He rounded on her now. "You stay the hell out of it, Maggie. You hear me? You leave this alone. Donnelly will—"
"You can bluster at me all you want Cain, but I'm going to prove that Laird Donnelly set you up."
He took her by the arms and bodily moved her against the cell door. "You listen to me. You stay away from him. He's dangerous. He had Brent Hayden murdered and only left me breathing to take the fall for him."
"And then there's Ben," she said in a small voice.
"What about Ben?"
"He had a hand in Ben's death. Not in his actual suicide. But I believe it was Laird who pushed him against the wall until he felt suicide was his only way out. Brent told me as much. And now, I think I know why."
Cain frowned at her. "What are you talking about?"
She told him about the Remus Trimark van and her suspicions about why he wanted the land. When she'd finished, Cain released her and paced to the other side of the cell.
"It makes sense," he said. "If he's got blueprints that means he's already in deep financially. He may be running out of time, which explains why he's moved out onto that limb."
"Yes," she said. "And he's about to find out just how fragile that limb is." Maggie rapped on the cell door. "Guard?"
Cain turned back to her with a scowl. "Maggie, you give this to Harold. You let him handle this. Don't go anywhere near Donnelly. Do you understand?"
She smiled and pressed a kiss against his mouth. The memory of having his arms around her stoked her determination. "He won't get away with it," she told him. "Not this time."
The guard unlocked the door and she pulled away from him, leaving his cell without a backward glance.
"Maggie?” he shouted after her. "Maggie!"
* * *
It was seven forty-five before the paperwork was finished and Judd and Greg Janeson appeared at Cain's cell door announcing they'd posted bail for him. By then, Cain was nearly jumping out of his skin.
"Where's Maggie?" was the first question Cain barked at them.
Judd exchanged a look with Greg. "I sent her home to wait for us."
"Alone? When?" He brushed past them out the cell door and into the hallway. The two men hurried to catch up.
"After she saw you," Judd told him. "Harold might have gone with her. What's wrong?"
"Why didn't you go with her? Dammit. Give me your cell phone, Greg."
Greg grinned, handing him the phone as they passed the front desk. "Nice to see you, too, Cain."
"You, I'll deal with later," he said narrowing a censuring look at his attorney. He dialed home and listened while the number rang. No answer. Dammit. He clicked off, pushing out the front door of the small sheriff's office. "Do you have Harold's home number?"
Greg produced it from a scrap of paper in his pocket Cain punched in the number as they headed out into the cool Montana evening. Harold picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"
"It's Cain," he said. "Is Maggie with you?"
"No," he answered. "She went home by herself. I offered to stay with her but she told me I was being overprotective and that she needed time alone."
Cain swore foully.
"Why? Isn't she there?" Harold asked, the worry beginning to grow in his voice.
"If she is, she's not answering. Maybe she's out with Geronimo. I made bail. I'm heading there now."
"You know something I don't know?" Harold asked.
Cain gripped the phone more tightly. "Only that she's even more bullheaded than me. And she thinks she can save me."
"She's in love with you."
Cain had no intelligent response to that. The idea that she could die because she cared about him was almost more than he could take. He'd been through this once and sworn never to do it again. Judd opened the door to the Lincoln and Cain slid gingerly into the back seat, wincing at the movement. He slammed the backside of the front seat with his fist.
"Call me when you get there on my cell. I'm on my way," Harold said, then clicked off.
Judd got behind the wheel and started it up.
"Step on it, old man," Cain said. "Let's see if you've still got the stuff."
"I've still got it. And I'm not that old yet."
The Town Car took off with a grind of tires down the highway toward Maggie's house.
* * *
Gene Fielding handed the giant of a man a brown paper sack with the twenty thousand in it, anxious to be out of this smoky bar and out of this town.
"You won't need to count it, Dusette. It's all there."
Dusette regarded him with an uneven smile and opened the sack. He scraped his thumbnail against the stack of bills, fanning them out. "I'm sure it is," he said in a gravelly voice. "But there is a problem."
