by Tami Hoag
They would be on her in a heartbeat. She looked for a refuge—a boulder she could crawl onto, a tree she could climb. All her brain could tell her was run! She had already run too far. Her legs moved as though she were immersed to her waist in mud. She seemed to go nowhere. Teeth snapped at her calf, and she screamed just as a horse broke through the cover of brush ahead of her and came flying down the grade.
“Will!”
The sound of her scream went through him like a knife. He had no time to register the damage that had been done to her face or her hair. All he could see was her terror, her arms reaching out to him, the dogs going after her legs as she tried to run toward him.
He never even reined in his horse, but leaned down and caught her around the ribs with one arm and pulled her awkwardly across the saddle in front of him, oblivious of the pain that ripped through his own body.
J.D. blew past them, nearly crashing into a loose horse. He had a clear view of Bald Knob. A clear view of Bryce's cousin as she pulled a knife and swung it high above her head. A clear view of her driving it into Mary Lee as she tried to stumble back out of the way.
At that moment he felt his heart stop dead in his chest. He couldn't get to her in time. There wasn't time for his rifle to clear the scabbard. She fell backward, arms flung out to the side, blood spreading in a stain down the front of her shirt. Sharon fell with her, dropping to her knees, raising the knife again.
He was fifty feet away and he was going to witness the death of the only woman he had ever loved.
It was a terrible epiphany. A terrible irony.
He screamed her name. Jerked at the rifle that caught in its leather sleeve. The knife's arc reached its apex. Lightning split the sky above them. Then the ominous high-pitched crack of a rifle shot split the air, and for a second that sound was the only thing that moved in the universe. The world was held fast in a freeze-frame as the shot echoed and careened from peak to peak.
The force of the hit knocked Sharon's body sideways. She fell to the ground, limp, lifeless, shot cleanly through the head. Her knife bounced over the edge of Bald Knob and down the mountain.
J.D. hauled back savagely on the reins and swung out of the saddle. He hit the ground running, tripping, stumbling, and dropped to his knees beside Mary Lee. She looked up at him through glassy eyes, blinking slowly against the rain that fell steadily in her face.
“Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, baby, hang on,” he said breathlessly. He tore off his slicker and threw it over the lower half of her, dug a handkerchief out of his hip pocket, and pressed it hard against the bloody hole in the hollow of her left shoulder. “Hang on, honey. Hang on.”
Mari stared at him, feeling pleasantly warm and oddly disembodied, as if she had no arms or legs. She couldn't feel her shoulder, only the heavy pressure he applied to it.
J.D. looked as if he were the one in pain. His face was a mask of anguish, pale and taut, his gray eyes rimmed in red. His mouth quivered as he worked to make her comfortable by pulling off his hat and jamming it beneath her head for a pillow.
“Stay with me, baby,” he mumbled, leaning over her, stroking her wet mop of hair back from her face. “Oh, Jesus, baby, please stay with me.”
She wanted to ask him if that offer would be good later, but she couldn't form the words, and humor seemed inappropriate at the moment. Turning her head slightly, she could see Sharon Russell lying dead twenty feet away, her eyes and mouth open and expressionless, the back of her head gone.
“Who shot?” she asked weakly.
“I don't know,” he mumbled. “Del, I guess. You shouldn't try to talk, sweetheart. Just be still.”
She managed a wry smile as she turned her face up to him once more. “Quit bossing me around, Rafferty.”
“Boss you around,” he grumbled. “I ought to take you over my knee for poking around up here.”
“Sadist,” she said through her teeth as the first stab of pain went through her. J.D. winced with her. “I'll tell you right now, cowboy, I don't go for that kind of thing.”
The cloth beneath his hand was soaked red. Blood oozed up between his fingers as he adjusted the position of his hand and pressed down harder. “Dammit, Mary Lee, be quiet for once in your life,” he ordered, terrified that it was her very life leaking out between his fingers.
