Intimate Secrets

by B. J Daniels

  She checked the baby intercom system Ruth had given her, then the locks on the windows and the back door before she headed down the stairs again. “He had to go into town.”

  “That’s it, I’m calling my friend Charley Brainard,” Mildred said, going to the living room phone. “Now, don’t you argue.”

  Josie wasn’t about to argue. In fact, she’d just been about to suggest that Mildred call Charley to come stay with them for a while.

  Charley Brainard was a huge, likable man, who from what Josie could tell, had quite the crush on Mildred. “I think having Charley come over is a great idea.” In more ways than Mildred could imagine. “I need to go into town, and I want to be sure that you and Ivy are safe while I’m gone.”

  Ten minutes later, Charley drove up the road. By then, she and Mildred had tidied up the cabin, all evidence of the intruder gone but certainly not forgotten.

  Mildred went to get Charley a tall lemonade.

  “Please don’t let anyone in,” she said to Charley while Mildred was still in the kitchen. “Anyone at all. You can hear Ivy on the intercom.” Or anyone else who might break into the house.

  “Don’t you worry about that little darling of yours,” Charley assured her. “Or Mildred, either. I’ll take good care of them.”

  “I know you will. I left the pepper spray on the top shelf, just in case. I won’t be long.”

  “You just take care of yourself,” Mildred said, coming in with Charley’s lemonade.

  Although she knew Ivy would be safer with Charley and Mildred than alone with her, she still had a hard time leaving. But she had to find Raymond. Had to find out what he was doing in Montana. What he’d been doing in her stables. And who had ransacked her cabin tonight.

  She had to be wrong. There had to be another explanation. Other than the one that had a death grip on her.

  Chapter Eight

  Josie took the short way to town, hoping to avoid running into Clay. She figured he’d go looking for Raymond with the same intentions she had. Or at least close.

  But if Raymond was in Three Forks, she knew she’d be able to find him. Hopefully before Clay.

  She took the old road, fighting hard not to panic. There had to be an explanation. For everything that was happening. For what she thought she’d seen tonight. Who she thought she’d seen.

  At a phone booth just outside of town, she stopped, dug some quarters out of her purse and called what few motels there were, asking for a Texan driving a Lincoln Continental, pretending she’d run into his car and was trying to find the owner. The Lincoln had Texas plates and she’d seen a cowboy in it earlier, but she didn’t know the driver’s name.

  She came up empty in town, where someone like Raymond would have stuck out like a sore thumb. But she wasn’t surprised that he’d opted not to stay in Three Forks. He and his Lincoln would be too visible.

  And by now he had to know that Clay Jackson was after him. Maybe not just Clay, she thought, remembering the man who’d ransacked her cabin. More people than just Clay might be looking for Raymond.

  Because of that, she figured Raymond would hole up. Or take off.

  She was betting he’d stuck around, though, and that worried her even more. Raymond wasn’t what she’d ever considered a brave man. Nor was he stupid. With this much heat on him, he should have run.

  If he hadn’t, then, Josie wondered why. What was he waiting for? What was he in town looking for? The jewels from the robbery, as Clay suspected? Or something else?

  She tried the motels in the surrounding small towns. No luck. Maybe he was camping out somewhere near town. That would make him almost impossible to find, given the number of campgrounds in the area.

  Running out of ideas and thinking she’d have to give up, at least for tonight, she remembered the motel up on the interstate. Fort Three Forks. Maybe Raymond would have seen some irony in staying at a fort. Odell would have.

  She pocketed the rest of her change and decided to drive out rather than call.

  The night had cleared, leaving a full moon and a billion tiny stars to reflect on the water as she crossed the Jefferson River.

  As she neared the Fort Three Forks motel, she glanced across the highway at the Steer Inn, hoping to see the Lincoln. Raymond would have to eat. He’d go for a Montana beef steak, probably chicken-fried, just as Odell would have. Odell. She turned up the heater in the truck, feeling chilled, but not from the night.

