Ominous

by Lisa Jackson

  “Okay. I get it. Now, let’s—”

  But Ruth barreled on, “I’ll talk to you. I’ve been thinking about it all night. The stalker and that picture… someone’s after me, and if they try for my daughter—”

  “That’s why you need to come in,” Kat interrupted.

  “I’ll come to you,” she said. “Only you.”

  “Fine. Okay,” Kat said hurriedly, thinking hard. “Where do you want to meet? My house?”

  “Maybe a restaurant? Betty Ann’s?”

  “Someplace else.” Kat was clear on that. Betty Ann’s was too close to her father’s office. And those red cupcakes… “How about Molly’s Diner?”

  “I know everybody there.”

  “The Dog?” Kat suggested. It wasn’t exactly Ruth’s kind of place.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anyone there,” Ruth admitted. “And I suppose if someone there recognized me and told the Reverend … so be it.”

  “Amen,” Kat said.

  Ruth choked out a laugh. “But I don’t think I could talk about what happened in The Dog.”

  “Let’s just meet there and see how it goes. Say an hour?”

  “I’ve got to make arrangements for Penny, and I’m going to think this over.”

  “Don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll see you there,” she said, though the uncertainty in her voice made Kat wonder.

  With another glance at the clock, Kat swept up her purse. She eyed the red velvet cupcake on her desk. Her stomach managed to handle the sight, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Leaving it where it was, she walked down the hall to the break room, opened the refrigerator, grabbed one of three club sodas and began sipping it carefully as she headed out to her Jeep.

  Her father wasn’t at his office when she knocked, and Kat made a sound of impatience as she pulled out her cell phone. Next door, Betty Ann’s was doing a thriving business, but the tinkling of the bell over the door grated on her. It damn well brought back her nausea, which pissed her off. Climbing back in the Jeep, she reversed quickly out of her parking spot. Beep! A horn blasted, and she slammed on the brakes and looked back. Blair Kincaid’s truck was right behind her, and he was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring at her through the windshield. He lifted his hands from the steering wheel and held his palms skyward in a “What gives?” gesture.

  She gritted her teeth, shook her head, and drove off. She could feel the color creeping up her neck. Of course it had to be him. If she was pregnant it was his fault. Jesus. How had she gotten herself into this mess?

  Alcohol. Lack of protection. One-night stand.

  She drove to the edge of Prairie Creek to a fairly new chain drugstore. She’d been there once before and hadn’t recognized any of the employees, so she was hoping she would remain anonymous. She just didn’t need one of the town busybodies showing up, but most people she knew frequented Bomburn’s Pharmacy in downtown Prairie Creek.

  Walking inside, she glanced at the girl behind the counter. A young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She seemed faintly familiar, but Kat couldn’t place her. It was no one she knew well.

  Feeling conspicuous, she walked down the aisle, waiting until a middle-aged woman who’d been examining the contents of some baby cream finally wandered away. Glancing around like a thief, she picked up the pregnancy kit, grabbing a two-pack just in case she needed further corroboration. Then she walked to the counter with a certain amount of trepidation. If she’d had the time, she would have driven to the next town, but she didn’t, and the need to know was killing her.

  The girl had on a name tag. RHIANNA BYRD.

  Oh. Lord. God. Help. The youngest Byrd daughter.

  “Hi,” the girl greeted her with a smile as Kat placed the kit on the counter. She rang it up and asked, “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Kat scrounged in her purse for cash. No way was she putting her credit card out there. She hoped to God Rhianna didn’t recognize her.

  The girl took the money and handed her back her change. As Kat pushed back through the door, Rhianna’s voice called after her sweetly, “Have a nice day, Ms. Starr.”

  Shit.

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, Kat was in the bathroom of her own home, staring at the two pink lines that had appeared on both tests. She tossed both sticks in the trash, washed her hands, and stared at herself in the mirror.

  You can’t wash it away.

  Her cell rang from where she’d left it on the bathroom counter. She looked at the number, saw it was her father. Less than an hour ago, she’d wanted to talk to him about Courtney Pearson and the barbed wire. Now she just wanted to crawl back in bed.