For once she took his advice, too aware of the weakness stealing through her, too aware of the labored quality of her breathing. J.D. leaned over, sheltering her from the rain, murmuring soft words of comfort, stroking her forehead and cheeks, showing her things he might never say.
She loved him. At that moment, when she knew her life might slip away, everything else became simple and clear. She loved J. D. Rafferty. At that moment everything else was inconsequential—their differences, the fights, the wall he had built around his heart. None of it mattered.
A day late and a dollar short, Marilee. Isn't that just like you?
She had a genuine talent for screwing up. Too bad that wasn't worth anything. How proud her family might have been of her.
She glanced once more at Sharon, wondering what her family would think. Did Bryce know his cousin was a killer? Did his depravity go that far?
“J.D.?” she whispered. “There's a videotape. Back at my place. And a book with court reporter's notes. Make sure Quinn gets them.”
“Hush,” he said, the word barely crawling out around the rock in his throat. He touched her cheek with trembling fingers. “You can give it to him yourself,” he said, his voice hoarse and raw at the thought that she might not be able to.
“Just in case.” She closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on the fire that seemed to be spreading down her whole left side. It burned bright, then eased. She let out a breath in relief. “J.D.?”
“What?” he murmured, giving up on the effort to silence her. He wanted to hear her voice. He wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life, and the fear that he would not have the chance was like a ball of acid in his chest. Tears pressed hard against the backs of his eyes.
“Del is a hero,” she whispered. “You tell him I said so. Be proud of him, J.D.”
Then she closed her eyes again and the world faded to black as she whispered, “I love you.”
J.D. stared down at her, panic tearing through him. “Mary Lee! Mary Lee!” he shouted her name at the top of his lungs as the rain pounded down on them. “Mary Lee!”
She didn't move. She didn't open those huge blue eyes. She lay limp and quiet, her blood warm beneath his hand. And J.D. bent over her, to shield her from the rain, tears scalding his cheeks as he pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered, “I love you. Please don't die. I love you.”
CHAPTER
32
BRYCE PACED along the bank of windows in the living room, moving gracefully and soundlessly across the thick carpet. Outside, the rain that had begun the day before continued, turning the mountainscape shades of gray. Bryce paid no attention to the weather. He had more pressing matters on his mind. He had yet to find Samantha. She had not returned to her home in New Eden. She had not gone back to the Mystic Moose. She had simply vanished.
He didn't like the feel of this situation at all. He had expected her to have second thoughts after their love-making; he had not expected her to flee the state. Aside from being concerned about her well-being, he was annoyed. There were plans in the works. The first of his plans for Samantha to take the world by storm. Even as he paced, Brandon Black, the fashion photographer, was on a jet bound for Bozeman. They couldn't very well put into motion the wheels of Samantha's success without her.
He scowled and paced some more, working to hold his temper. Interference in his plans was something he did not tolerate with good grace. Sharon's vanishing act only added to his pique. She knew better than to leave without consulting him.
She was punishing him, of course. Her jealousy was becoming an unmanageable, unpredictable beast. Her little fits had been an irritation while he had been involved with Lucy. But her at
titude toward Samantha was intolerable.
The fact that both women were missing simultaneously made him vaguely uneasy.
He checked his watch, slipped his hands back into the pockets of his linen trousers, and marched on. Ben Lucas sat on one of the leather sofas, sipping scotch and watching him with amusement crinkling the corners of his dark eyes.
“You've really got it for this girl, haven't you?”
Bryce flicked him a glance. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Not at all. She's a knockout. It's just that you have certain . . . tastes . . . a small-town girl might find shocking.”
He flashed the Redford smile. It had a sharp edge to it, a hint of warning. “What Samantha doesn't know won't hurt her. She's an innocent. I suppose that's a strong part of her appeal. I have every intention of protecting her, teaching her, eventually she'll learn about the real world in small doses.”
“And thank you for your tutelage?”
“That's the plan.”
