by Lisa Jackson
But she was getting ahead of herself, far ahead of herself, she decided as she pulled into the parking area and cut the engine.
Nikita, Santana’s husky, appeared in the open doorway to the main house and gave a quick bark before bounding through the snow to greet her with his back end wiggling wildly.
“Hey, Detective!”
She looked up to see Santana standing on the upper floor deck, off the bedroom, looking every bit as sexy as the first time she’d met him, in a bar no less. Wearing a faded shirt that stretched across his shoulders, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the frame of the French doors as he stared down at her. One side of his mouth drew into a lazy smile. “About time you showed up.”
“Always the bastard,” she threw out at him, trying to hide her own amusement.
His grin widened, showing off white teeth against his bronzed skin. Like Blackwater, he had more than a trace of Native American blood in his veins, visible in his high, bladed cheekbones, ink-black hair and dark eyes, the kind of eyes that seemed to sear to her soul, eyes that were twinkling with that sexy kind of mischief that she found impossible to ignore.
What had started out as a white-hot attraction and equally hot affair hadn’t flamed out as she’d expected. No, she thought, petting Nikita’s furry head before heading into the house, that first spark of interest had burned through all her barriers to the engagement and, she hoped, marital bliss.
“Third time’s the charm,” she told herself as, with the dog on her heels, she walked through the open door and found her way up the stairs that would remain open, offering a view through the glass walls of the living room to the lake visible between each free floating step.
The staircase had been designed before she had any inkling that she would get pregnant, or that in the not-so-distant future a toddler would be trying to climb up and down the steps. At that thought, she paused, imagining a child with Santana’s dark hair running through the hallways.
She almost smiled and decided the staircase would need to be boxed in, at least for the next few years.
Sooner, rather than later, she’d have to break the news to Santana.
But not today.
She just wasn’t in the mood.
Eli O’Halleran couldn’t believe his good luck. Though his father, Trace, had always taken him with him when there were chores to be done around the farm, until today he had never said, “Yeah, son, come with me. You can be the lead dog on this one. Let’s see if we can find any other holes in the fence.”
“All right!” Eli had said, thrilled. Within a matter of minutes, he’d ignored his breakfast, run to the barn and, with his dad’s help, saddled and bridled Jetfire, his black gelding.
While his dad was still cinching his bay mare’s saddle, Eli rode Jet through the barn’s big roller door and into a back paddock. Both dogs, Dad’s shepherd and Bonzi, Kacey’s dog, which was at least part pit bull and probably yellow lab, were milling around, anxious to be a part of the action.
“Hold up!” Trace called, but Eli kept going through a series of corrals as the snow fell, all the while feeling like a real cowboy, though he was not quite nine years old.
“Come on,” he urged the horse as they reached the open gate to the final field. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of his father leading Mocha from the barn and swinging into the saddle. The dogs, of course, had already escaped the barn and were sniffing and running in the fallen snow, while a cold wind was blowing, snowflakes falling from the gray Montana sky.
“Eli!” his father called, just as Eli leaned forward, eased up on the reins and let the horse go.
Jet surged forward, speeding into a full gallop and tearing down the long, tractor lane covered in snow. Eli’s hat blew off, but he didn’t care, loving the feel of the wind slapping his face and blowing his hair as he caught sight of the dogs bounding through the drifts and giving chase. Jetfire, after being cooped up in the barn, was eager to run. As Eli hung on, Jet tore up the field, a black blur streaking toward the foothills.
Breathless, Eli didn’t care that his dad would probably be mad at him for taking off. It just felt right.
The ground sloped up to a small rise and the gelding ran eagerly upward, breathing hard, racing toward the crest. Eli clung like a burr, his nose running and feeling numb in the cold.
On the far side, the ground dropped off, sloping downward to the creek where the fence separated O’Halleran land from that of the federal government. It was where the problem had started, his dad had told him, a broken spot in the fence where five calves had found the break and gotten through. The strays had been rounded up, and the major hole in the fence had been repaired, but they were just making sure there weren’t any more areas where those idiot cows could get through.
The truth was that Trace was tired of being cooped up, too. Otherwise, why would he have decided to survey the fence line in the middle of a near blizzard? It didn’t matter, though. Eli was just glad to be out of the house as there was no school.
Plowing through the snow, kicking up powdery clods, Jet crested the hill and raced downward to the meandering brook that cut like a sidewinder back and forth beneath the fence. The field gave way to woods that, on the government side of the property, covered the foothills of the Bitterroots.
Nearing the creek, Eli pulled back on the reins and Jetfire slowed easily, cantering down to a walk just as his dad and Mocha appeared over the rise behind them.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Trace demanded as he reined his horse to a stop once they’d reached the corner of the property. He held the reins with one gloved hand and in the other, Eli’s stocking cap.
“Sorry,” Eli mumbled, though he really wasn’t. For the first time, he felt a jab of the cold piercing his jacket.
Trace glared at his son for a second, then let out a sigh. “No harm, no foul, I guess.” He still wasn’t smiling. “Believe it or not, I was your age once. Broke my arm, being bucked from Rocky. That was my horse at the time.”