Here it comes, Gene thought. "What that?"
"Well, see Leon thinks twenty's a little shy of what the job was worth. After all, the guy busted Everett's knee and nearly took out my voice box. Not to mention the fact that your friend can identify us."
"That's not our problem," Gene said reasonably. "You should have worn masks or hoods or … whatever it is you people wear. Besides, you'll be out of the state by tonight. Out of harm's way."
"That kinda puts us outta the runnin' for jobs in these parts, though, don't it? And us havin' to look over our shoulder and all. I mean, we figure that's worth a little something extra."
Gene despised Laird for making him come here tonight. He got to his feet, withdrawing a handful of bills from his pocket and throwing them on the table. "That's worth exactly nothing. You were hired to do a job. You did the job. It's not without its risks. You can tell Leon he should choose a safer line of work next time if he's not happy with the arrangements. It's more than equitable."
Dusette stood too, towering over Gene like a redwood. "Oh, I think Leon will have somethin' to say about that," he said, tossing back the last of his tequila with a hiss as the burn went down. "See, I figure you and your boss ain't considered the implications of our unhappiness. Fact is, my friend, you and your boss? You got a lot more to lose than any of us. And in the end, another twenty thousand will do more than make us happy. It'll buy you peace of mind, if you catch my meaning."
He slid his Yankee's baseball cap on over his thinning hair and tugged at the brim. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Fielding. You have a real nice night now, y'hear?"
Gene watched Dusette disappear out of the bar before he pulled his cell phone from the breast pocket of his coat. He hit speed dial and waited. "Where are you?" he asked when the number connected. He turned away from the couple necking in the next booth and leaned into the phone. "I don't give a damn what you just ordered, get in your friggin' car and drive home. We've got a problem and we need to talk. Yes, now!"
Gene punched the end button furiously. Damn, damn, damn. He hadn't been in this business twenty years without knowing how this sort of thing went down. Blackmail by any other name was still blackmail. And by forcing him to make the drop, Laird had upped the ante for him as well. Well, dammit, he'd had it with this whole fiasco and with Laird Donnelly's blind ambition. No piece of land was worth all this trouble. After tonight, he'd be out of it. Or he'd be dead. Either way, he figured, he was screwed.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
"Her car's still here." The tightness in his chest eased when he saw Maggie's rental parked in the yard as they pulled in. He was out of the Lincoln the minute it stopped, limping toward the lighted kitchen.
Be there, he begged silently.
He pictured her standing at the stove, stirring some savory dish that made the whole house smell amazing … turning her head as he walked in from outside … seeing the sunset in her eyes over a cup of coffee. Holding her in his arms in her bed.
Ruthlessly, he shoved those images from his mind as he pushed open the kitchen door. He had no right to inflict himself on her, no matter how damned comfortable she made it. She deserved better than him.
The kitchen was empty except for Jigger who, m
et him at the door, planting two feet squarely on his chest. Cain hissed and grabbed for his ribs, shoving the dog away. "Dammit, dog," he groaned, folding in the middle. Jigger's ears fell and his tail drooped miserably between his legs. Cain half straightened as Judd and Greg walked in the door.
"Take it easy, Cain," his father warned, grabbing Jigger by the collar. "You've got broken bones still, moving around in there."
Pale and still struggling for air, Cain forced himself upright, shoving past the pain. "She's not here."
There was no stew in the pot. Just the lingering scent of Maggie and a tightening in his gut at the thought that she was already in trouble.
He headed into the other downstairs rooms, banging open doors to empty rooms. "Maggie!"
Starting up the stairs, one awkward step at a time, Judd stopped him before he'd gone two steps. "You go check the barn. I'll look upstairs."
Nodding tightly, Cain headed out the back door. Greg followed him.
The barn was full of horses, but no sign of Maggie. Geronimo stood in his stall watching them over his stall door, snorting for attention. Cain ran a clammy hand down the horse's muzzle with an oath.
