy’s elbow, Karen had heard. But the Oregonian leaned a lot further left than folks this side of the mountains liked.
Well, they’d see, wouldn’t they?
The soup bubbled, and she turned off the burner, taking a look out the window above the sink even though she’d have heard the tractor if Curt were back.
She didn’t see it even in the distance. This time of year, the landscape was bleak, no denying it. Brown pasture where it showed through snow. Beyond, more brown along with gray and white, at last a few tinges of dark green where the land started to rise and the first small junipers found footholds among the sagebrush.
No reason to worry; Curt had to finish what he set out to do, and they were getting close enough to calving season he might have been waylaid if he spotted a cow giving birth. This was only January 11, awfully early since usually that didn’t happen until February at least. By then he’d have moved the pregnant cows in closer, where they could be monitored more easily. Still, you never knew, and that would hold him up for sure. Could have noticed damage to a fence, too. There were all kinds of possibilities.
She reached for her phone, but before she could try him, the doorbell rang.
Karen turned on a lamp in the living room before she opened the door to a woman bundled up against the cold. Her breath puffed out in a cloud.
“Come in! Here, let me take your coat.”
The door shut behind Cassie Ward, she unpeeled her scarf, removed a fleece hat to reveal – yes, rumor had it right – a purple streak in short, dark red hair. Parka next. One glove fell out of her pocket and she bent to pick it up.
Karen draped everything over a coat tree, then led the way to the kitchen. “Curt’s not back yet, but at least you can be comfortable while you wait. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“If it’s easy,” the reporter said. No, managing editor, that’s what she was called.
Karen poured the coffee, then said, “Why don’t I call him to find out what’s holding him up?”
His phone rang, and kept ringing. He had it set on eight rings before it went to voice mail. At the least, he had to fumble off a heavy glove to answer.
She hesitated, but instead of leaving a voicemail, called again. Eight more rings. Finally setting the phone on the counter, she turned to the visitor. “He’s likely to call back in the next few minutes.” On the rare occasions when Curt was out of earshot, he checked for missed calls as soon as he could, since he worried about her alone at the ranch house. Especially now, with her pregnant although most people didn’t know yet.
This Cassie Ward sure was a little thing, maybe five foot two or three inches at most. She’d taken a seat at the table, added sugar and cream to her coffee, and sipped it while watching Karen.
“Who was it gave you Curt’s name?” Karen asked abruptly.
A few creases formed on the reporter’s forehead. “That’s the thing. I don’t know.” She shrugged, dismissing whatever had bothered her. “We get anonymous tips. People don’t always want their names known.”
Karen understood that. A real private person herself, she wouldn’t have married a rancher if she couldn’t be content living out in the middle of nowhere, not a neighboring house in sight.
She asked about Cassie’s father, and got an update on his condition. Yes, for now Cassie was staying with him.
“He grumbles about his physical therapy – they work him hard – but we’re all looking to the day when he can take over the newspaper again. It’s been his life,” she added.
Two women without much in common, they labored for another few minutes to make conversation. Karen couldn’t relax enough to sit down. At a pause, she snatched up the phone and tried calling Curt again, with no more luck.
By now, she had a rock in the pit of her stomach. Accidents happened. With tractors, never mind animals that considerably outweighed her husband and were none too smart. He could have stepped in a hole and broken a leg. Too many things could go wrong.
“I’m going out there,” she decided. “If you want to wait—”
Cassie shook her head. “I’ll go with you. You might need a hand.”
Karen hesitated, knowing the other woman was still looking for her story, but there was room for two on the four-wheeler, and she was just a little relieved not to be heading out alone. She nodded. “We’d best bundle up, then.”
*****
Cassie held onto the woman in front of her as they followed in the tracks left by a tractor. Despite the freezing temperatures, the distinctive scent of sagebrush tingled in her nostrils. In between visits home, she forgot how different it smelled out in the high desert country on the east side of the Cascade mountains. Mostly the sagebrush, but also the juniper and maybe even the volcanic soil. The dry air and biting cold didn’t have much in common with Portland’s seasonal rain and forty degree temps, either.
