“Because of me?” The tenderness on his ravaged face did a number on her heart. “I was going to tell you that I can get a job in the Portland area.”
Cassie’s head throbbed and she kept tasting blood, but her thoughts were increasingly coherent. She knew that wouldn’t be Grant’s first choice. He’d left urban Scottsdale to come home, to police the rural county where he’d grown up. Of course he didn’t want to immediately pull up roots to take a job in a big police department where he wouldn’t have the authority he did here.
Although – feeling a tweak of amusement, she had no doubt he’d rise quickly in the hierarchy wherever he was.
“I’ve actually kind of enjoyed what I’ve been doing here. It was hard, knowing I was only a placeholder, especially considering how Dad and I clashed.” She felt silent. “Did I tell you what I found?”
“No.”
“Are there things you should be doing?”
“Not until the state CSI folks get here, and you’re on your way to the hospital.”
The closest hospital wasn’t even in Hayes County, and given that she’d suffered a concussion or two today – she’d refrained from telling Grant that she’d puked once and was still nauseated – Cassie had no doubt she’d be spending the night there. Without Grant beside her, holding her hand. But he had to do his job.
Speaking of. She’d call Andy Sloan and put him on this story as soon as she could get her hands on a phone.
But right now…right now, it was just her and Grant.
She told him about the file she’d found in her father’s home office, the one he’d compiled of her articles. Then her thoughts strayed.
“I’ve have been really mad if you’d let him shoot you.”
He laughed, a rusty sound. “You know the first thing you ever said to me?”
“That I knew how to drive an ATV?”
“Nope. When I got out there, you eyed me suspiciously and said, ‘So we got the big gun.’ I think you had me from that moment.”
As time passed, they talked quietly about parents and jobs, nightmares and where they might want to live. His legs had probably gone numb from her weight on them. Cassie’s head hurt, the scratches on her face burned, her shoulders ached, she’d acquired a new, sharp pain in her back where she’d fallen against the blade of the box cutter, and she bet if she took her gloves off, she’d find her hands swollen and purple. Despite all of that, she was happier than she’d ever been in her life.
She wasn’t much for prayer, didn’t believe the dead lingered…but sent a thought winging upward anyway. Thanks, Daddy.
She hoped he got it.
About The Author
Janice Kay Johnson is the author of more than ninety books for children and adults. Her first four published romance novels were coauthored with her mother Norma Tadlock Johnson, also a writer who has since published mysteries and children's books on her own. These were "sweet" romance novels, the author hastens to add; she isn't sure they'd have felt comfortable coauthoring passionate love scenes!
Janice graduated from Whitman College with a B.A. in history and then received a master's degree in library science from the University of Washington. She was a branch librarian for a public library system until she began selling her own writing.
She has written six novels for young adults and one picture book for the read-aloud crowd. ROSAMUND was the outgrowth of all those hours spent reading to her own daughters, and of her passion for growing old roses. Two more of her favorite books were the historical novels: WINTER OF THE RAVEN and THE ISLAND SNATCHERS, written for Tor/Forge and now available in ebook format for the first time. The research was pure indulgence for someone who set out intending to be a historian.
Janice raised her two daughters in a small, rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She spent many years as an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter, and foster kittens often enlivened a household that typically includes a few more cats than she wants to admit to.
Janice loves writing books about both love and family — about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her Superromance novels are frequent finalists for Romance Writers of America RITA awards, and she won the 2008 RITA for Best Contemporary Series Romance for SNOWBOUND.
Visit her website at www.JaniceKayJohnson.com.
A Note from the Author:
Thank you so much for purchasing my book. If you enjoyed the book, I hope you will take a moment to help me get the word out to others by posting a review on Amazon or Goodreads - or “like” my Author Page on Facebook to get future updates.
I also love to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact me on Facebook or via my website at www.JaniceKayJohnson.com.
Can’t wait for more Jed Dawson?
