He opened his mouth, closed it again with a snap.
Bobby cranked it up again. Only taking a breather. His wail rivaled an air raid siren.
“If you’ll get out of my way,” she said, tossing her hair and smoothing her nightshirt so it highlighted her breasts, “I’ll see to the baby.” The grin popped out, accompanied by a slow perusal down Holt’s body. “Nice...legs.”
He blinked, shot a glance downward. Damn, betrayed by his tented boxers. His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed hard. He jerked to the side along the wall, as if someone had pressed a knife to his side. “Bobby’s all yours.”
“Great!” She turned and swung her hips as she flounced toward the baby’s room.
*****
Closing the door behind her, Maddy stepped to the crib and gathered the squalling infant in her arms, damp diaper and all. “There, there, Bobby. Auntie Maddy’s got you.”
She kissed his downy head, sweet with baby sweat from his efforts at rousing help. Eyes closed, she rocked him in her arms and let his warm weight soothe her. Her pulse downshifted, with an occasional blip of vibration.
Who had escaped whom out there? She had no business tempting Holt. He’d gone on the defensive, barely verbal and practically growling. She’d best remember not to tease the mountain lion again unless she was prepared to be mauled. Not the best image but it would serve to make her stop and think next time. Would there be a next time? Did she want a next time? Her heart raced like that of a frightened rabbit.
*****
The next morning, Holt drove his Silverado into Rangewood. Guiding the pickup over the long gravel driveway and the highway gave him time to ponder how drastically life had changed.
Though he’d made it to town a couple of weeks ago, it seemed like years since he’d gotten away from the ranch. Calving and little Bobby tied him to the Valley-D but good. He loved the work nearly as much as he loved his nephew, but running the ranch shouldn’t turn the place into a prison.
Having help there would free him to come and go as ranch chores let him. Then why did he feel so antsy?
Maddy McCoy. With her flowery scent and her long legs. She was one reason he beat it out of there early today before the offices and stores in Rangewood opened.
To have the woman who’d left his brother at the altar caring for Rob’s child scraped barbed wire across his nerve endings. A little voice reminded him he was partly to blame for that but he shushed it. To have her in his house, eating at his table, sprawled in the living room with her laptop burrowed under his skin like a tick. To have her sleeping across the hall in the master bedroom was idiocy.
He should have switched rooms with her. Better yet, he should move out to the bunkhouse with Bronc.
Except he’d be too far from Bobby.
Not that he needed to be there for the kid during the night. Maddy had been on the spot when the little screech engine cranked up. His blood heated with the memory of their midnight encounter.
He’d slammed back into his room pronto, but that didn’t eliminate from his brain the image of Maddy in her short silky nightshirt and maybe nothing else. He had to fight his way back to sleep in that prissy iron bed. From now on he’d leave to her the privilege of night duty.
Beat the hell out of him why he was so obsessed with her.
She was as feisty and bold as ever, but changed in other ways. Confusing ways. In the old days, the princess, as her granddad had called her, wanted for nothing. If she asked for a pinto pony or a new saddle or God knew what, the next day one appeared as if conjured by a genie.
After she flew off to pursue her photography career, the headline jobs landed in her lap. She flitted to more countries than Holt could name. Yet she arrived in Rangewood practically empty-handed. All she claimed to have was her fancy camera case, a laptop, and a big duffel bag. When he drove her to town to pick up her things, she directed him past the motel to the garage where her Range Rover sat out back, waiting for the mechanic’s verdict. An older model, more truck than SUV. She said she’d checked out of the motel because Faith’s friend in town rented rooms and she planned to go there later. A lie, he suspected, confirmed by what he saw in the back of the Rover. She tried to block him, but open and stuffed into a corner was a sleeping bag.
Something was eating at her, some secret. She was as wary of him as a green colt, so her agreeing to stay awhile came a mite too quick to make sense. But he had his own mystery to handle without pursuing that one, so he’d let it go. For now.