  No Lincoln at the Steer Inn. Nor parked in front of Fort Three Forks. She pulled around back and looked between the motor homes, hoping she’d get lucky.

  Discouraged, she backed up and swung around to leave. Her headlights picked up the shine of a chrome bumper across an expanse of asphalt. She swung the pickup’s lights around again, illuminating the white of Texas plates.

  The dented, rusted, cream-colored Lincoln she’d seen Clay watching just two nights before sat on the dark side of a large metal building a hundred yards away. In her headlights she could see that the side window on the passenger side was a quarter of the way down, the front left tire looking a little low on air, the windshield cracked. The car appeared empty.

  She parked her pickup, raked a hand through her unruly hair and headed for the motel lobby. Raymond wasn’t quite as smart as she’d thought. If she’d found him, anyone else looking for him could have, too.

  She opened the motel lobby door and stepped in, as the consequences of that thought sunk in. She hoped she wasn’t too late.

  Laying on her Texas accent a little thick, she tried to get Raymond’s room number, knowing he wouldn’t have registered in his own name. She came up with a story about being homesick. That much at least was true. And that she’d seen the Texas plates, realized whoever it was was from her neck of the woods and wanted to take them dinner and hear about home.

  The girl behind the desk was sympathetic, but she couldn’t give out his room number. She offered to ring his room, though, because she remembered him and his southern accent.

  Josie watched her. No answer. The girl suggested she leave a message for him.

  Josie took the notepad and wrote “Call me” and her number, but she planned to find Raymond before he read it. She’d seen the girl dial room 211.

  She thanked her and left, doubling back to take the set of outside stairs up to the open second-floor balcony that ran the length of the rooms. At room 211 she knocked and waited, watching the parking lot behind her over her shoulder.

  No answer.

  She knocked again. “Maid,” she said, hiding the Texan in her accent as much as she could.

  Still no answer.

  The curtains on the window were closed, but she could see through a crack where the edges didn’t quite meet.

  She cupped her hands to her face and peered in. The room was dark except for the flicker of the TV screen across the room. It illuminated the only object she could see clearly. The bed. Queen-size. The bright-colored spread hanging off the side, the white sheets crumpled.

  She waited, thinking he might have gone into the bathroom. She knew she couldn’t wait long. She was too visible up here from both the highway and the parking lot.

  But after what seemed like an eternity and Raymond hadn’t returned, she looked across the pavement toward the Lincoln, still hunkered away from the lights of the motel in the shadow of the warehouse. Maybe he’d walked across the street to the Steer Inn for dinner.

  Her stomach fluttered as she stared at the car, remembering the partially open passenger side window. She would be able to get into the car. See who it was registered to. Or if there was anything inside that would prove Raymond Degas was in Three Forks.

  She took the stairs back to the parking lot, trying to convince herself she should wait in her pickup for Raymond to return. But it was getting late and she was anxious to get home to Ivy. She started toward the Lincoln. At least she’d find out if the car was registered to him.

  Goose bumps dimpled across her skin as she neared the Lincoln. Just a few
days ago she’d been thinking how content she was. She’d actually felt safe, having convinced herself that the past could no longer hurt her. That she could go back to Texas. Soon.

  Had she really been that naive?

  She reached the dented front fender of the car and looked across the long rusted hood to the windshield. It was too dark to see inside the car even if the windows hadn’t been tinted for the Texas heat. She wished she’d brought a flashlight. Even more, a weapon.

  Moving down the side of the car toward the partially open side window, she suddenly felt as if she wasn’t alone.

  No moonlight found this side of the huge warehouse. Nor did starlight. In the distance, cars hummed by on the interstate. Faint laughter rode the breeze over from the motel to echo off the building, leaving a heavy silence. Something moved in the tall grass of the fields off to her left, making her jump. An animal?

  Nearer, she thought she heard another sound. Low. Almost a moan. The breeze picked up. She caught a whiff of something. A mixture of mildew, years of road dust and something else, a sharp, coppery smell. Blood.