"Her car's here," Greg said. "Where could she be?" Cain's gaze drifted a stall or two down from Geronimo's. Biscuit was missing. Oh, Maggie…
He headed out of the barn with Greg on his heels. Judd was just coming out the back door. "Where are you going now?" Greg demanded.
"Give me the keys, Greg."
"Like hell."
"Then you drive."
"Okay. Where are we going?"
Cain shook his head. "Into the lion's mouth."
* * *
Breaking and entering.
Add that to the list, Maggie thought, contemplating the unlocked window on the downstairs floor of Laird Donnelly's sprawling estate house.
She glanced behind her. Darkness enshrouded the expanse of lawn behind her. Somewhere, two hundred yards back, she'd left Biscuit tied to a hedge of red cedar, hidden from view. The bunkhouse was quiet with a few dim lights still glowing. But mornings came early on a cattle ranch and most of them had already turned in. The house, on the other hand, was completely dark. Fortunately, Laird was gone. She knew he would be. She'd called Elena Madrigal, his housekeeper, an hour ago asking for Laird, only to be told he was out for the evening. A business dinner, Elena had said. He'd be back very late.
Which suited her purposes just fine, she thought, standing on the gas meter that sat below the window. She shoved it open and smiled. She hoped Laird had a nice leisurely dinner, sure his plans for her demise were well on their way to completion. She hoped he choked on those plans, because she meant to find a way to stop him.
She hoisted herself up through the window and stopped halfway through, halting her fall with her hands on the tiled bathroom floor. She froze, listening for sounds in the house. Elena had a small cottage of her own on the property that she used at night and Maggie prayed the housekeeper was already gone.
Flicking on the small flashlight she pulled from her pocket, Maggie headed into the hallway. She'd only been in Laird's house once before, the night she'd come looking for Ben. Though Laird had sworn Ben wasn't there, he'd come stumbling through the doorway drunk only moments later with his gambling pal, Butch.
It had been only one in a string of such incidents where Laird was somehow involved with Ben's call toward the dark side. Laird had fed Ben's gambling sickness. And he'd done it intentionally. When Brent had said that Ben had had help, he hadn't meant that anyone had helped him tie that noose around his neck. He'd meant that Laird and Butch had pushed him and pushed him until Ben was in so deep the only way out he could see was to throw a rope over that rafter and end it.
And it had all been about the land.
Her flashlight illuminated a guest bedroom, a spacious bit of luxury with a canopied timber bed and Flathead antiquities on the wall: a hand-painted buffalo skin shield, a lace, a quiver of arrows. They hung on the wall like trophies and sent a shiver through her. It seemed almost appropriate that he decorated his house with violent things. It suited him.
She moved down the hallway. The fourth room she shone her flashlight into was his office. Relief poured through her. It had to be here, she told herself. The proof against Laird had to be here among his things.
Maggie illuminated the room, getting her bearings. The walnut paneled room was elegantly masculine. The massive desk that sat opposite the door was bracketed by two chairs on the opposite side and a comfortable leather desk chair that fitted neatly into the kneehole under it. The walls on either side were occupied by file cabinets and bookshelves. Maggie ran her finger down the labels on the front of the file cabinets until she came to the one marked "R-W."
She gave the handle a tug. Locked. Turning, she reached for the letter opener on his desk and shoved it into the lock at the top of the cabinet. After some prodding, it popped open. Maggie smiled. She was good at this, she thought. But a few minutes later, she realized her quest was going to prove harder than she thought. There was no file on Remus/Trimark.
She looked under T. Nothing. Then she moved to his desk and tried the drawers. Locked again. Damn, but he was cautious. She reached for the letter opener again, this time sliding it between the lock and the edge of the drawer. Feeling for the latch, she wrenched it sideways until it clicked free.
She wrenched open the drawers one at a time, searching through the papers and miscellaneous files. Nothing. In the top drawer, however, she found a key. She frowned and tried it in the lock to the desk. It didn't fit. She glanced around the office and tried it in the file cabinet. Not that.
