by Elle James
Her stepfather was in the tack room smoking a cigar and drinking from a bottle of Jack Daniels. He had his back to her and was talking on the phone they’d had installed in the barn.
“I didn’t tell her. She figured it out. It’s okay. It won’t be much longer…No, he hasn’t made it here yet. No, you need to wait until he does. If we move too soon, someone will put the pieces together…I know…me too…It won’t be long…okay…I’ll see you soon.” He’d dropped the phone in the charger and turned.
Bree had braced herself, drawing her body up as tall as she could. She’d lifted her chin and stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Greg Hemming, you lying cheating son of a bitch, you’ve hit my mother and Evan for the last time. If Mom doesn’t turn you in for assault, I sure as hell will.”
His head had jerked up, his eyes glassy. The air had reeked of the whiskey he’d drunk. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“You. You’re nothing but a bully and an adulterer. You think just because you’re bigger and stronger than the rest of us, you can push us around. You don’t go after men your own size because you might get your ass beat. So you pick on women and Evan because we can’t fight back. Well to hell with that. I’m done making excuses for the black eyes and bruises.”
He’d snarled and balled his fists. “You can’t talk to me that way. I took you in when you and your mother didn’t have a nickel to rub together. I put a roof over your head and kept you fed and clothed. I’ll do whatever the hell I please. You’re eighteen, you’re an adult, and this is my ranch. As far as I’m concerned, you’re trespassing.” He’d lurched to his feet, thrown his smoking cigar into the corner and come toward her.
A spark of fear had snaked down the back of her spine, but she was done cowering. Bree backed out of the tack room, her glance searching for an equalizer, something she could use to defend herself against what she was sure would be Greg’s violence. He’d already hit her mother and Evan. He wouldn’t hold back when it came to her.
She eyed the closest thing she could find, a shovel they used to muck the stalls and scoop horse manure. “What are you going to do? Punch another woman. Does it make you feel more like a man?”
“Bitch. I’ve put up with you long enough. Your mother doesn’t see what I see. You’ve been fornicating with that McKinnon boy. I won’t let you bring your whelp on this ranch to raise. You think you’re grown up enough to sleep around, you can get the hell off my property. Your mother and I are done with you.” He swung hard, hitting her on the side of her head, knocking her off her feet.
Bree’s head had slammed into a stall door. The yellow glow of the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling dimmed as a gray fog pushed into her vision. She couldn’t pass out. She had to stay conscious.
Greg had sneered, raised his fists and come at her again. This time he kicked her hard, the toe of his cowboy boot connecting with her rib.
Pain shot through her, and she cried out.
“That’s right. I am bigger than you. Whatcha gonna do about it?” He bent down to grab her up by the collar of her jacket.
Bree tried to snag the handle of the shovel in her hand as he lifted her off the ground but missed.
Greg threw her against the stall door, knocking the wind out of her lungs.
She struggled to catch her breath as Greg came toward her again.
This time, her fingers curled around the handle of the shovel. She swung it around and hit her stepfather hard on the side of the head.
He staggered backward, clutching his head in his hands. “You bitch!” He straightened and glared at her with such hatred, it sent a bolt of fear through Bree.
He came at her again.
Bree rose, gripped the shovel in both hands and waited. When he was close enough, she swung with all of her might, catching him in the chin with the back of the shovel. The metal scoop rang like a gong, the sound echoing off the walls of the barn.
Greg slumped to the ground and lay still.
Bree stood for a long time, waiting for him to get up and come at her again, but he didn’t.
Creeping close, she bent and felt for a pulse, fully expecting him to jerk away, grab her arm and punch her in the face. Again, he didn’t. The man was out cold but alive.
When he woke, he’d be madder than a wet hen and out for revenge.
Bree had straightened and run for the house.
“Mom!” she’d called out. “Mom! We need to leave now.”
Her mother had been in the kitchen, cleaning imaginary dirt from her pristine countertops. The warm scent of chocolate had filled the air. She’d turned, frowning. “What? Why?”