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next book in the Desperation Creek series ALL THE LOST LITTLE HORSES.
ALL THE LOST LITTLE HORSES
(Book 2, A Desperation Creek Novel)
PROLOGUE
The rat-a-tat-tat of nails slamming home into the sheet of plywood prevented him from hearing anyone approaching. At the tap on his shoulder, he spun around, the cordless nail gun held like a pistol.
“Whoa!” Bud Coffey raised his hands and backed away. “Boss wants to see you.” He smirked. “Right now.”
He wanted to flatten the smug little bastard’s nose, or ‘accidentally’ let a few nails fly. He did neither, only nodded a tight-lipped acknowledgement.
Just so the men on site would know he didn’t jump the second the bitch summoned him, he finished laying the plywood floor in what would be a living room before he jumped down to the ground and plugged the nail gun in to charge while he was at the trailer. Only then did he walk the half block to where it was parked.
His boss was alone in the trailer. Sharon Jarvis. Fortyish, big tits, big ass, roll around her middle. Going to seed, although she tried to pretend it wasn’t happening by dyeing her hair platinum blonde and slabbing on the makeup. Her eyelashes were thick spikes. She looked like a hooker who had to beg for customers.
The men who’d worked for her father hadn’t seen much of her until Russ Jarvis keeled over from a heart attack. Looking pleased as punch, she’d pretended to wipe away a tear or two before taking his place. There wasn’t a man here who liked taking orders from a woman, and especially not from her, but he’d gritted his teeth and done it so far.
Now he said, “You wanted to see me?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
“I finish what I start.”
She pushed her father’s chair back and rose to her feet, holding his gaze. “Not here. Not anymore. You’re fired. Collect your things and get off the property. We’ll mail your check.”
Jolted, he exclaimed, “What? I’m a good worker.”
“My father warned you.” The bitch sounded condescending. Her lip had an unpleasant curl to it. “Another incident of domestic violence, you’d be gone. We don’t want someone with a hair-trigger temper around here.”
Then maybe she shouldn’t have tromped on his trip-wire.
He didn’t give her a chance to back away, to reach for a phone. He lunged over the desk and closed his hands around her throat before she could scream. She fought, but ineffectually. With his knee planted on the desk, the other booted foot on the floor, he had complete control. He squeezed and squeezed as her face turned red and then blue, as specks of blood appeared in her eyes, as her struggles became weaker. He kept squeezing after he knew she was dead, giving her a hard shake just because he could. And then he dropped her body like the trash she was.
He took a minute to look in drawers and the file cabinet, finding a stash of a few thousand dollars that he pocketed. Finally, he turned the little button to lock the only door into the trailer and left, closing the door behind him.
The rush of pleasure had him looking forward to going home. Two bitches a day, that would be a record. He’d have to take off, o
f course; that little creep Coffey would be eager to tell the cops who had gone into the trailer last.
But that was okay. He knew who to blame for everything: the reason he was pissed all the time, for being demoted from construction supervisor to foreman, and now fired. And yeah, the reason he’d gotten involved with the airhead who hadn’t known how to convince the cops who’d knocked on the door last night that the screaming had been from the TV, not her.
It was past time he took care of his real problem – and made some bucks while he was at it.
CHAPTER ONE
“Hadn’t branded the calves yet.” Walt Whitney, a tall, rangy rancher, stared straight ahead, his face set in grim lines. “We planned to do it next week. Son of a gun. These bastards chose the prime time to make a move on my herd.”
Detective Jed Dawson relaxed in the saddle as the two horses loped across the open pasture. He had a feeling of unreality even though he’d been a cop long enough to know that just about anything could be stolen. Still, this was a first for him.
Cattle rustling. Whitney’s call had been the second report within the last ten days, besides. Jed hadn’t known there was such a thing anymore. In his mind, cattle rustling was classic Old West. Six-shooters, the local sheriff deputizing a bunch of locals to corner the bad guys in a box canyon. The cattle thieves hung, vigilante style.