  She debated about letting the call go to voice mail, but she growled under her breath in frustration, then answered, “Hi, Dad,” as she grabbed up her purse again and headed out. It was almost time to meet Ruth.

  “I heard you stopped by to see me this morning,” he said. “I was over at the grave site, visiting your mom.”

  Ah. Made sense. Patrick went through cyclical periods of going to Adam’s Cemetery and communing with Kat’s mother. It had been a while since the last time, but that was before Courtney’s body was found and Addie Donovan went missing. It was one of the ways her father dealt with emotional trauma, while Kat had her own methods, one of which was engaging in reckless behavior, apparently.

  “Who told you I stopped by?” Kat asked as she climbed back into her Jeep.

  “Blair Kincaid. He was going to Betty Ann’s. Picks up breakfast almost every morning there.” A pause. “Guess you almost rammed his truck.”

  Kat’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “I was backing out, and he came up behind me.” Did she sound defensive? Probably. “Didn’t even know he was there ’til he blasted me with his horn.”

  “Well, no harm done. I thought Hunter made a mistake bringing him back to the Kincaid ranch and then putting him in charge. I mean, Blair’s always been good with livestock, has been since he was a boy, but he and trouble were pretty good pals back in the day too, and there was that time—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Blair Kincaid,” Kat stated flatly.

  “—that Blair and Carl Perkins were in that fight at the Buffalo Lounge. Blair wasn’t old enough to be drinking there, but he was, and he took offense because Carl thought he’d stolen his girl.”

  “Dad, that was Rafe Dillinger, and the girl was Darla Kingsley.”

  “I’m talking about the one who had the baby.”

  “I know which one you’re talking about. It was Darla. And it was all rumor anyway.” Kat was impatient. “She might never have been pregnant in the first place.”

  “I thought Blair confessed to being the baby daddy.”

  “No. Blair and Carl were fighting about some bet at the rodeo that summer. It had nothing to do with Darla. Courtney was the one who planted that rumor because Rafe was her boyfriend.”

  “Okay.” He sounded slightly taken aback at her sharp tone.

  “I just came by to talk about the barbed wire. Ricki and I are going over to the Dillingers this afternoon and talking to Ira.”

  “He should know about the wire,” he said in a contained voice. She knew she’d hurt his feelings at her abruptness, but she couldn’t help herself.

  Kat thought about Courtney. All that high school drama was so trivial now. Exhaling heavily, she said, “The photo I gave you of Courtney … I shouldn’t have given it to you without checking with Sam or Ricki first. Ricki let me know this morning that it wasn’t protocol, and I’m just lucky no one’s taking it any further.”

  “Everyone knows how involved I’ve been with those missing girls,” he protested.

  “You couldn’t have called me first? Given me a chance to explain it?”

  “I didn’t think about it. I just wanted to tell them what I found. Ricki’s a Dillinger. Part of the family.”

  “Well, it got me a talking to. Which I probably deserved.”

  �
��I’m sorry, honey.”

  He was so shocked and contrite that she lifted up her hands. “Forget it. Ricki’s okay now. And it’s a great lead.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. What have you got?”

  “I pulled out my magnifying glass and really examined it. Back in the day, these ranches all had their own special wire. The way the barbs are twisted on it. This one had a double twist, and a reversal. Gives it an upward tail. Knew I’d seen it before, and it was either Dillinger or Kincaid.”

  Kat mentally reviewed the picture she’d taken of the barbed wire, but her brain was focused on the torn flesh around Courtney’s wrists.

  “It’s all pretty much a thing of the past now. Thought about asking Blair about it, when he was here, but I’m leaning toward Dillinger. That’s what I told Ricki.” He paused. “I should’ve called you first.”

  “I should’ve gone to Sam and Ricki first. It’s all right.” Kat forced the image of Courtney’s wrists from her mind.

  “This wire wasn’t for sale just anywhere. It was made special for the ranchers for their livestock. You couldn’t buy it at a store.”