Her gaze fell to a door to the right of the file cabinets. She tried the handle. Locked. She sighed. He was very careful. She inserted the key. It turned in the lock like butter.
Inside the small closet of a room, Maggie found a wall safe and another set of file cabinets. These were unlocked, presumably because they were not accessible without the key in her hand. She opened the first drawer and let her gaze slide over the file names until it stopped at Cortland, Ben.
Her hand trembled as she lifted it and she opened it up. Inside were photographs of Ben with another woman draped over him at a blackjack table, one of Ben kissing that woman, and a series of closed circuit photos of him, awkwardly attempting to cheat at cards.
And there were photos of her. Surveillance photos that sent a shiver of fear through her. He'd been watching her.
"I knew I hated you, you bastard. I just didn't know how much," she muttered to herself as she stuffed the file into the back waistband of her jeans. Then she looked for Cain's file.
Of course it was there. It was complete, with booking photos and a complete history of his checkered past with the law. It was exactly as he'd said it was. And this report noted the overturning of his conviction four months ago.
Maggie swallowed thickly. She didn't need to see this proof to convince her that he had told her the truth, but it made everything that had happened to him seem all the worse. Here was a man who'd simply wanted a fresh start but wouldn't get one because Laird had deemed it so.
He'd played god with so may people's lives. Including hers. But nothing she'd found so far could implicate him in any crime, though she was convinced he'd committed several. But how could she prove that he was blackmailing Ben, or that he'd had Cain attacked. She needed receipts, records. And Laird wasn't likely to be foolish enough to keep either one.
She closed the file cabinet, her flashlight beam crossing something on the shelf behind the cabinets. It was a model. An architect's model labeled Musselshell Resort, Donnelly Enterprises and Remus/Trimark Development Corp., John Remus, Architect.
And there it was. The reason Ben died. The reason Cain had been framed for murder. The reason her ranch was sinking like the Titanic. A resort perched on the banks of the Musselshell River tucked into the shoal that curved into her property. And there, squarely on her land, was a runway strip with miniature planes coming in fo
r a landing.
She'd known, but seeing it in three dimensions made her throat tighten with rage. All for this. For Laird Donnelly's bid for power. Why at the expense of so many? And obviously, he'd already spent copious amounts of money on the premise that he would eventually get that piece of her land so essential to his project. Without that landing strip, his whole project would be in jeopardy.
Maggie shoved the model back into its place and swept the area with her flashlight. Think! She needed more. Something solid, tangible.
She locked the door to the closet and went back to the desk to put the keys away. That's when she saw it.
The palm-sized tape recorder was tucked under some papers, hidden from view. She picked it up and pushed the play button.
Donnelly's voice erupted from the small black recorder.
"…looking a little pale, Gene. Sit down."
Gene Fielding, Laird's attorney?
The sound of furniture rustling and a shaky sigh coming from Gene. "It's over."
"What's over?" Donnelly asked.
"Cortland's dead. Hung himself this morning in his own barn. It's what we wanted, isn't it? I mean, it was inevitable, right?"
Donnelly's voice sounded shocked. "I never wanted that, Gene. Good God, I never wanted the man dead."
"What did you think would happen if you pushed him that hard? The guy was sick. The gambling was a sickness. We had no right to play with a man's life that way—"
"As I recall that was your idea."
Gene cursed. "I only said to find his weakness. To drive him out of business. Not to push him to the edge of reason."
Maggie shivered, listening to the cold-blooded dissection of a plot to destroy her husband.
There was a long pause. "What about Maggie?" Laird asked.
"What do you think? She's a wreck. She'll fold inside a month without him. God, I hate this."
"Ben made his own choice," Laird said sagely. "You can't blame yourself for this. I'll send her some flowers. Something nice. What a shame. You know, I really did like Ben."
Maggie punched the button viciously and swore out loud. The tape had been made without Gene's knowledge, she was certain. It was, she guessed, a safety net for Laird. In case anything ever happened. It was thin, but it was enough to interest the—
THIS PERFECT STRANGER Page 19