Turned out he’d been wrong, because here he was, pursuing what he was beginning to think might be a bigger problem than the tip of the iceberg they’d seen so far. Of course, he had an excuse for his ignorance. With his faint southern accent betraying him, anyone would know he wasn’t from around here.
This morning, Whitney had discovered twenty-five cows along with their calves missing from their pasture, a fence having been cut to allow the herd to be moved out onto the federal land that stretched for miles beyond the ranch. Where they’d been taken from there…well, that would be Jed’s job to find out, along with how they’d been transported.
A lot of people in this rural Oregon county ran some cattle, but not many still made a living at it. Whitney was one of those few, his operation at least the equal of the Circle S next door. Jed knew the Circle S all too well after investigating the murder of the owner only a few months back. In fact, the two men now followed a fence that divided Whitney’s land from the ranch still owned by Curt Steagall’s widow. From what Jed had heard, she hadn’t yet decided whether to sell out or not. Her husband had been the third-generation to work that land, and rumor had it that the baby she was expecting was a boy.
He thought she’d have to sell. She didn’t have the experience to run the ranch herself, and paying for too much help would eat up any profits, and then some. Besides, with corporations swallowing the smaller, family-owned operations, by the time that baby grew up, what were the odds a man could still make a living for his family with the Circle S?
After a brooding silence Jed hadn’t broken, Whitney said, “Beef prices are up this year, you know.” White-haired, he had the tanned, wrinkled face you’d expect from a man who’d spent a good part of his fifty-six years on earth outdoors beneath a baking summer sun or in bitter cold during the winter and spring. The lines carving his face suggested his expression was most often affable, but he wasn’t smiling today. “Should be good news, but for those of us who’ve been hit, the best prices in the world won’t make up for what we’ve lost.”
Jed had learned that, although the calves were worth at least $600 each even in a so-so year, they weren’t the big loss. It was the cows, who turned out a calf or two a year. They were the working machinery of a cattle ranch, in a sense, and expensive to replace. What’s more, Whitney had put a lot of money into shifting his herd to Wagyu from the Herefords he’s formerly raised. Kobe beef was in high demand right now, and the stolen animals included his first Wagyu calves and some mighty expensive cows.
As they rode, from long habit Jed scanned the landscape ceaselessly, watching for movement, for anything out of place. So far, all he’d seen was sagebrush, scrawny junipers, board and wire fences, and cattle, including some red-brown Hereford steers on Circle S land.
“I went online last week,” he said, “after the first report of rustling. Suppose you heard about that.”
Whitney nodded. “The Harper spread.” Like every other rancher in the county, he’d heard within hours of the discovery of missing cattle. If he hadn’t, he’d have read about it in the Hayes County Courier, the weekly newspaper owned and run by the sheriff’s fiancée, Cassie Ward.
“Read about the problems ranchers had down in Malheur County a few years back,” Jed continued.
Whitney grunted, scowling beneath the brim of his hat. “Yeah, the sheriff’s department and a coalition of locals did a good job shutting it down, but they never really made arrests. These sons-of-bitches hardly ever get caught.”
Jed reined in his borrowed gelding to wait while Whitney leaned over to unlock the padlock on a gate that opened into a back pasture. Once they’d passed through, he left the lock and chain dangling.
“Shouldn’t have to lock every gate and door,” he grumbled. “Not in these parts. Didn’t do a damn bit of good, anyway.”
“You can’t keep an eye on your herd twenty-four seven.”
The rancher’s mouth thinned. “I don’t have a big enough operation for that.”
“You checked with any of your neighbors?” Jed asked.
“Ted Coughlin, to the north.” He jerked his head that way. “He had all his cows and calves in close to the barn. He was going to do a count anyway, but he thought he was all right. The Circle S…” He hesitated. “I don’t know that fellow Karen hired to manage the place. Have to wonder why she didn’t find a local to run it for her.”
