by Sheryl Lynn
“Daniella left just like she promised. Are you still mad at me?”
“It was your call.” How, she wondered, did Janine remain so cool and in control all the time? Maintaining composure left Megan tense and aching inside; the struggle felt as alien as a coating of wax.
“If you don’t want to go to Cripple Creek, we can do something else.” He touched the tip of a finger to the side of her hand. “Talk?”
“About what?”
“We never had trouble coming up with a subject before. Would you like to go to Cripple Creek?”
Be a grown-up, she thought. Put an end to this before it grew more painful. “No, I don’t want to go to Cripple Creek. I don’t want to talk, either.” She tossed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair.
“Now, honey—”
“Don’t!” She held up a hand to stop him, averting her face so she didn’t accidentally meet his eyes. “You can do better than me and we both know it.”
He sipped the coffee, his movements slow and graceful. Her heart weighed a ton in her chest.
“We’ve got ourselves a big advantage over most folks.”
He sounded calm and cool, she noted resentfully. Must be an age thing—around age thirty people learned to control their facial muscles and quivering bellies.
“What advantage?” she asked.
“We know each other.” He waited, as if for her agreement, but she was more curious about where he was leading so remained silent. “I know you like trees and wild summer storms and fresh air. You don’t like chores, but you like things neat.” His grin turned mischievous. “You can’t spell too good, but you use big words, anyway.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You’re an awful typist, but you tell great stories.”
“When you’re mad you spout off, but you get over it quick.”
“You hardly get mad at all.” She knew what he meant, but the what ifs kept clamoring in her mind. What if she went to Wyoming and his family hated her? What if William disliked her so much he turned to drugs or alcohol? What if the boy ran away from home? What if she was a lousy wife? A terrible mother? What if they made love and he thought she was skinny or bony or dumb or awkward? What if she tried really, really hard to do her best, but it wasn’t good enough and she failed? What if fate had other plans for her, and all the problems Tristan suffered since meeting her were clues even an idiot could pick up on?
“We don’t know everything,” she said. “We didn’t know William would hate me.”
“Answer a question. Hypothetically speaking.”
“What?”
He pointed with his chin at the photographs depicting her father’s military career. “You never cared for moving. But when your daddy got himself reassigned, you packed up and moved, anyway, because you had to.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Would you be better off if he’d said, no, my kids are unhappy about moving, so I’m not going anywhere?”
She mulled over the question, seeking an honest answer within herself. Finally, she shrugged. “I don’t know. Moving around wasn’t all bad. I made a lot of friends, lived in great places. Besides, Mom can make a home out of a cardboard box if she has to. Places changed, but the family was always the same.”
“Did your father ever place you in danger?”
“No!”
“He put his career over your happiness.”
“Yes—no.” She stared at the photograph of the Colonel mounted on the cavalry horse. “That’s not true. He made sacrifices for us kids. Like taking command of the color guard at Fort Carson. It killed his chances of making general.” She smiled sheepishly. “The Olympic training center is in Colorado Springs. He wanted me to have access to the best coaches.”
He nodded. “I loved rodeoing. I liked the travel and the crowds and the cheering. I even liked that metal taste in my mouth right before I climbed onto a bull. I was good, honey, real good. But I didn’t quit because I got hurt. Shoot, if getting hurt meant anything, I’d be working in an office right now.”
“You quit for William.”
“That’s right. He likes rodeoing as much as I do, and he traveled with me in the summers. I wasn’t neglecting him, but I’d be no good to him dead or crippled. So I quit. I’d never knowingly harm my boy.”
“I can’t be William’s mother.”
“I’m not asking you to.” He placed a hand on her knee. “Hardest thing about being a parent is knowing the difference between what young’uns need and what they think they need.”
“Are you saying William needs me?” She shook her head in denial.
“He hardly needs me anymore. What I’m saying is, how we feel about each other has nothing to do. with my boy.”
