by B. J Daniels
Anna hung up, hoping McCall was all right. She’d hit him with a cast-iron cowgirl doorstop. Her disappointment in him aside, she hoped it hadn’t hurt him too badly.
She stepped out onto the deck overlooking the Tongue River Reservoir and rubbed the back of her neck, angry with herself for worrying about him. He worked for Mason VanHorn! That should tell her what kind of man he was. More than likely, he deserved anything she gave him.
The morning breeze whispered in the pines and rippled the water’s green surface below her into a glittering chop. She could see a half-dozen boats along the red cliffs of the lake and wished she were on the water.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of the lake and almost thought she felt a memory stir her. She and her father fishing in a small boat, just the two of them, on a summer day, the soft slap of the water against the side of the boat, the steady thrum of the motor, the pull of the rod in her hand.
She knew it couldn’t possibly be a memory. She’d never gone fishing with her father. She’d barely known him. At her first boarding school, she’d told everyone that her parents were both dead. In a way, it was true. They were both dead to her.
Going back inside the cabin, she wondered why she hadn’t thought to rent a cabin on the lake in the first place. Staying at a motel, even in Sheridan, Wyoming, even miles from the VanHorn Ranch, had been risky. Here on the lake at this time of year, she could blend in.
In a few hours, when it warmed up, the lake would be alive with the whine of boat motors roaring around, the smell of fires from the campground across the water and wonderful sounds of laughter and voices.
And according to the records she’d uncovered, just down the lake was a piece of recently acquired land that was now part of the VanHorn Ranch. Not exactly lake-front property in the true sense. It was swampy, with lots of trees standing knee-deep in the water with the lake up. The land wasn’t used for anything except the wild horses Mason VanHorn had collected before there were laws preventing it.
This morning, after a sleepless night, she’d come up with a plan. Unfortunately, she could do little until almost dark and she’d never been good at waiting.
She tried her cell phone and still couldn’t get any service in this remote part of the state. Giving up, she picked up the phone in the cabin and dialed the Virginia number.
“Johnson Investigations,” a female voice answered.
“I’m Anna Austin—”
“Ms. Austin, I’m sorry but if you’re calling for Lenore, she still hasn’t called in. As a matter of fact, we have contacted the sheriff in Antelope Flats.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to give you my permission to reveal the nature of her business here and who she was working for,” Anna said. “I’m worried about her.”
“We’re concerned, as well, but the sheriff said no missing person’s report can be filed for forty-eight hours,” the receptionist said. “He has agreed to keep an eye out for her but can do nothing more at this point.”
Forty-eight hours. “I’m going to do my best to find her in the meantime.” She gave the receptionist the number at the cabin and hung up.
She had hired Lenore Johnson to verify some information she’d received. Lenore had called two days ago to say that at least some of the information was correct. She hadn’t wanted to discuss the case over the phone, adding she had another lead to check out before she flew back. Anna had told her she would be flying out and Lenore had given her the name of the motel where she was staying in Sheridan, Wyoming.
But when Anna reached Sheridan, she’d discovered that Lenore had left the motel without checking out, taking everything with her, and hadn’t been seen since.
Anna’s gaze went to the manila envelope where she’d dropped it beside the phone. The letter inside had been lost in the mail for nine years.
A part of her wished it had stayed lost.
Sitting down, she picked up the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper from inside. The barely legible words had been written in a trembling feeble hand. An elderly woman’s deathbed confession.
At first, Anna had thought the woman must have been senile. None of it could be true.
But she’d been wrong. At least some it was true, or Lenore Johnson wouldn’t be missing.
Carefully, Anna slipped the letter back inside the envelope and, getting up, hid it under the cushion of the chair. She knew she was being paranoid, but it was the only evidence she had. Even if it was worthless in a court of law without proof to back it up, she didn’t want to lose it.
Had the private investigator found the proof? Or had she just asked too many questions?
Anna shivered, hugging herself as she thought of Lenore Johnson. Lenore had known going in just how dangerous this was, and she was trained for this kind of trouble. If she had failed…
Anna knew she was completely out of her league. Not that she would let that stop her. Nothing could stop her. She would find out the truth, because she knew it was still on that ranch. Too many people had been involved in the cover-up. Mason VanHorn couldn’t be sure the others would keep quiet. He would have evidence he could use to ensure they would never talk. He would keep that evidence close to him, so if all else failed, he could get it and destroy it. If it came to that. She didn’t think he felt that threatened yet.
So the evidence had to be in the ranch house. She had to find it and she couldn’t count on him being gone for long. Once he heard about the break-in, he might come back. Or he might just put more guards on the house, assured that he could protect himself and the evidence.