The highway snaked through the high valleys past gates that led to neighboring ranches. Not much traffic this morning, except for the black pickup behind him. He’d seen no one in any direction when he left the Valley-D. Then out of nowhere the black truck appeared. He didn’t recognize it as belonging to anyone he knew, couldn’t see the driver clearly. Too far back to read the license plate.
He jabbed fingers through his hair, knocking off his hat. Hell, too many years watching his back had him imagining a tail. Probably some kid tooling around in a hot rod jerry-rigged of spare parts. That’s why he couldn’t recognize the make.
By the time he hit Rangewood’s Pike Street, the black truck had disappeared. Along with that, Holt relegated Maddy to the back of his mind.
Other than a few residential avenues, Pike was the only paved street in the quiet, friendly town. He pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine. As he exited the Silverado, the last person he wanted to see sauntered down the sidewalk toward him.
“Well, Holt, not too often you tear yourself away from that ranch to come into Rangewood.” Edgar Patterson, Bobby’s grandfather, stuck out his hand.
Reluctantly, Holt shook it. “Edgar.”
“Ranch that size takes full-time work to make it pay.” With a meticulously manicured hand, Edgar smoothed his graying hair, its long strands coaxed to conceal growing baldness. His tan twill business suit matched his sharp amber gaze.
The dig hit its mark, but Holt had spent too many years dealing poker-faced with street slime to let on to the banker. “You’ll get your loan payments on time. Don’t worry.”
“Oh, I’m not worried. Not a bit. The wife’s concerned you can’t do right by our grandson. Financially, I mean.”
It was all Holt could do not to grab the older man by his chicken neck and shake him. “Bobby’s well taken care of.”
“By the way, where is the little guy?” Patterson peered in the truck window. He fixed a probing gaze on Holt, a hawk sighting vulnerability in his prey. “Left him at home? Espie must be there today.”
Holt didn’t intend to be the hawk’s hapless rabbit. He smiled. Now was the time to drop his news. “No, a...friend is staying with me for a while to care for the baby.”
Patterson gave an indignant huff. “Not that old reprobate Bronc Baker?”
“Bronc lives on the Valley-D, but no. It’s Madelyn McCoy. She used to spend summers on the Circle-S with her grandparents. Grew up with Rob and me.”
“McCoy?” Edgar’s eyes narrowed with speculation. “She the one who jilted Rob?”
Holt shifted his feet. “That was a long time ago. We were all close. She’s good with Bobby.” Patterson might buy that description, but did he?
“Staying there? Living in the house?”
“Down the hall from the baby’s room.” Better not to mention she was in the master bedroom. “Like a nanny.”
“A nanny.” Patterson seemed to turn the idea over in his mind. “The McCoy girl?” He uttered a terse farewell and hustled toward the bank.
For sure the man was on his way to phone his wife about the latest development. Whatever they cooked up together after that wouldn’t be good for him. Or Bobby.
He turned to the office he’d parked beside—Turner and Hawke, Attorneys at Law. Last night Holt had phoned Chris Hawke, a cousin of Espie’s, about handling the custody case. Patterson probably figured out what Holt was doing there too.
Hell of a thing. The Pattersons’ challenge of Bobby’s guard
ianship was going to cost him money he needed for the baby and money he needed for the ranch. He—or Chris—had to find some way to avert the custody suit.
Inside the building, Chris Hawke greeted him in his office, a book-lined space with diplomas and certificates on the walls. The two of them played football together for Rock County High and started law school in tandem.
“It was supposed to be Donovan and Hawke on a shingle in Denver, remember?” Holt said.
“Funny how things work out different.” Chris shook his hand and waved him to a chair. “If your dad had lived, do you think we’d have made it as a team?”
“Hard to say.” Losing their dad to a massive heart attack Holt’s second year in law school had torn his and Rob’s world apart, but they’d rebuilt. He could do it again. “At the time, I thought Rangewood was a hell of a bore, but after chasing drug dealers and other dregs in big cities, it seems like heaven. What about you? Why did you set up shop with Agatha Turner?”
“Seems minority hiring was full up in the big city. Not one law firm wanted a newly graduated Native American attorney.” Chris’s laugh was ironic but not bitter as he smoothed his thong-tied ponytail over his shirt collar.