She heard what he said, but he could be wrong. They could marry, and William could end up hating her, and she could hate him back, and that would make Tristan hate her. As much as she wanted Tristan, wanting wasn’t enough. She knew from hard experience that wanting was never enough.
Chapter Thirteen
Hand in hand, they walked the grounds, meandering along the trails. Tristan noticed the trees and heard the squawking birds, but vaguely. He pictured Megan on the HBD ranch, working side by side with him, sharing meals, sharing his bed. “I love you, you know.”
She gave a start, her fingers tensing convulsively around his.
That he’d spoken his thought aloud surprised him. He was glad, though. He’d needed to say it. She frowned up at him, her freckled face glowing with health and youth, so beautiful she pained his eyes. He turned his gaze to the distant sky where a flock of cloud-sheep meandered in a blue pasture.
“When I first laid eyes on you, I lost my nerve. I felt old and foolish, like I had no business even looking at a sweet young thing, much less wanting you.”
“It was the skirt,” she muttered, and kicked a pinecone, sending it skittering across the path.
He laughed. “Reckon.” He sobered, pondering the rise of fear in his chest and the panicky voices in his head reciting his flaws and foibles. His throat had gone dry and gritty, and his lungs ached. It reminded him of climbing onto a bull’s back, knowing he was about to get the snot pounded out of him, but wanting it, anyway.
A shriek broke his thoughts and made him jump. Megan jumped, too, hoving toward the sound. Another shriek lapsed into a wail of childish outrage.
“Kids,” Megan said, and ran toward the source.
Tristan shoved his hat more firmly on his head and raced after her. She ran like a deer on the uneven path, her footfalls light, and she soon disappeared into a knot of trees around the picnic area. When he caught up to her, she had a headlock on a redheaded boy squirming like a snake on a fishhook. Four little girls huddled together atop a picnic table. All were in tears. Baby dolls and pink plastic cups and saucers were scattered in the grass.
“Hey, Tristan, meet our resident terrorist.” Her eyes blazed. She held a slingshot in her left hand, shaking it as if she wanted to rap the boy’s head with it. “Benny McTeague, I have had enough.”
“I’ll tell my mu-thur!” he wailed.
“Yeah? Well, I’m telling Santa Claus you hurt baby dolls with a slingshot!”
The little girls gasped in horror. Benny stopped squirming. Megan dropped the slingshot and shifted her grip so she held the child by both upper arms. She crouched, putting them eye-to-eye.
“Just where do you think Santa spends his summer vacations? Hmm?” She jutted her chin at the girls. “Jennifer, you know, don’t you? You went to see him the other day.”
“Uh-uh!” Benny cried.
“Yep!” a dark-haired girl said triumphantly. “Went to the North Pole right down the road. I rode a Ferris wheel and petted the reindeers and talked to Santy. I did!” She thrust out an arm, showing off a plastic candy-cane-striped bracelet. “Santy gave me a present.”
“There’s too many bugs up at the North Pole in the summertime, so Santa comes to Colorado,” Megan said. “He gets a
suntan, too. How do you think his cheeks stay so rosy? Didn’t you see his second North Pole when you were coming up from Colorado Springs? It’s right there on the mountain.”
Benny’s eyes swelled into moons.
“I talk to him all the time,” Megan said. “He likes stories about kids who visit Elk River. They make him laugh.” Her brow lowered and her voice turned ominous. “But stories about naughty children make him cry. Especially stories about little boys with bad weapons who shoot horses and baby dolls.”
All the children were looking worried and highly interested now. Benny’s face paled beneath his freckles. Tristan lowered his face to hide his smile.
“I didn’t mean to hit your horse,” the boy whispered. “It was an accident. Honest”
“Benny!” a woman called. “Benjamin McTeague!”
“Mama!” the boy screeched, resuming his wild struggles.
Megan held him fast. “Are you leaving today?”
“Mama-mama-mama!”