The ATV was too noisy to allow for talking, which was just as well. Cassie had no idea what she was doing here, and she was afraid she was the cause of the tension she’d seen on Karen Steagall’s face. Didn’t sound as if Curt was usually late, and for it to happen just when a reporter got a tip to talk to him?
Cassie didn’t like the coincidence. What about this could be a ‘real’ story? As they bounced across winter-dead pasture, she kept hearing the eerie way the caller said her name.
Karen had told her that the cattle were out in the northeast corner of the ranch right now. When the ATV came to a stop, Cassie hopped off to open a gate. The ground beyond was mucky, with strands of hay mixed into the frozen mud. Curt must have tossed the hay over the fence here more than a few times.
The tracks left by the tractor were clear. They headed off into more emptiness. The worried way the other woman stared now stretched Cassie’s nerves, too.
Once Karen had driven through and Cassie closed the gate, Karen said, loud enough for her to hear, “We ought to be able to see the tractor.”
The moment Cassie climbed back on, Karen accelerated to a speed that had the ATV bouncing over the uneven terrain.
The cold had a bite today. Bank in town said the thermometer read eight degrees. This had been a bitter winter even by local standards, hitting record lows. Cassie tucked her chin deeper in the collar of her parka and debated letting go with one hand to wrap the scarf around her face but decided she didn’t dare.
Karen called something over her shoulder, and Cassie leaned to the side to see around her shoulder to where a big green tractor and trailer sat parked alongside a barbed wire fence that likely marked the back boundary of the Circle S. Only the tractor’s height left it visible; a vast herd of red-brown cattle with white faces jostled for position around it. From here, she couldn’t see the driver. Stacked hay bales on the trailer blocked any view of the other side. Why would Curt have boxed himself in like this? It made no sense to spread hay here.
Apprehension had been buzzing under her skin, but the sight of the neat rectangle of hay bales filled her with dread. If he’d been out here all morning, why hadn’t he already fed his herd? How long had he been sitting here? Or had he ducked through the fence onto federal land because he saw something he needed to check out?
Instead of slowing down, Karen accelerated. The icy air whipped Cassie’s face. The herd parted to let them through, closing back around them. A sudden stop flung them both forward. The engine shut off, letting them hear the unhappy complaints of hungry animals.
For an instant, Karen didn’t move. “I don’t see him.”
Cassie sucked in that frigid air scented now with manure. “He might just be out of sight.”
Neither woman believed it. Karen nodded, anyway, but stil
l made no effort to dismount until Cassie climbed stiffly off the ATV, almost falling when a big head butted her. Once Karen joined her, the two women pushed their way toward the front of the tractor.
Cassie stopped before circling all the way around the front of it, her eye caught by something so out of place, she could only gape. A bright yellow balloon filled with helium floated above the barbed wire fence, a long yellow ribbon anchoring it to the wire. And…was that a face on the front of the balloon?
She took another step into the narrow space between tractor and fence. Two. And then her heart took a hard thump. The balloon had a smiley face, the cheeriness so bizarre she had to blink a couple of times before she could tear her gaze away to where the bulk of a man lay sprawled beside the fence. No, his arm was snagged on it, as if he’d grabbed for support on his way down. His head…
Bile rising to her throat, she backed up. Oh, dear God – she’d never imagined she’d see anything like this again except in her nightmares. Whirling, she found Karen on her heels. “No,” she said. “You don’t want to see this.”
The other woman elbowed right by her. A terrible cry spilled from her throat. Cassie pulled Karen back around, holding her tight to keep her from rushing to her husband’s side. At last the taller woman quit fighting and stiffened, her eyes fixed as if she was still staring at the worst thing she’d ever seen, even if her back was now to it.
The balloon bobbed as a cow got pushed against the fence at the back of the trailer, unable to squeeze into the narrow space but barely three feet from the body.
Uneasy thoughts crept into Cassie’s head, sending prickles up her nape.
The caller hadn’t said she should go talk to Curt Steagall. He’d said she should go see him. Which meant…
All the Lost Little Horses (A Desperation Creek Novel Book 2) Page 30