“Boot-licking in a big firm doesn’t sound like you.” Holt nodded toward the Anasazi-bead amulet that hung to the middle of the other man’s Western dress shirt. “Cut your hair and wear a tie? I can’t feature it.”
“Yup. Not my style. First time some suit gave me a hard time, I might’ve decked him and been outta there fast. Agatha’s a tough old bird, but she trusts me. Lets me help out my people if they need it.”
“Good catching up, and we should do more of it,” Holt said, “but now I need your help.”
“The Pattersons,” Hawke said, opening the folder on his desk. “This is going to be hard on you. I hope we can make it easy on your little nephew.”
Holt’s gut clenched. “Do Bobby’s grandparents have a viable case?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Lawyer-ese for what, Chris? Give it to me straight. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep Bobby. He’s a Donovan and he’ll be raised on the Donovan ranch.”
“The Pattersons are alleging you’re an unfit guardian for an infant on the grounds you can’t provide adequate care.”
Holt saw a sliver of light. “Adequate meaning money or nurturing, like love and attention and feeding?”
“Could be both, depending on what their attorney pushes. Vague for now. They have Ingrid Kline of Tobias and Kline in Colorado Springs. A reputable firm, have done a lot of custody cases. I’ve never seen Kline in action but hear she’s clever.”
“Things could be worse.” Holt considered his options, but had only one, and a temporary one at that. “Bobby has a nanny. Trial basis for now. Then we’ll see.”
Chris Hawke smiled and made a note. “Tell me about the nanny.”
A half hour later Holt practically ran from the law offices, his stress level shooting up like a thermometer in July. He’d been thanking God Maddy agreed to stay until he heard Chris’s assessment of the situation. The court would be looking for stability, not temporary measures. Maddy would leave. Then what the hell would he do?
“I’m right behind you.” Chris Hawke closed the door behind him and jogged to join him. A head shorter and of stockier build, he stepped out to match Holt’s long stride. “I’ll go with you to the sheriff’s. They should have more on Rob’s accident by now.”
“Thanks.” Checking in with the sheriff was his other errand, tying up the loose ends of his brother’s death. He’d told Chris last night about his doubts on what exactly caused the crash. He appreciated his friend’s company and support. He backed the Silverado out and headed south to the county seat of Fort Adams.
When they arrived at the building housing the sheriff’s department, the dispatcher was talking on the telephone at the reception desk, a rectangular enclosure containing the radio equipment and filing cabinets. She waved them toward the offices. “Sheriff ain’t busy. You boys can go on back.”
Chapter 5
They followed the rumble of male voices past a departing deputy and two secretaries to Sheriff Jarvis Foley’s office.
“Hey, Donovan. Come on in and pull up a chair.” A jovial, barrel-chested man with a gray-streaked handlebar mustache, Foley reclined in his executive swivel chair with his booted feet crossed on the desktop.
His chief deputy, Luke Rafferty, sat in a wooden chair. Odors of musty files and stale coffee permeated the office.
“Thanks, Sheriff.” After shaking the older man’s gnarled hand, Holt took an empty chair.
Behind him, Chris slid inside quietly. He stood to Holt’s left, one elbow propped on a bookcase.
“I see you brought your Legal Eagle.” Scowling, Rafferty turned his chair to face Chris. His tawny hair and cool green eyes gave the impression of a cougar about to pounce.
“Never hurts to have counsel.” Chris’s level, dark stare matched the other man’s. “You of all people should know that.”
Holt blinked at the palpable animosity arcing between the men. Rafferty had left the Denver police force under hazy circumstances, but most folks in Rock County knew better than to mention it to him. Apparently Holt had missed bad blood between Chris and Luke.
“How’s it goin’ out there at the Valley-D? You managing all right with just you and Bronc?” the sheriff asked.
“We’re getting by.” Holt was here to get to Rob’s case, but he forced himself to endure the courtesies.
“And Rob’s kid? Bobby, is it? How are you taking care of a baby and birthing calves too?” Rafferty put in.
“Maddy’s staying awhile.”