“You just remember, Benny McTeague, even if I can’t see you, Santa Claus can.” She turned him loose and he bolted like a jackrabbit. She scooped up the slingshot and stood upright Hands on her hips, she glowered after him.
“I did see Santy, Miss Megan,” Jennifer said solemnly. “I sat on his lap.”
“I know you did, sweetie.”
Tristan’s belly ached from repressed laughter. Any lingering doubts about Megan being able to hold her own with William vanished. She helped the girls pick up the scattered toys. Tristan pitched in, too.
One little girl looked up and up until she stared at his face. “Are you a cowboy?” she asked.
“Reckon I am.”
“I wanna be a cowboy when I get big.”
“Me, too,” said another girl.
Megan said, “Me, three.” Shyly, she reached for his hand. “I want to make sure Benny is checking out.” She shoved the slingshot in her back pocket, and the rubber sling bounced against her pert rear end.
“Reckon Daniella told the truth about one thing,” he said. “She didn’t hit Doc.”
Megan replied with a huffy noise and a sniff. “She’s still a deranged lunatic.”
He tucked her slim hand inside his, and they walked to the lodge. Once inside the lobby, Megan grinned in triumph as she watched a couple and Benny McTeague in front of the registration desk. Surrounded by luggage and ski equipment, they were obviously checking out. The boy spotted Megan and ducked behind his mother.
“Poor kid,” she murmured. “He’s in for some rough times ahead. His parents let him rule the roost.”
“Megan! There you are.” With a hand raised, Elise hurried toward them. “I’ve been looking for you, Tristan. Your father called. He needs you to call him right away.”
Wincing, Tristan patted his breast pocket. “Shoot, I got the message yesterday and forgot to call him back.”
“He called this morning, dear. He says it’s an emergency.” She swept the air, gesturing for him to follow. “You can use the telephone in my office.”
Emergencies on the ranch ran the gamut from bad weather to sick animals to injured hired hands. Tristan knew his father was capable of handling-almost anything, so imagined the very worst.
In Elise’s office, he sat gingerly behind her dainty white desk, half fearing her curlicue-legged chair would collapse and he’d knock over the array of crystal vases on her desk. He called home.
The telephone rang, so he knew the house hadn’t burned down.
Megan perched on the edge of the desk, one jeans-clad leg swinging as she watched him with curious worry.
Bill Cayle answered with a gruff “Hello?”
Relieved to hear him sounding hale and hearty, Tristan slumped. “Dad, it’s me. I got your message.”
“About time you called. I was worried about you. How’s my boy?”
“He’s fine.” Short hairs lifted on his nape. Bill Cayle was stoic as a sleeping bear, and for him to actually voice his worry filled Tristan’s belly with ice. “What’s wrong?”
“Did you hear about Eula? Old biddy got herself shot.”
Tristan nearly dropped the telephone. “How? Is she okay?”
“She’s alive, but okay’s another donkey tail altogether. They got her at the hospital in Casper all hooked up to machines and such. They still don’t know if she’ll pull through.”
Stunned, Tristan stared blankly across the office. Eula Masterson was a fixture in Powder. He’d eaten her beaten biscuits at church socials and listened to her myriad solutions about fixing what ailed the world. Despite her contrariness and penchant for gossip, he loved her, as did every other person in the county.
“Riley over at the feed store says he saw a woman running out of the post office after Eula got shot. The FBI is crawling all over town, only I don’t think it’s a robbery.”
“Why is that?”
“Quit interrupting and I’ll tell you. This fellow called me, name of Melvin Place, a private investigator out in Ohio. News about Eula went nationwide, made all the papers. The FBI don’t take lightly a postmistress getting shot, so they’ve got wanted posters and such sent out all over.” He whistled, low and wondering. “Whole town is riled like a hornet’s nest.”
“What does this private investigator have to do with you and Eula?”
Megan leaned forward, mouthing, “Private investigator?”
“Not me, son, you. Place told me the craziest story. I can’t make head nor tail of it. Seems a woman hired him to find you. He thinks she’s the woman who shot Eula.”
