by B. J Daniels
“I would imagine he’s just doing the same thing Laci Cavanaugh is—digging for dirt. I really wish she wouldn’t do that.”
Bridger didn’t know what to say.
“Sometimes I feel as if I’m losing my mind. I keep seeing her...” Spencer shook his head as if shaking off the horrific memory.
“It was an accident. You can’t blame yourself. Alyson wouldn’t want that.”
Spencer nodded after a moment. “I froze. I stood there on the beach. Just the thought of going into the water...”
Bridger felt that old familiar anvil of guilt on his chest. He was responsible for Spencer’s fear of water. And because of that, wasn’t he at least partially responsible for Alyson’s death, as well?
“Spencer, if you hadn’t jumped into that creek that day to save me...”
“I didn’t bring it up to make you feel bad. It’s just that you’re the only person who can understand why I hesitated to save my own wife. It just brought it all back—the nightmares, everything from the past.” Spencer rubbed a trembling hand over his face. “I’m not sure how much more I can take, you know?”
Bridger shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He didn’t know what to say, let alone what to do.
Spencer seemed to pull himself together after a moment. “I’ve decided to leave town. I think as long as I’m around, it will only make things worse. I’ve put the ranch up for sale. Before you hear it from someone else, I’ve also sold the drilling rights to a gas and oil company. Apparently the land is worth more than Alyson and I thought.”
Motive. Bridger swore to himself. Spencer had just provided a motive for murdering his wife. He tried to hide his surprise—and worry that Spencer might have known about the gas and oil before he married Alyson.
“I can’t stay here with Alyson’s best friend thinking I’m a monster,” Bridger was saying. “I wish you could get her to stop this.”
Yeah, Bridger thought, so did he. As if he hadn’t already tried that. “What does it matter what she thinks? With you leaving, you’ll probably never see her again.” At least he hoped to hell that would be the case.
Spencer shook his head. “Still, it hurts me to think that Alyson’s best friend hates me. I know it shouldn’t be messing with my head the way it is, but I don’t think I can live with her believing I’m a murderer.”
Chapter Nine
THE STEEL BOX sat on Sheriff Carter Jackson’s desk, unopened, when Bridger arrived only moments after the call. Bridger had said goodbye to Spencer, unable to hide his relief that the man was leaving town.
Eve Bailey stopped pacing, her eyes locking with Bridger’s as he stepped in and closed the door. It was the moment they’d both been waiting for. If they were right, the name of at least their mother and possibly the circumstances of their adoptions were in that box.
The sheriff lifted the lid and stepped back.
Just as Bridger had hoped, the box was filled with file folders, yellowed with age. He reached in and drew one out, handing it to Eve, before he took one for himself, his hand shaking as he opened it.
“It’s the babies,” Eve cried.
He barely heard her over the thunder of his pulse.
Eve sat down as if her legs would no longer hold her up.
Bridger’s hands were shaking as he scanned the contents of the file in his hand and frowned. He picked up another and did the same before he swore.
“It’s not here,” he said as he flipped through more files.
“What?” he heard Eve say behind him. “No.” She was on her feet, scanning the file in her hand. She threw it down on the desk and looked over at Bridger, tears in her eyes.
“What is it?” Carter asked, stepping closer. “Aren’t they the adoption files?”
“Oh, they’re the files, all right,” Bridger said. “The answers are even here. There’s just one problem—there are no names, no dates, nothing to know which of these files is ours.”
“That’s not possible,” Carter said, picking up the file Eve had dropped.
Bridger studied the one in his hand. “These are worthless without the key to the code.”
“Code?” Carter asked.
“At the bottom of every record,” Bridger said.
Eve pulled out a file, read it and let out a curse. “You can’t be serious. Animals and colors?”
“And flowers,” Carter said from the sidelines. “I see what you mean.”
Each file had the name of an animal, a color or a flower neatly printed at the bottom. Leave it to a bunch of old ladies to come up with this!
“So we don’t know any more than we did,” Eve said.
Bridger grasped a ray of hope. “We will know, though, once we have the key to the code.”
“But I thought this would end it. I thought we’d finally know and it would be over, that we could quit wondering and searching,” Eve said, sounding close to bawling. Carter stepped to her, wrapping her in his arms.
“It’s more than we had, Eve. We’re in here somewhere,” Bridger said, holding up a handful of the files. “We should be relieved that Dr. Holloway kept any records at all.”
She nodded, clearly fighting tears, and burrowed her face into the sheriff’s chest. Suddenly the office seemed too small, too intimate. Bridger put the files back into the box.
“You’ll put these away somewhere safe until we can find the codes?” he asked Carter.
The sheriff nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Bridger glanced at Eve still in the sheriff’s arms.
“I’ll take care of that, too,” Carter said.
Bridger nodded and smiled, happy that Eve and Carter had each other. He’d spent so much of his life alone and thought he was completely content with his own company. Until Laci. Now he felt empty without her. Did any of this matter anymore? He’d thought finding out the truth about his birth would fill that emptiness, but it had been Laci who’d filled it.