The lawyer raised his eyebrows and his scotch.
Bryce narrowed his gaze at the subtle challenge. “You don't think I can pull it off?”
“I didn't say that. I learned long ago not to underestimate you, friend.” Lucas stretched lazily and crossed his Cole-Haan loafers. “I plan to enjoy the show.”
“It will be dazzling,” Bryce said with a grin that faded quickly. “Provided Samantha turns up to participate.”
“Maybe she and Sharon ran away together,” Lucas suggested, biting on a smile. “A new twist on the old triangle.”
Bryce scowled at him. “That isn't even remotely funny. Sharon has become a loose cannon of late. A situation I won't allow much longer. If I find out she's laid a finger on Samantha, I'll kill her.”
The lawyer smiled an evil smile at the prospect. “Can I watch?” he asked sardonically as a doorbell sounded in a distant part of the house.
“I could probably sell tickets,” Bryce muttered. “My dear cousin has made enough enemies to fill a stadium.”
The housekeeper trundled in, wringing her hands in her apron, her face pinched with concern. “Mr. Bryce—”
“I told you I'm not seeing guests, Reisa,” Bryce snapped. “I'm very busy.”
“I believe you'll see us, Mr. Bryce,” Sheriff Quinn said, stepping into the room behind the housekeeper. He towered over her. His shoulders filled nearly half the archway into the room. The rest of the space was taken up by the men on either side of him. “I'm Sheriff Dan Quinn. This here's Agent Paul Lamm, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and Agent Bob Ware, wildlife agent for the state of Montana. And these,” he said, holding up a fistful of papers, “are warrants.”
“Warrants?” Ben Lucas unfolded himself from the sofa, rising with his drink still in hand.
“Search warrants, arrest warrants, like that,” Quinn explained nonchalantly. Inside his uniform he was sweating like a horse. He was arresting one of the most powerful men in the state, a man who, according to the evidence unearthed by Marilee Jennings, was guilty of a whole lot of sins. “Mr. Evan Bryce,” he said as he moved purposefully into the room with the two wildlife agents. “You are under arrest for suspected violations of the Lacey Act and a whole bunch of other state and federal wildlife regulations. You are also under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder as related to the death of Miz Lucy MacAdam.”
Bryce gaped at him as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. “This is outrageous!”
Quinn tipped his head and scratched his yellow hair. “No sir, it's a fact. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney—”
“I'm his attorney,” Lucas interjected.
“Well then,” Quinn said, nodding, “let's cut to the chase and take a ride downtown.”
J.D. walked down the hall of the New Eden Community Hospital with his hat in his hands. His boot heels rang on the hard polished floor, and he scowled at the prospect of drawing attention to himself. He hated this place, the smell of it, the look of it, the air of weakness and despair. It all closed in on him like a blanket drawn over his head until he felt he was smothering. Stopping outside the door to Room 102, he deliberately filled his lungs with air, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Mary Lee had her bed tilted up. An IV dripped clear liquid into her veins. The bag of blood that had hung in tandem with the IV solution the last time he had stopped in had since been taken away. She wasn't hooked up to any bleeping, blinking machines, a memory that still haunted him from his mother's last days. Her color was sallow except for the vibrant purple smudges beneath her eyes, but she was managing a weary smile for Nora Davis, who sat on a stool beside her. They were watching a soap opera on the television that stuck out from the wall on a black metal arm. Nora stopped talking in mid-sentence as J.D. made his entrance.
“I'll come back later, honey,” she said, patting Mari's leg through the thin white sheet as she slipped down off the stool. “See if I can't sneak you in a piece of chocolate pecan pie.”
“Thanks, Nora,” Mari murmured.
Nora scooted around the foot of the bed, turning off the TV as she passed by. “J.D.,” she said.
He nodded to her, but his eyes were locked on Mari. She blinked at him sleepily.
“Hey, cowboy, how's tricks?”
“Came to see how you're doing.”