Tristan passed a hand over his eyes and slumped on the chair. “Let me guess, this woman thinks my name is Carter and is saying we’re married.”
His father inhaled sharply. “How’d you know that?”
“Long story. So why did she shoot Eula?”
“Don’t know. After I talked to Place I called the sheriff and he talked to the FBI agents. They haven’t gotten back to me yet. If you know what’s going on, why didn’t you say so?”
Tristan gave his father the short version of the long story, to which Bill Cayle’s only comment was clearing his throat. “Did the private eye leave a number where I can reach him, Dad?”
“Hold on a second.”
Covering the mouthpiece with a hand, Tristan said, “Sounds like Carter has another wife on his trail. She shot Eula Masterson over at the post office.”
Megan’s mouth fell open. His father came back on line and recited a telephone number. Tristan wrote it down on the back of an envelope.
“Are you all right, boy?”
“Right as rain, Dad. Let me call this fellow. I’ll tell you what he tells me.”
After he rang off, Megan touched her fingers to his chin. “Why did Carter’s wife shoot Eula? You told me everybody loves Eula.”
“I’m fixing to find out.” He dialed the Ohio number.
A woman answered with a cheerful “A-1 Investigations and Security. May I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m looking for a fellow named Melvin Place. Is he in?”
“May I ask who’s calling, please?”
“Tristan Cayle, ma’am. Long distance from Colorado.”
“One moment, please.”
The line went silent for a few seconds, then a click, and a man said, “Mr. Cayle, it’s good hearing from you.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. What’s this about you looking for me on account of Bradley Carter?”
To his credit, the man didn’t waste time on pleasantries. He launched into a terse recounting of his dealings with a woman named Amy Carter. She’d asked him to find her missing husband, one Bradley Ellis Carter, and the son she claimed he’d stolen from her. The only information she possessed consisted of an expired driver’s license and a photograph of Tristan torn from a rodeo magazine. It had taken Place only a few telephone calls and some computer research to find the address for the HBD Ranch in Powder, Wyoming. Place had given the address to Amy Carter, collected his fee and thought the c
ase was closed.
Until he read the news item about the shooting in Powder. The timing, location and description of the alleged shooter were too much coincidence for Place. He’d learned Amy had spent the last fifteen years in and out of psychiatric hospitals and jails.
“What was she in jail for?” Tristan asked.
“Shoplifting and arson, mostly. The most serious charge dealt with causing a disturbance in a schoolyard. She was caught trying to entice a boy to leave with her. The school officials confronted her and it got ugly. I talked to this woman’s sister, Mr. Cayle. Amy is seriously disturbed, and if she’s the one who shot the woman in Powder, then she’s dangerous, too.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Your father told me you have a teenage son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is bad. According to the sister, after Amy married Bradley Carter he robbed her blind, stole her car, ran up a big bunch of debts and left her pregnant.”
The prickling worsened on Tristan’s neck. “I am not Bradley Carter. He’s locked up in prison in California.”
“I know that now. I also know her child was stillborn. The sister said Amy was shaky before Carter, and lost it completely after the baby died. She suffers from delusions the child is still alive.”
“Did you tell the FBI?”
“Yes, sir. I have a feeling an agent will find you pretty soon to have a chat.” A long pause, then the private eye spoke softly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cayle. I thought it was a simple missing person. I didn’t know it was mistaken identity. You look exactly like Carter.”
“So I’ve been told, sir.”
Tristan hung up and tried to push down the sick feeling of dread crawling through his chest. “Kara said she was taking William to a place called Snowcap. Do you know where it is?”
“It’s a couple of miles from here. What’s going on? You’re white as a ghost.”
He jumped to his feet. “Another lady thinks I’m Carter. Only she isn’t after me, she’s hunting my boy. What’s the fastest way to Snowcap?”
“There’s a trailhead in the national forest. We can drive there in twenty minutes. What does this have to do with Eula?”