Once outside the sheriff’s department, he dialed Laci’s cell phone number again. It rang four times before her voice mail picked up.
“Hey,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment and instantly at a loss as to what to say. “I was just thinking about you.” So true. “Call me, okay?”
He felt like a fool as he hung up. What was he going to say when she called him back? I miss you? It was true. Or maybe he’d say I’m worried about you. Also true.
But what about what Spencer had told him? Had Laci gone into Spencer’s house, gone through his things? Bridger didn’t want to believe it. But he’d seen how determined she was. He hated to think of her reaction when she heard about the money Spencer would make off the Banning ranch.
The more he thought about it, the more anxious he became. Spencer had been acting so oddly at the restaurant earlier. Acting...afraid. Afraid of what Laci would find out about him? Or what the reporter already knew?
Snapping off his phone, Bridger walked to his pickup, hoping Laci called back soon. Better yet, that she’d get back here. Was there any chance Spencer knew where Laci had gone—and had possibly gone after her?
Spencer had been acting like a man with his back to the wall earlier. A guilty man.
Which would make Laci right. And make Spencer Donovan a dangerous man.
* * *
LACI TOOK A breath as she stared across the desk at Tom Simpson. “Tell me about the girl.”
“There isn’t much to tell, really,” Tom said. “It was our senior year in high school. Spencer was dating a freshman named Emma Shane. He broke up with her. It was high school—you know how that goes. But Emma flipped out. She tried to kill him by attacking him with a knife at school. Failing that, she ran home and set her house on fire, killing herself and her parents.”
Laci shuddered. “No one was
able to save her or her family?”
“There was a large propane tank next to the house, but by the time the firemen arrived... The tank blew, completely incinerating the house and everyone inside.”
“Was there any chance Spencer set the fire?”
Tom recoiled in shock at the question. “No, of course not. Spencer was with me. When the fire broke out, we were at football practice. We went over to see what was going on when we heard the sirens. Why would you ask that?”
She changed the subject. “Were you friends with Bridger Duvall, as well?”
“Not really. Bridger was two years younger. He didn’t play football. He rodeoed. He and Spencer were neighbors but didn’t hang out together in high school. If you know about Bridger, then you probably know that Spencer saved his life when they were kids. Made the front page of the paper. Spencer was a hero in Roundup.”
She didn’t know what to say. She’d thought the moment she heard about the girl’s death she would have found something incriminating in Spencer’s past.
“Emma had some mental problems,” Tom was saying. “No one blamed Spencer for what happened, but I think he blamed himself. He wasn’t the same after that. He went away to college. His family moved. As far as I know, he never came back to Roundup.”
“End of story,” she said more to herself than him.
“I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”
Another death. But Spencer Donovan apparently had nothing to do with it. Except for breaking up with the girl, who apparently had been unstable.
Just an unfortunate accident. Like Alyson’s drowning.
“You two didn’t keep in touch during college, then?” she asked, thinking maybe it wasn’t all that strange. She’d lost track of people she’d known from high school—just not her close friends.
“Spencer went to Montana State University in Bozeman,” Tom said. “I went to school in Arizona. Our lives took different paths.”
“Do you know of anyone else who might have kept in touch with him?” she asked.
Tom shook his head. “Wasn’t there anyone from here at the wedding?”
“No,” she said, frowning. As far as she knew, Bridger had been the only person there on the groom’s side. “Not even his family was there.”
Tom shrugged. “His parents are probably gone by now. He was an only child, and both of his parents were older than the rest of ours.”
She couldn’t believe she’d hit another dead end. “Thank you,” she said, getting to her feet and seeing his relief. “I’ll tell Spencer hello for you.”
“That’s not necessary. I mean, he probably wouldn’t even remember me.”
She heard something in Tom’s voice. He hadn’t just lost track of Spencer, he’d let the friendship go. Was there a reason? Something that had happened other than the girl’s death? Clearly Tom wasn’t interested in having Spencer Donovan back in his life.
But as he retrieved his sandwich and took a bite, she knew whatever the reason, Tom Simpson wasn’t going to tell her.
On her way out Laci noticed that his secretary, an elderly gray-haired woman, had returned and was sitting at her desk. She seemed about to say something to Laci when Tom called her into his office. She hurried in and closed the door.
Outside the building, Laci checked her cell phone and saw that Bridger had called several times. She listened to his messages, hearing in his voice how worried he was about her.
Who could blame him since it seemed she was trying to condemn a man for murder who’d had his share of bad luck already. A man who had nothing to hide.
“Hi,” she said when Bridger answered. She knew she must sound a little contrite. And for a good reason.
“Hi.” He sounded relieved to hear her voice. “You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“I was hoping you might want to have some dinner with me tonight.”
She glanced at her watch. “It would have to be late. I’m in Roundup.”