  “You’re not saying you think Courtney was held prisoner by a Dillinger or a Kincaid, are you?”

  “Not necessarily, but Rafe Dillinger’s one of the top three on my list,” he reminded her.

  “It could be anybody who had anything to do with either family, or maybe this guy just found this wire somewhere. It could be completely unrelated.”

  “There’s likely some of it still around the Dillinger property,” he mused. “Coulda been thrown out over the years, I suppose, but I don’t see Ira cleaning out all the outbuildings on the ranch. That’s where it would be, unless this kidnapper took it all. But I bet there’s scraps there.”

  She was pulling into a spot across from the Prairie Dog when he asked again, “You sure Blair didn’t get the Kingsley girl pregnant? I hate to think my memory’s not what it used to be.”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well, neither Rafe Dillinger nor Blair woulda made much of a father, so let’s hope that’s all it was.”

  Kat fought back a strangled sound.

  “What?” her father asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Chapter 22

  The Prairie Dog hadn’t improved since Kat had been there with Shiloh, not that she’d expected it to, but she looked at it with new eyes now that Ruth was joining her: same worn stuffed prairie dog, Zipper, sitting on a shelf behind the bar; same rough-hewn floor, beaten down by cowboy boots and wooden chairs; same bleary-eyed clientele in Stetsons and baseball caps; same everything. It wasn’t going to work, Kat could already see, but she chose a table in a far corner that offered privacy and gave her a view of the door. She pulled out a notebook and a recorder, though she wasn’t sure how Ruth would react to that.

  Five minutes later, Ruth showed up in black pants and a white blouse with a loose tie at the throat, her expression sober, her red hair tamed by a tortoiseshell clip at the back of her neck. She looked professional and approachable at the same time.

  She crossed the room to Kat self-consciously, and they both said as one, “We need to go somewhere else.”

  Ruth saw the recorder and the notebook as Kat tucked them back in her purse. “Oh,” she said. She swallowed, then she drew back her shoulders and said, “I can do this. I was thinking on the ride over that maybe we could go back to the park where you and I talked the last time …”

  Right after the attack. “I’ll meet you there,” Kat said, gathering up her purse.

  Kat led the way in her Jeep, and Ruth followed behind in a small SUV. It was a short trip, but Kat’s mind was jumping all over the place. She had too many things to think about, not the least being she was pregnant.

  Pregnant … knocked up … with child … motherhood bound …

  Blair’s brother, Hunter, and his new wife, Delilah Dillinger, had just had a baby boy they’d named Joshua. The night he was born, Kat had run into Blair at Big Bart’s Buffalo Lounge, a sprawling restaurant and bar that was a larger version of The Dog, with better food and more tables, but the same overall clientele.

  Blair was in jeans and a denim work shirt, the cuffs rolled up along his forearms, leaning back in his chair, his booted feet propped on the seat of an adjoining one. His hair was dark, tousled, and longish, the remnants of a hat ring adding a raffish air. A dove-gray Stetson sat on the table next to a nearly finished mug of beer.

  “Another Kincaid in the world. Baby Joshua has arrived,” he called out to Kat, who’d gone to Big Bart’s for their Cobb salad. Being single and living alone in a small apartment close to the station, Kat rarely cooked for herself, and the food at Bart’s was surprisingly good, a cut or two above the usual bar fare.

  Blair moved his feet and pushed out a chair in invitation as she walked up to the bar to pay for her order. She ignored him, so he slid to his feet and headed her way, beer in hand.

  “How’s Ethan?” he asked, leaning a hip against the bar.

  “The same.”

  “Both he and Colton Dillinger, bronc riders, and now domesticity.” He spread his arms wide and shook his head slowly from side to side, as if their lives were over.

  Kat tried not to look at him. He was just put together too well. Something about that untamed hair, and the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the silver buckle at his flat waist, the strength in his biceps. And that face. Silvery blue eyes and a hard jawline, a slightly mocking smile, firm lips. He was just too good-looking for his own good, and hers. Around him she always felt a womanly response right to her core, a thrill, a heightened awareness, which always pissed her off.