“So come in and see. Stab wounds aren't contagious.”
He moved from the door to the foot of the bed and stood there, staring at her from under his straight, somber brows. He looked drawn and tired beneath his tan. The broad shoulders sloped down as if they bore the weight of the world. And he seemed wary, as if he fully expected her to add to the burden. Not exactly the way she had dreamed of seeing him.
In the half-light of dawn she had floated between memory and wishes and narcotic-induced melancholy, picturing him bent over her, cradling her against him, sheltering her from the rain and stroking her hair. She had imagined tender words and knew she was dreaming, because Rafferty was not a man of tender words.
You sure know how to pick 'em, Marilee.
“How's Samantha doing?” she asked.
“She's pretty rattled. It's gonna take her a while to come out of it, I expect. Doc says her face will scar, but the cut didn't go deep enough to sever any nerves, so I guess that's a blessing. It'll all heal in time.”
Except the scars no one could see, Mari thought, hurting for the girl. “Is Will with her?”
“Yeah. He's pretty shaken himself. This put the fear of God in him. He's sworn off drinking and women and honky-tonks and gambling.”
“Will he hold to it?”
J.D. thought about that for a minute, thought about the conversation he had shared with Will before the fateful arrival of Orvis Slokum. “I think maybe this time he will.”
“I hope so.”
Neither of them spoke for several moments as that phantom promise of a clean start hung in the air between them, tempting but unable to penetrate the dense layer of their brief past.
J.D. broke the silence first. “How are you feeling, Mary Lee?”
She found him a wry smile. “Like I been rode hard and put away wet.”
“Doc Larimer says you'll be all right,” he said quietly.
“Yeah. I won't be throwing the javelin anytime soon, but it's just a flesh wound, as they say in the movies. Larimer is a piece of work. I think you could be hit by a bus and he'd tell you to stop whining and walk it off.” She sobered, the gravity of the situation tugging down on the corners of her mouth. “I was very, very lucky. I'd be dead if it weren't for Del.”
“He's a hell of a shot.”
“I'd be dead if it weren't for you,” she said. Just as she expected, he shrugged off his own role in the drama, looking uncomfortable at the prospect of her gratitude. She sighed and let it go for the moment. “Is Del all right?”
Rafferty looked out the window, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “No, he's not. He hasn't been all right in thirty years. I should hav
e faced that a long time ago.”
“What will you do?”
“I don't know.”
The strain in his voice brought tears to her eyes. She knew how deeply he cared for his uncle. She knew how strong his sense of responsibility was, how he prided himself on taking care of what was his. He thought he had failed. The struggle to deal with the self-recriminations was visible in his face. She wanted to offer him some comfort, but she knew he wouldn't want it, and that hurt.
She also wished there were something she could do for Del. He deserved a medal for fighting past his own fears and mental demons to help her. He deserved a whole box full of medals. She caught a fleeting glimpse of just such a box in her memory, but she was tired and couldn't concentrate on anything more than the moment at hand.
“Quinn arrested Evan Bryce yesterday,” he said, turning his attention back to her. “The district attorney and a federal prosecutor are going through the evidence now—what Lucy left and what they got out of Bryce's house. Turns out he had tapes of two dozen or more hunts. Some big people are gonna take big falls. Quinn thinks they'll have enough indictments to fill a wheelbarrow. He sends his apologies for not believing you sooner.”
“Yeah, well, there was a lot of that going around. I can't really blame him for choosing the path of least resistance. I probably would have done that too in my past life.
“Come pull up a chair, Rafferty,” she said, nodding to the stool Nora had vacated.
Her hair was its usual mess, and it tumbled across her face with the gesture. She swept it back with her right hand. Through the thin fabric of her hospital gown J.D. could see the bandages that swathed her left shoulder and banded across her chest. He felt sick at the memory of her lying on the ground, her blood oozing out between his fingers.
“I should have listened too,” he said, easing himself down on the seat.