  Her heart drummed, reverberating against her ribs, making her weak and off balance. She stared at the partially open window, but she could see nothing but darkness inside the car.

  Run! All her instincts cried for her to turn, run and not look back.

  She thought of Ivy and took a step backward, planning to do just that.

  But then she heard the moan. A low, pain-filled plea that seemed to hang in the night.

  Her pulse thrummed in her ears. The sound had come from the car, hadn’t it? She glanced off to her left. The lights from the motel and the interstate lit a stretch of open field.

  But even before she heard the moan again, she knew it hadn’t come from out there.

  She stood motionless, her breath caught between her teeth. Only her right arm moved away from her body and toward the car door handle.

  It took every ounce of her strength and courage to open the door. The latch clicked, startling her, then the big, heavy door swung out. The dome light flashed on, blinding her for an instant. And the body that had been propped against the door fell out, hitting her legs and sliding to the ground with a heavy thud and a groan.

  She let out a startled cry as she recognized the man bleeding at her feet and saw the gun he had pointed at her head.

  THREE FORKS WAS DEAD for a Saturday night. Clay had driven past the motel where he’d spotted the Lincoln Continental before, then past the bars and restaurants and gas stations, all without any luck.

  The waitress at the Headwaters Café had told him that most tourists wouldn’t start rolling in until after Memorial Day. Fly fishermen. Golfers. Families on their way to Yellowstone Park or Lewis and Clark Caverns. A few would want to see where the Missouri began. Most just passing through on their way somewhere else.

  That should have made finding Raymond Degas easy. Three Forks wasn’t that big. And how many old rusted and dented 1975 cream-colored Lincoln Continentals with Texas plates could there be?

  He’d searched the side streets, alleys and driveways of the small town, driving slowly, wondering if he really knew who he was chasing anymore.

  Josie had him doubting himself, something he rarely did. Doubts were dangerous for an investigator. When he started questioning his gut feelings, he was in trouble. And as good as dead.

  Worse, Josie had him doubting a lot more than his gut instincts. She had him questioning everything. Including whether or not he’d really been on Raymond Degas’s trail or someone else’s.

  Of course the man Clay had been following didn’t go by Degas. Or Raymond. He registered under different names and Clay figured the Lincoln was probably borrowed. Or stolen.

  But Clay knew a surefire way to prove who the man was. Fingerprints. Degas had had a record since he was a juvie. If Clay could find the Lincoln, he knew he could get a clear print to send to the crime lab in Austin.

  He hadn’t bothered before because he’d been so sure he had Degas. Now he wasn’t sure of anything, especially what had happened two years ago. Concerning the jewel robbery. Concerning Josie.

  He kept thinking about her working with the horses in the pen this morning. He’d never seen anyone who was that good with unbroken horses, and he’d seen his share of horse trainers.

  Watching her ride tonight like the devil himself was chasing her had left him shaken. Because he’d seen her ride like that before. Only once. On a horse he’d thought no one could ride.

  He felt as if he couldn’t be sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore.

  He widened his search to the businesses near the interstate, trying to concentrate on what he did know for certain: He’d followed someone whom he had reason to believe was Raymond Degas from Texas to Three Forks, Montana. Followed him to the ranch where Josie worked.

  Raymond had made it easy, leaving behind a trail any fool could follow.

  The thought rattled around in his head like a loose marble. He slowed the pickup, realizing he’d assumed Raymond was a fool. Or that the man no longer thought anyone was looking for him.

  But Raymond had disappeared and stayed hidden for almost two years from the cops and Clay who’d been looking for him. That made Raymond no fool. He had to know that the heat hadn’t died on the jewels. So what would make him blow his cover? What would make him leave a clearly marked trail for Clay to follow?

  His heart began to pound with a vengeance. He swallowed and slowed the truck to a crawl. For Clay Jackson to follow. The anonymous tip about Raymond. The easy-to-follow trail. Had Raymond wanted Clay to follow him to Montana? To Josie?