  “Want to have a beer and celebrate with me?” he asked, almost boyishly eager.

  “Oh, I can’t,” she said. No way. He was far too tempting. The Blair Kincaids of the world weren’t the kind of men to start something with that you wanted to last. They weren’t made that way. Period. And Kat wasn’t looking for a maybe on/maybe off romance.

  “C’mon,” he whispered, grinning like the devil he was. “What’s it gonna hurt? I’m an uncle. To a half Dillinger. That’s gotta be a reason to drink.”

  The barkeep handed her the brown paper sack that held her salad. She looked at it, and then at Blair. She saw the stubble on his chin and got lost a moment thinking about how it would feel to rub her fingers over those whiskers.

  “I don’t really drink beer,” she said.

  “Wine? Whiskey?”

  “Vodka, once in a while.”

  “Rustle up the lady a vodka martini, Grey Goose, three olives,” he told the man. He swept an arm toward his table, but when Kat hesitated, he said, “Uh oh. You prefer a lemon twist, don’t you?”

  “No, it’s fine.” In reality, she’d never had a straight vodka drink. She generally stuck with lemon drops, or cosmos, or vodka tonics, something with a mixer.

  But her drink came up, and Blair carried it to his table. She sat down across from him, setting the brown bag that contained her salad and her purse on the table next to his Stetson. He leaned back and surveyed her with a soft smile. “Katrina Starr,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Little Kat.”

  He’d known her brother, Ethan, better than he’d known her, as they were closer in age. Blair had left Prairie Creek somewhere during his high school years, a time when he’d had “trouble as his best pal,” to quote her father. But he’d returned a couple years back at the behest of his brother, Hunter, who’d wanted help running the ranch after their father, the Major, died. Kat asked him some questions about his family, skirting the sensitive issues, but mostly making conversation, as she worked her way through the martini.

  As soon as she got to the bottom of the glass, Blair ordered her another, even though her head was already swimming. She protested, but the protest fell on deaf ears, and Blair ordered a Maker’s Mark for himself, both drinks arriving in minutes.

  And she got plastered. It happened so fast
. One moment, she was telling a story—something she thought thigh-slappingly hilarious at the time but couldn’t recall the following day—the next, she was in his pickup with him, practically ripping off his clothes out in Big Bart’s lot.

  “Slow down, Little Kat, we’ve got all night,” he breathed in her ear, which sent up a warning bell from the depths of her drunkeness, a warning she ignored as she let him drive her to the Kincaid ranch.

  He wasn’t half as drunk as she was, she realized much later. He knew what he was doing, and did it anyway. She, on the other hand, was beyond hope, and just trying to hang on to some vestige of respectability. “I’m a cop, goddamnit,” she told him proudly as they walked through the house and upstairs to a huge bedroom that opened with double doors. “I don’t drink, and I don’t smoke, and I drive within the speed limit, mostly.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “Usually. I don’t drink, usually. But this is a special occason … occasion … after all, you’re an uncle!”

  “I am. That’s for sure.” He nodded. “I did give up smoking. Bad habit. But I do drink, and I always drive at least ten miles over the speed limit.”

  “We’re made for each other,” she said happily. “God, this is a big room.”

  He looked around as if seeing it for the first time. “Hunter moved out and gave it to me.” He sat down on the end of the bed. “You should drink more,” he told her. “You’re a lot less uptight.”

  Kat was immediately incensed. “I’m not uptight.”

  “Okay, but you’re a lot less uptight now, so …” He shrugged.

  “Why is this room so big?” she asked, feeling dizzy as she looked toward the vaulted ceiling.

  “It’s the master suite, and I guess I’m the master?”

  “No …” She laughed.

  “I’m not?”

  “No … wait, are you?”

  “Maybe.”

  And after that he reached a hand out to her, and she willingly fell into his arms. They kissed like they were drowning for each other, then he pulled her onto his lap and she straddled him, and they began rocking together, and her fingers caressed his beard, and she felt how hard he was beneath her crotch, and she squirmed down on him until they were both gasping and then stripping off their clothes.