Eli knew better than to say “I know,” even though he’d heard the story before.
Leaning forward, Trace handed Eli his hat. “Think you lost something.”
“Thanks.” Eli pulled the hat down over his ears as they were starting to freeze, but he didn’t dare complain. After all, he’d begged to be a part of this. But as snowflakes slid under the collar of his jacket and the wind blew bitter cold, he was starting to second-guess himself. Not that he would admit it.
“You still want to do this?” his father asked.
Though much of Eli’s enthusiasm had faded, he wasn’t going to admit it. Nodding, he swiped the back of his gloved hand under his running nose.
His father raised one eyebrow, then gave a quick nod. “Okay, then. You ride up ahead and I’ll follow. We’ll see if there are any more breaches.”
Eli did as he was told, riding along the fence line, growing colder by the second, while his father, more thorough as he scrutinized the wire from atop his mount, lagged behind.
Sometimes being a cowboy really sucks, Eli realized belatedly, his gaze trained on the wire mesh that cut a straight line through the thickets of hemlock, fir, and maple. The stream, nearly frozen, wandered back and forth, a thin trickle in the middle gurgling softly.
Another blast of wind rattled the branches of the surrounding trees and he shivered, tired of the adventure. He just wanted to return to the house, so he urged Jetfire forward through the icy woods. The sooner the job was done, the sooner he could go back inside.
Though he’d begged his father to let him come, Eli began to wish he’d never said a word, just stayed in his pajamas and played on his iPad until breakfast was ready, because inside the house there was a hot fire, a warm cup of hot cocoa, and Kacey, his soon-to-be stepmom. She would be getting ready to go to the clinic where she worked. But instead of being seated at the table, sipping hot chocolate and eating peanut butter toast while watching television, he was out in the cold.
Eli wished his dad would hurry.
Through the veil of snow, man and rider were partially obscured, blending into the wintry landscape, appearing almost ghostly. Even the dogs seemed to disappear.
Eli waved at his father, but Trace didn’t notice, his concentration and gaze steady on the fence as he appeared and disappeared in the wind-fueled flurries. It worried Eli a little that he was so far ahead of his dad, but he reminded himself to be cowboy-tough. He had a job to do. Once more, Trace and the bay vanished for a second and Eli wondered what he’d do if his father didn’t reappear, if he became lost somehow.
But that was nutty.
He knew where he was and his dad was right behind him. Squinting, Eli searched the grove. But no. He couldn’t see his father. Nor the dogs.
About to call out to him, Eli caught a glimpse of the bay stepping through the trees again, a phantom horse, barely visible just like in the cartoons he watched or the video games he played.
Feeling a little better, he leaned over the saddle horn, shifting his weight, urging Jetfire forward. Man, it was cold. Too cold. The sooner he found the dumb hole in the wire mesh, the sooner he could go back inside. Jetfire picked up the pace, threading through a copse of saplings as Eli peered through the shifting snowflakes. The fence crossed the stream again as it cut through the trees, heading in a crooked path to the river a few miles to the west.
The fence looked a little different, not as much ice building up over the wire, no snow sticking to the posts. Maybe the cattle had rubbed up against it when searching for a way through. After all, he was near a deeper part of the stream. A particularly stubborn calf with just enough curiosity and no darned brains could wade in and, if he tried hard enough, maybe duck under the wire where the fence spanned the creek. There was no guard there, no floating cattle panel that moved with the current. Squinting through the snowfall, Eli encouraged Jetfire forward, closer to the creek, but the horse snorted and balked.
“Come on,” Eli insisted, giving Jetfire a nudge with his knees, urging the gelding to walk closer to the creek.
Instead, Jetfire started backing up.
“Hey!” Eli said sharply. “Let’s go!”
But the gelding was having none of it. Tossing his head and snorting, Jet shied away from a thicket of maples.
Eli took a firmer grasp on the reins. “What’s got into you?”
From somewhere nearby, a dog growled low and warning, the sound causing the hairs on the back of Eli’s neck to lift. Jet reared up.
Eli fought the reins. “Whoa. Stop!”
Bonzi appeared, his caramel-colored coat dappled with snow, his lips snarling, showing teeth. His eyes were trained on the creek, just beyond the brush. As Jet shied, the hairs on the back of the dog’s thick neck raised. Tail stiff, he snarled and barked, his eyes focused on a bend in the creek.
What was it? A wildcat or puma? Maybe a wolf?
Shivering inwardly, Eli followed the dog’s gaze with his own.
“Trouble?” his father shouted from somewhere not far behind.
The last thing he wanted was his dad to think he couldn’t handle his horse. Eli’s gaze scoured the wintry banks of the creek, searching the exposed rocks and tangled, snow-covered roots. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “It’s just—”
His words died in his throat.
His stomach dropped.
Fear cold as an Arctic blast cut through him as he saw what the dog had sensed. Ten feet ahead in a deep pool, a woman’s arm stretched out of the water, fingers wide as if supplicating the heavens.
Eli yanked hard on the reins as he stared at the hand. Reaching upward, one finger severed, the hand seemed to be grasping into the empty air for help.