Bree grabbed her mother’s arm. “We have to go. Pack a bag. Greg’s really angry.”
“I can’t leave. I have a cake in the oven.”
“I’m telling you, he’s really mad. He told me to leave and I’m not leaving without you.”
“Sweetheart, I can’t leave.” She’d stared into Bree’s face, her frown deepening. “Did he do this to you?” She’d touched Bree’s face where Greg had hit her.
Bree had captured her mother’s hand. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is getting you away from that bastard.” She’d started for the stairs, dragging her mother behind her.
“You’re right,” her mother had said. “You have to go.” Her mother had followed her up the stairs and into Bree’s bedroom. Together they’d thrown Bree’s clothes into a suitcase.
Her mother had disappeared for a few moments and returned with a wad of cash. “Take this. You’ll need it to start over.”
“We will need it to start over. You’re coming with me.”
Her mother had backed away. “I can’t. But you need to go before he comes after you again. I’ll join you later, after the cake is finished.”
She hadn’t made any sense. “But Mom, he’s really mad. He’ll take it out on you.”
Her mother had shaken her head. “I’ll be okay. I’m making his favorite cake. He’ll calm down, and then I’ll sneak out later tonight. Go to Eagle Rock, stay at the tavern.” She’d picked up Bree’s case and carried it down the stairs and to the old truck Bree had used to drive back and forth to school and town.
Bree had followed, shaking her head. “Mom, I can’t leave you. That man is worse than a rabid animal.”
Her mother had nodded. “I shouldn’t have put you through this. I’ll make it right. You’ll see.”
Bree had driven away, hating that she’d left her mother, knowing Greg would take out all his anger on her. She’d prayed her mother would follow through and come to her later that night.
She’d rented a room over Blue Moose Tavern and waited. An hour into her wait, she’d heard sirens. When she’d looked out her window, she saw fire trucks blowing down Main Street, lights flashing.
Curious, she’d walked downstairs to the bar and grill.
“Hey, Bree,” Millie, the waitress had hurried by, carrying a tray filled with mugs of beer.
“I saw a fire engine pass. What’s happening?” Bree had asked.
“Not sure. But Sheriff Barron shot out of here when a call came through on his cellphone.”
Bree had sat at a shadowy table in the corner of the room and ordered a soda. For the next two hours, she’d watched the television over the bar and the people coming and going.
The more she’d waited, the more she began to think her mother wouldn’t come. Bree had pushed to her feet with every intention of heading back out to the ranch to get her mother.
A sheriff’s deputy had entered the room, covered in soot.
The bartender had slapped a mug of ice water in front of him. “Looks like you could use this.”
The deputy had smiled. “Thanks.”
“I hear there was a fire out at Wolf Creek,” the bartender had commented.
Bree had sat back into her seat, her heart hammering against her chest. A fire?
“Yeah. Burned the barn down.”
“That’s Greg and Karen
Hemming’s place,” the bartender said, his brow dipping low. “Anyone hurt?”
The deputy nodded.
Bree’s heart sank to her knees. She was half out of her chair when the deputy spoke again
“Greg Hemming died in the fire. By the time the pumper truck got out to the ranch, there wasn’t much left of the structure. He was inside.”
“That’s a shame.” The bartender leaned his hands on the surface of the bar. “What about his wife?”
Bree’s breath lodged in her throat and a loud ringing sounded in her ears. She leaned forward.
“She’s okay,” the deputy said. “Just shaken up.”
“They say what caused the fire?”
The deputy shook his head. “They’ll do an investigation and an autopsy to determine what actually killed Hemming.”
“You don’t think the fire and smoke inhalation did it?” The bartender swiped a cloth across the counter. “Hemming could be a mean bastard. I wouldn’t put it past someone to off him and burn the barn down to hide the evidence.”
“Yeah. That’s what the sheriff said.” The deputy drank from the mug and set it on the counter. “I’m headed home. It’s been a long day.”