Having dealt with a number of the local men who might have the experience needed but be available for a job like that because their own spreads were too small or too poorly run to turn a profit, Jed could see why the widow might have looked further afield. Or maybe he was just a cynic.
“If you were hit, chances are good they were, too,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I’ll talk to them.”
“I may stop there when I’m done here,” Jed said. Not might; would. Jed understood Walt Whitney’s suspicion. The new manager and hands next door had been in a prime position to case his operation and know when and how to make off with some pricey beef on the hoof.
Jed was offended to think of someone stealing from a woman still reeling from the trauma of discovering her husband’s body. It had been damn ugly. The sight had hit even Jed hard, given his own history.
He was able to shake off the memory for now, but he hadn’t slept well since a disgraced military sniper turned serial killer had taken out five people in a matter of weeks this winter. What he’d seen and done reawakened nightmares he’d deluded himself had been laid to rest.
Live and learn.
Five minutes later, he and Whitney reached the back fence that had been cut not ten feet from a locked gate that opened onto federal land, where Whitney paid to graze his cattle during the summer and early fall.
Jed swung down from the gelding and dropped the reins, then walked a grid to study the trampled ground leading through the gap between fence posts. It would have been nice to spot something one of the rustlers had dropped – say, a pack of cigarettes with fingerprints on it. He didn’t see a damn thing. A boot print, or so much as a print of a distinctive horseshoe.
“The Harpers had already turned their herd out on the range,” he commented.
Whitney grunted his disapproval, which Jed understood even though he hadn’t been in Oregon a year yet. The native bunchgrasses were still fragile in May. The more ecologically responsible ranchers in the area protected the land by not turning out cattle until June or July.
Jed continued, “Meant I didn’t have a trail like this to follow.”
“You want me to come along?”
He shook his head. “No need. Not like I’m going to come up on the rustlers
and have a shootout. They’re long gone.”
Whitney mumbled something profane.
“I’ll stop by the house on my way back,” he added.
The older man nodded. “Thanks for coming out. I won’t lock the gates.”
By the time Jed had led his borrowed bay gelding through the gap in the fence and remounted, Whitney was riding away. Jed tightened his legs, but kept the pace at a slow trot so he wouldn’t miss anything. The twenty-foot wide trail left by the cloven hooves of the stolen cattle headed deeper into the federal land, topping a rise where the first scraggly junipers made an appearance among the gray-green sagebrush and rabbitbrush, both ubiquitous in this high desert landscape.
He wasn’t surprised when, about a mile farther along, he came to a much wider trampled area…and broad tire tracks. Dismounting again, Jed walked around, able to tell from the imprints in the ground that a temporary corral had been set up to hold the herd. His guess from the multiple tire tracks was that a pickup truck and stock trailer had been utilized to move the stolen animals from here. If there’d been only the one truck and trailer, the rustlers might have had to take a couple of trips. Even three, given that they’d also need to break down the corral and take it at the end, too, as well as loading their horses. If so, Whitney’s cows and calves couldn’t have been taken any great distance. Chances were good they were still somewhere within the county.
Jed wanted casts of these tire impressions. Given that varying soil compositions, temperatures or types of impressions called for different methods, that took an expert, which he wasn’t. He took out his mobile phone and called his boss, Sheriff Grant Holcomb.
When Grant answered, Jed told him what he’d observed so far, and asked that the young deputy who’d recently received training be sent out to do the job. Like every other small, rural county, they were lucky enough to be able to call on the Oregon state crime scene investigators, as they had during this winter’s investigation of multiple murders, but Grant had also been working at upgrading sheriff’s department capabilities. A newly hired deputy, Erin Brown, had been eager to take classes and handle as much as possible of the CSI tasks. She had a leg up, since she’d been a chemistry major in college before deciding after graduation to go into law enforcement.
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