“Oh . . . Oh . . . God . . .” he whispered, horrified. The horse, feeling his fear, minced in a tight circle, tossing up snow.
Eli forced himself to look harder. There, under a thin layer of ice, lay a woman. She was staring straight up, the current below her rippling around her, feathering her long brown hair, causing her blouse to billow around her midriff. Set in a death mask, her face was a grayish hue, and beneath the glaze of ice, her eyes were wide and fixed, seeming to stare straight into his soul.
“Eli?”
His father’s voice barely registered. He felt as if he might be sick. “No . . . oh . . .” His insides turned to water. “Dad!”
Screaming before he could stop himself, Eli nearly toppled out of the saddle as Jetfire, nostrils distended, reared, then spun and took off at a full gallop, racing through the trees and across the pasture-land, his hooves throwing up clods of snow. Over the rush of wind in his ears, Eli heard his father shout and the dogs begin to howl and bark, but all he could do was hang on to the reins and saddle horn as the horse tore up the rise toward the house. The world went by in a blur of white, but all Eli saw, indelibly etched in his brain forever, was that mutilated hand reaching for the sky.
Chapter 4
You’re a chicken.
That irritating voice inside Pescoli’s head wouldn’t leave her alone, even though she’d tried to immerse herself in the autopsy report she’d found on her desk this morning.
She’d had the perfect opportunity to tell Santana about the baby after he’d met her at the top of the stairs, kissed the damn breath from her lungs, and for the first time in their new house, made love to her right on the hard subfloor of their master bedroom. Okay, there had been a sleeping bag, but still.... The sex had been intense, maybe even a little rough, but filled with the passion she found exhilarating. Afterward, as she’d snuggled up against him, both their naked bodies shining with sweat, she should have screwed up her courage and let him know that he was going to be a father later this year. But she hadn’t, content to hold him tight, feel his strength, and listen to his heartbeat as she stared through the open French doors and watched the nightfall.
Every time she moved in her desk chair, her rump ached and she was reminded of Santana and how animal their union had been. Their lovemaking had always been that way—playful and utterly primal. And yet, before, during, or even after, she hadn’t uttered a word about the pregnancy.
With an effort, she focused on the autopsy of a man in his late forties, who may or may not have been the victim of a homicide. Derrick “Deeter” Clemson had died of wounds he’d received after a fall off a cliff. The question was whether he’d made a mistake and his death was accidental, if he’d leaped intentionally down nearly one hundred feet of timberland, or if he’d been helped in the fall by his bride of six months. The autopsy report didn’t give any clear answers, and she was slightly distracted by the noise filtering through her doorway, that of Blackwater on the telephone in Grayson’s office.
She hadn’t shut her door yet and could hear Blackwater. Undoubtedly at his desk down the hall, he was having a one-sided phone conversation with someone it sounded like he was trying to impress. Either someone higher in the department or a reporter, she guessed. Maybe even that cockroach Manny Douglas, of the Mountain Reporter or, worse yet, Nia Del Ray from KMJC in Missoula.
Blackwater was making noises as if he were about to hang up, so she rolled her desk chair to close her door. She didn’t need him poking his head in again and giving her another gung ho speech.
Her hand had just come off the knob when the door was flung open and Selena Alvarez burst in, her expression grim, her jaw set. “Let’s roll,” she said without preamble. “Looks like we’ve got a DB at the O’Halleran ranch.”
“Dead body?” Pescoli rolled her chair back to her desk, got to her feet, and reached for her jacket and sidearm. “Who?”
�
��Jane Doe.”
“What happened?” Sliding her arms through her jacket’s sleeves, she was on Alvarez’s heels as they walked crisply down the hall toward the doors leading to the parking lot. Blackwater, whose door was ajar, looked up as they passed, but was already punching out numbers on his phone for his next call.
“No one knows. Trace O’Halleran and his kid were checking the fence line and found her dead in a deep spot of the creek that runs through their property.”
“What is it with that place?” Pescoli asked, digging in her jacket pocket for her keys. “Don’t those people ever get a break?” She was thinking of the last shootout that had occurred on the ranch where O’Halleran and the local GP in town, Kacey Lambert, had been targets of one of the many madmen who seemed to have discovered their part of Montana. Once a sleepy little town set in the Bitterroots, Grizzly Falls seemed to attract psychos like magnets.
“I guess lightning really does strike twice,” Alvarez said as they walked through the back door.
A gust of wind hit Pescoli full in the face. Ducking her head against the weather, she touched the remote for her keyless lock and her Jeep beeped from the spot in the parking lot where she’d parked it not an hour earlier. By the time Pescoli had settled behind the steering wheel, Alvarez was buckled in and already on the phone, talking to the deputy who’d first taken the call and was on the scene. Pescoli fired the engine, snapped on the heater and backed out of the parking spot as the police band crackled. She hit the wipers and lights, then nosed her Jeep into the sludge of traffic that seemed crippled by the storm.
Lights flashing, she eased around slower vehicles, then pushed the speed limit. She was used to the storms and worsening driving conditions in winter and had little patience for those who weren’t.