Millie passed Bree’s table. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
Bree stared at the woman without seeing her. Finally, she shook her head. She had to get to a phone and call her mother.
Up in her room, she dialed the number for the ranch. Her mother picked up on the fourth ring.
“Mom,” Bree whispered. “What happened?”
“Oh, sweetie. I’m sorry. I can’t come. The barn burned with Greg in it. The sheriff wants to investigate. You need to get out of here. Go somewhere far away. Somewhere safe.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“You can. I’ll be fine, now that Greg’s gone. Do this for yourself. Do this for me.”
She remembered that Greg had thrown down his cigar before coming after her. Had hitting Greg with the shovel left him unconscious to die in the barn fire? Had Bree killed her stepfather? Had her mother guessed?
Her head spinning, Bree didn’t know what to do. If she stayed, the sheriff might come knocking down her door to ask where she was the night Greg Hemming died. Her mother had just lost her husband. How would she feel if her daughter was dragged through a trial and found guilty? She’d be devastated when Bree went to jail.
In a haze, Bree packed her things, slipped out the back door and drove through the night. At least a dozen times, she’d slowed, ready to turn around and head back. Her mother’s words came back to push her on.
When she reached the ocean, she bought a ticket on the ferry to Alaska, drove her truck on board and hadn’t looked back.
That had been thirteen years ago. Thirteen years she hadn’t been back to Montana or seen her mother.
She’d been shocked by how much her mother had aged.
Looking around the ranch house, Bree could see a happier place than when she’d been there as a teen. Her mother had thrived on her own, once the abuse ended. For that, Bree couldn’t regret what she’d done. Greg Hemming had been a bastard and had deserved what he’d gotten.
The phone in the hallway rang, bringing Bree back to the present.
Chapter 11
Bree lifted the receiver and pressed it to her ear.
“Wolf Creek Ranch. This is Bree, Karen’s daughter.”
“Bree, oh thank goodness you’re back,” a female voice said on the other end of the line. “This is Meredith Smalls, Evan’s sister.”
“Meredith? How’s Evan? Did you take him to the clinic? Was he affected by the poisoned water?”
“Yes, I did. And no, thank goodness, he wasn’t affected. He’s perfectly fine. Evan always carries his own water bottle from the house. Unless it gets really hot outside, he doesn’t need to refill it. And it’s been pretty cold at the ranch these last couple of weeks.”
“Thank goodness. I’m glad to hear he’s well.” Bree glanced out the back window when she saw a movement.
“I called to see if your mother and Ray had been released from the hospital.”
“No,” Bree said. “They’re keeping them on fluids and monitoring them until they’re completely out of the woods.”
“That’s what I needed to know,” Meredith said. “I wanted to stop by with some flowers to cheer them up.”
“That’ll be nice. I’m sure Mother would love to see you and Evan.”
“Your mother has been so good to Evan. I’ll be glad when things get back to normal. Poor Evan is confused. He doesn’t understand why he’s not going to work.”
“I’m not sure what it’ll take and how long it will be until the poison is out of the water.” That movement again caught Bree’s attention, and she squinted, trying to see what was out in the pasture, while finishing up her conversation with Eagle Rock’s librarian. “We’ll keep you and Evan informed. I’ll be at the hospital later if you want me to tell my mother anything.”
“No need,” Meredith said. “I’m going into Bozeman this afternoon. I’ll tell her myself.”
Bree rang off and set the phone in its charger. She left the house and stood on the porch, staring out across the pasture.
A dark figure was moving toward the barn and house. The more she watched, the more she realized it was a cow.
“What the hell?” She’d been certain the cattle had been in the south pasture, fenced off from the pastures closer to the creek that fed the water system for the house and barn. How had a lone cow found her way to the barn? And were there more out there getting into the contaminated water?