  But why?

  He drove down the short road to the Fort Three Forks motel. No Lincoln. He pulled around back to check the parking lot. But instead of finding the one vehicle he’d been looking for, he found the one he’d least expected.

  Slowly he rolled down his window and parked alongside Josie’s pickup. Empty. What the hell was she doing— He never got to finish the thought.

  A gunshot shattered the quiet summer night.

  CLAY’S GAZE LEAPT up at the sound. Through the darkness and his open side window, he saw the Lincoln parked behind the warehouse in the distance. The passenger side door hung open. The glow from the dome light spilled out onto the pavement, onto what looked like a body. No, more than one body. There appeared to be two figures on the ground.

  Josie. That’s all he could think. Josie and trouble had always gone together. He grabbed his pistol and jumped out, keeping to the darkness as he ran toward the Lincoln.

  He slowed, unsure, as he neared the front of the car. The night glittered, a canopy of stars and a large white moon, but none of that light reached the side of the warehouse. Just that small circle of pale gold stealing out of the Lincoln.

  As far as he could tell, neither of the figures on the ground had heard him approach. That surprised—and worried—him.

  He slowed at the sound. A hoarse, hurried whisper.

  Weapon ready, he edged carefully around the front of the car until he could see behind the door hanging open.

  He’d been right. Two figures were beside the car on the ground. The smaller one, a woman, knelt over a man sprawled in a pool of blood. He seemed to be trying to tell the woman something.

  Clay stepped closer.

  Josie lifted her head at the sound of his approach, her face pale and drawn, shock glittering in her eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was from seeing him or what had happened before he got here.

  He let out a low curse. What the hell was she doing here?

  She brushed a wisp of stray blond hair back, her blue eyes too bright in the car’s dome light.

  He motioned for to her to move back from the man on the ground. As she got to her feet, he saw the gun beside the body and hoped to hell it wasn’t hers. Or that her fingerprints weren’t on it. But with Josie, anything was possible.

  Then he stepped close enough he could see the man’s face.

  Up close, it
was clear that Raymond Degas had changed during the past two years. He was thinner, his hair long and dirty, his face more pockmarked. But there wasn’t any doubt that he was the man Clay had followed from Texas or that he was Raymond Degas.

  Raymond stared up, his eyes blank and distant. Blood no longer ran from the bullet hole in his chest.

  Although he knew it was useless, Clay leaned over him to check for a pulse. None.

  “Is he dead?” Josie whispered.

  “Yeah,” he said, straightening.

  She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of the dead man.

  Clay assumed the shot had come from the gun lying beside Raymond, but he didn’t like to take chances where murder—and this woman—were concerned.

  She stared at Raymond for a few moments longer, then looked up, blinking as if she couldn’t bring him into focus. She seemed to notice what he still held in his left hand. A loaded .357 Magnum. Her gaze flicked back up to his. “You don’t think I killed him?”

  Nothing about Josie would surprise him at this point. But cold-blooded murder?

  As far as he could tell, she wasn’t armed. But what had she been thinking coming here? She should have known that Raymond was dangerous. Obviously his associates were even more dangerous.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, angry with her for risking her life. But even more angry that she’d even gotten involved with someone like Raymond—and Odell—in the first place. “I thought I told you to stay at the cabin with Mildred and Ivy.”

  She didn’t answer, just looked at him blankly.

  “The police aren’t going to like that answer,” he said, reaching into his coat for his cell phone. He watched her chew at her lower lip as he dialed 911.

  “Did you see anyone besides Raymond?” he asked while he waited for a ring.

  She shook her head and glanced toward the interstate. A string of lights dotted the highway like tiny gold beads.

  The 911 operator answered. He relayed the information to the sheriff’s department and hung up.

  “You didn’t see who shot him?” Clay persisted as he led her away from the murder scene to a bench outside the motel.