“I figured. Everything okay?”
No. She felt hot tears burn her eyes. She’d been so sure about Spencer. Everyone had tried to tell her she was wrong about him, but she’d refused to believe it.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted, realizing she might have been on this quest to convict Spencer of murder so she didn’t have to deal with her grief over Alyson’s death.
“Then a nice dinner might help?”
“Yes, it might,” she said, smiling into the phone.
“Good. Just come by the restaurant when you get back to Whitehorse.”
“Thank you. For everything,” she added, feeling guilty and full of gratitude that he was being so nice after she’d been so awful about Spencer. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Laci? Be careful.”
“I always drive carefully.”
It wasn’t until she hung up that she realized he might not be talking about her driving. She couldn’t wait to see him, she realized as she dropped her phone back into her purse.
Now maybe she could put all this foolishness about Spencer behind her. Alyson was dead. She’d drowned in a swimming accident. Laci couldn’t bring her back. She just had to accept that her best friend was gone. And no one was to blame for her death.
Wiping at her tears, Laci dug out her keys to open her car when she heard a door swing wide behind her.
“Miss?”
Laci turned to see Tom’s elderly secretary motion to her. Curious, Laci stepped back toward the building.
“I overheard you asking about Spencer Donovan,” the woman said conspiratorially. “I knew his mother. Bless her soul.” She looked behind her as if afraid her boss might have seen her come out of the building. “You should talk to Patty. She owns the Mint Bar downtown.” The woman looked as if she wanted to say more but suddenly clamped her lips shut. “Just talk to Patty,” she said and, turning around, disappeared back into the building.
* * *
BRIDGER TOOK A few moments to enjoy his relief before he started planning what to make Laci for dinner. She’d sounded good on the phone. Obviously she hadn’t found out anything incriminating about Spencer. Maybe now she could start healing.
He planned what to cook, only a little surprised how excited he was about seeing her again. All his attempts to exorcise her from his thoughts had failed miserably. He’d only been kidding himself that he wouldn’t see her again.
Mentally he made his list on the way to the market.
But as he started back toward the restaurant, telling himself not to worry about Laci, he thought of the files he and Eve had seen earlier. They’d come so close to learning the truth about their birth.
Impulsively he turned the pickup around and headed out to the nursing home as he recalled his last visit and the woman who’d stopped by Pearl’s room—Bertie Cavanaugh. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to the woman. But he had plenty of time now, he thought as he checked to make sure Titus wasn’t here visiting before he swung into the parking lot.
Bertie Cavanaugh was a large-boned, gray-haired woman with a perpetual scowl. She turned that scowl on him as he tapped at her open door.
Eyes narrowing, she demanded, “What do you want?”
“I’m Bridger Duvall,” he said, although from her tone he suspected she already knew that. He stepped into her room, leaving the door open.
She sat on the end of her bed, a doll in her lap. When he’d first looked into her room, she’d been whispering something to the doll as she’d brushed its hair.
He knew this was probably a waste of time, but he had nothing to lose at this point. “How are you today?”
“Same as I always am,” she snapped.
He tried a different tack. “What is your doll’s name?”
She looked down at the toy in her lap and seemed s
urprised to see it. “Baby,” she said with a soft, almost loving tone.
“She’s pretty,” he said, sitting down in the chair near the bed.
Bertie lifted her gaze to his, suspicion in her eyes again. “What do you want?”
“I want to know about the Whitehorse Sewing Circle,” he said, sensing that there was nothing wrong with Bertie Cavanaugh’s mind. “Were you a member?”
“For almost fifty years.” There was pride in her voice as her chin came up.
“That’s a long time,” he said, trying to hide his excitement. Bertie would have been a member when he was brought to the old Whitehorse Cemetery to be adopted. But he worried that not all of the members might have known about the adoptions given how long the secret had been kept.
“Whose idea was it to use colors and flowers and animals as codes on the files?”
“Pearl’s,” she said without hesitation.
His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. For the second time today he felt so close to learning the truth he could almost taste it.
“Who kept track of which symbol went with each baby?” he asked and held his breath.
Bertie studied him. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she finally said.
He nodded. “Thirty-two years ago my parents picked me up from a woman in the Whitehorse Cemetery.”
Bertie nodded. “I recall hearing about that.” She began to brush the doll’s hair again.
“I need to know who my mother was.”
“You know who your mother was,” she said without looking up. “The one who took care of you.”
“My birth mother.”
Bertie let out an annoyed sound. “I’m tired. You should go. I have to get Baby’s hair done before dinner.”
“Bertie—”
“Leave,” she snapped and met his gaze. “Leave before I call the nurse and tell her you were bothering me.”
He rose from the chair. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Me, too,” she said and went back to fixing Baby’s hair.
As Bridger came out of the nursing home, he spotted Spencer standing beside his pickup, obviously waiting for him, and felt his stomach roil. This couldn’t be good. He’d thought Spencer had left town.