Bree hurried out to the barn, grabbed a section of hay and strapped it onto the back of the four-wheeler. She settled a helmet over her head, flung her leg over the seat, started the engine and raced out into the pasture where the cow ambled slowly toward her.
As soon as the bovine spied her and the section of hay, she picked up her speed and bellowed loudly.
Bree turned in front of her and started back toward the barn, the cow running along behind her. She didn’t appear to be affected by the poisoned water, and Bree vowed to make sure she wasn’t.
She led the cow into the barn and tossed the section of hay into a manger in a stall. The cow trotted in and Bree closed the door behind her.
With the animal secured away from the contaminated drinking water, Bree grabbed another section of hay, strapped it down and headed back out into the pasture.
A few minutes later, she found the reason for the cow being in the wrong pasture. The gate to the south pasture hung wide open. She was sure she’d closed it the day before, knowing how important it was to keep the cattle out of the pasture with the poisoned creek.
She shut off the four-wheeler, climbed off and checked the latch. It was functional and worked perfectly. The only other way it could have been opened was if someone had come through.
The sound of small engine caught Bree’s attention. She glanced up at a motorcycle coming toward her from the direction of the Crazy Mountains and specifically from the direction of the canyon everyone was so intent on searching for James McKinnon.
Anxious to hear any news about the older McKinnon, she climbed onto her four-wheeler and raced toward the man on the motorcycle.
When they came abreast of each other, the man hit the brakes and skidded to a stop, kicking up rocks and gravel.
Bree slowed before stopping and pulled her helmet off.
The man on the bike unbuckled his helmet and removed it. He was at least six feet tall with dirty blond hair, gray eyes and looked to be in his forties with a little bit of a paunch around his midsection. His beard was stubbled, as though he hadn’t shaved in at least a week and he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in that amount of time, either.
Bree fought to keep from wrinkling her nose at his stench. “You’re on private property,” she said. “Are you lost?”
The man shook his head. “I know where I am, and I’m not lost. I’m with the folks sea
rching for the missing rancher, James McKinnon.”
“All the way out here?” She held out her hand. “I’m Bree Lansing. Karen Hemming’s daughter. I believe the search is happening in the canyon on the other side of that ridge.” She tipped her head toward the hills.
“Jeff Kurtz.” He gripped her hand. “I’m very familiar with the Crazy Mountains and many of the ranches in this area. I’m an outfitter. I lead fat rich men on elk hunts through those mountains.” He held onto her hand longer than was necessary.
Bree tugged her fingers free of his grip and rubbed her palms on her jeans. “If you’re familiar with this area, then you know you’re trespassing on private property.” She gave him a pointed look and tipped her head toward the open gate. “Did you open this gate to pass through?”
“No,” he said, looking straight at her. “Like I said, I came down from searching the lower end of the canyon.” His eyes narrowed. “If you’re the daughter of the owner of this ranch, I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the hills on Wolf Creek property, are you?”
She nodded. “Very familiar. I grew up here.” For the most part. At least, since she was eight years old. But Kurtz didn’t need to know all the details of her childhood.
“If Mr. McKinnon were injured and confused, are there caves he could hole up in on the ranch? You know, so he could survive a frigid Montana night?”
Bree nodded. “There are a few that would work. But he’d have to pass over a fence or two to get to them. And Mr. McKinnon wouldn’t leave a gate opened, no matter how injured or confused,” she said with absolute certainty. “Who did you say you’re working with?”
He gave her a half smile. “I didn’t say. The sheriff called on locals familiar with the area, asking us to join the search, figuring more people could cover a broader area.” He nodded toward her. “I didn’t know the owner of Wolf Creek had a daughter. When did you get into town?”
“As soon as I heard my mother was in the hospital.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better soon.”
“Thank you.” Bree ground her teeth. She couldn’t walk away and leave this man wandering around Wolf Creek Ranch. What if he’d been the one to leave the gate open? He’d said he hadn’t, but she wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth. Though she didn’t know the man, she thought she remembered his name from her childhood.