The deputy barked a cynical laugh. “I thought you’d boot Maddy McCoy up the road after she paid her respects. When I dropped her off, it felt like putting a fox in a wolf den.”
“Who?” The sheriff wound a finger around one end of his mustache.
Before Holt could explain, Rafferty plowed in. “Eight years ago, Madelyn McCoy was engaged to Holt’s brother. When she left poor Rob stepping on his tongue at the altar—and I mean that literally—Holt just about swore a vendetta on the female.”
“Ironic,” Chris said, “to have her return to care for Rob’s child.”
“Maybe, but we’ve all grown up some since then. I’m grateful to have her.” Holt winced inwardly. Having her was out of the question.
He returned his attention to Foley, who raised one frosted eyebrow, mild interest in the live soap opera. “You got any news for me, Sheriff?”
“Ballistics report came in yesterday. I was going to give you a call.” Foley pushed a folder across the desk.
“What took so long?” Holt opened the folder.
“They’re real backed up in Colorado Springs. A request from a spit-sized county like Rock don’t get priority.”
After a moment’s perusal, Holt clenched his jaw. He recognized the .50 caliber. “Only a high-powered sniper rifle would use an exploding bullet. We can’t call the crash an accident any longer.” He passed the folder to Chris.
“Maybe you can’t, but I’m still not sure. Some hunter shootin’ off too fast.”
The sheriff was being cautious about treading on local toes, Holt reckoned. Especially those of hunters. Clamping down on out-of-state hunters could raise the ire of county businesses that catered to them.
Holt’s outward shell of calm was chipping away. “Come off it, Jarvis. Someone sat in that stand of trees opposite the precipice and waited to blow out Rob’s tires. Someone deliberately killed my brother and his wife. That was no accident. It was murder.”
“Would a hunter have used this caliber?” Chris tossed the file onto the desk.
The sheriff gave a noncommittal wag of his head. “No one around here has a high-tech rifle like that.” He laughed. “Who knows what some of these rich tourists have?”
“Some guy could’ve seen a bear and been waiting for him to return. Maybe he sighted the critter at th
e same time Rob came by,” Rafferty said.
Holt’s patience with these damn-fool suggestions shrank to a nub. He fired out of his seat. “Unlikely. And it’s not hunting season.”
“Exactly why someone might keep it to himself.” Foley held up a hand to stay Holt’s impending explosion. “I’m not sayin’ it couldn’t be murder. It’s my duty to bring the perpetrator to justice whether it’s an accident or murder. I want to be sure is all.”
“You taking it slow on purpose, Sheriff? Biding time until your retirement next fall?”
Defensiveness flickered across Foley’s lined features before indulgence replaced it. “Now, Holt, you know better’n that. All cases will have serious attention until my last day. Besides, I’m not too sure about retirement. What would I do with my time?”
Rafferty’s brooding attention veered from Chris to Holt. “Right after the crash, we checked the whereabouts of practically everyone in town. Me and the other deputies interviewed the guests at the Circle-S and the wranglers on every spread around. Only ones we didn’t get were a few drifters who’d moved on.”
“We came up empty,” Foley said. “All the logical suspects had alibis.” His boots slammed to the floor. He straightened in his chair, the politician’s easy smile transformed to a determined glare. “Now that we have this report, we’ll go over everything all over again.”
“Damn right. You missed something.” Holt stopped stalking and gripped the back of the wooden chair. His gut churned. “Because someone who knew what he was doing—the killer—arrived ahead of my brother’s old pickup on that winding mountain shortcut. He waited in hiding, maybe for hours. He blew out the truck’s tires at just the right angle and time to send them over the cliff to their death.”
Chris Hawke fingered his amulet with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Suppose it was murder. What possible motive could someone have to kill Rob Donovan? Or Sara?”
“Exactly why I think it must have been an accident,” the sheriff said. “Everyone liked Rob. You couldn’t find a nicer guy. Why he’d do anything for you, give you the shirt off his back. And Sara was a sweet kid, a new mother. Who would harm either one of them? Who would want them dead?”
Twice A Target (Task Force Eagle) Page 4