She had to get back into that ranch house. Only this time, she would need a major diversion—something more than vandalizing a few wellheads.
And this time, everyone would be looking for her after Brandon McCall told them what she looked like. At least he didn’t know her name. Nor would she be easy to find.
As she looked across at the marina, she knew she had just raised the stakes and was about to gamble everything. There was no turning back now, no matter who got in the way. Even Brandon McCall.
She would find out the truth. Even if it destroyed them all.
* * *
MASON VANHORN PICKED UP the broken lamp in his office and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall, dropping with a clatter.
Red Hudson winced but had the good sense not to say a word. The ranch manager had noticed tracks in the mud behind the house, had investigated and called him. Mason had driven home at once, disbelieving that anyone would be stupid enough to break into his house. When he got his hands on the bastard—
“They came in through the window in the bathroom,” Red said behind him. “Had to know you weren’t going to be home.”
“They?” Mason turned to look at him. Red was a big man with a shock of bright red hair, thus the nickname. Mason knew he could count on Red’s loyalty because he had just enough on the man to ensure Red would never turn on him.
But unfortunately, Red had a little something on him, as well, which meant he couldn’t control him like he could the other men. Red could be pushed, but Mason wasn’t sure how far.
“I found two sets of tracks coming and going,” Red said. “One could be a small man. The other large.”
“I thought you hired extra men to make sure the ranch was secure,” he snapped.
Red nodded. “But we were expecting the wells to be hit, not the house.”
“If that’s your excuse—”
“It’s not an excuse,” Red said, an edge to his voice.
Mason opened one of the file cabinets, then slammed it. “You’re saying there are two vandals?”
Red shook his head. “This isn’t the work of a vandal. The house wasn’t torn up. These guys were looking for something.”
Mason didn’t look at him.
“Why do I get the feeling you know what they were looking for?” Red swore. “If I’d known the house might be hit, I would have put some men on it. Whatever was in the s
afe—”
“It was empty.”
Red shook his head. “So you knew they were coming.”
Mason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He’d cleaned out the safe as a precaution. He’d never dreamed anyone would actually break into the house. He wanted to turn his fury on Red, to fire him, to send him packing, but he knew this wasn’t Red’s fault. It was his own.
Moving to the desk, he stared down, suddenly afraid he might have left something incriminating lying around. Living alone, with no one having access to his office, had made him careless, he realized.
“I want guards around the house until further notice,” he ordered. “I want those bastards caught and brought to me.”
Red met his gaze. “You think they’ll come back?” he asked in surprise.
“Just do it and stop questioning me,” Mason snapped.
The ranch manager nodded slowly. “I’ll put my best men on the house. But if you really want to catch them, you need to go back to Gillette. If they have a reason to hit the house again, they won’t be foolish enough to do it with you here.”
Mason couldn’t argue Red’s logic but he had no intention of going anywhere. “I’ll make everyone think I’ve gone back to Gillette, but I intend to be here tonight when they come back.”
“Suit yourself, but it could be dangerous.”
Mason laughed. “Only for the bastards who broke into my house.”
“It would make my job easier if you’d tell me what they’re looking for.”
“What makes you think I want to make your job easier? And get someone to clean up this mess.” Mason turned and stormed out of his office.
Something caught his eye from down the hall. A drop of blood on the carpet. He felt a chill. Was it possible one of the burglars had been hurt breaking in? He knelt down to inspect the spot. It was right in front of his son’s open bedroom door.
He still thought of the room as Holt’s even though his son would never use it again. He’d heard rumors that Holt was in California, Florida, even Alaska. He didn’t care where he was as long as he never had to lay eyes on him again. His own son had stolen from him—shamed him.
He clenched his fist at the memory. He’d built everything for Holt, his only son, the heir who would one day take over the vast empire he’d built. Now Holt was gone and Mason had seen to it that his son would never get a penny.
He closed the bedroom door. He should have cleaned it out the moment he learned of Holt’s betrayal. Should have had everything in it burned.
He moved down the hall, following the droplets of blood and stopped at his daughter’s bedroom door, seeing at once that things weren’t as they should have been.
One of the stuffed animals on the bed had been moved. He knew because that rag doll had been in the same place for the past twenty years—exactly where Chrissy had left it.
That stupid part-time housekeeper he’d hired must have moved it when she cleaned the room. He’d have Red fire her.
He stepped to the bed, picked up the rag doll. Honey. That’s what Chrissy had called it from the day he’d given it to her. He brought the doll to his face, smelled it as if he thought Chrissy’s baby-girl scent would still be in the worn fabric. But of course, it wasn’t.
He put Honey back where she belonged—between the teddy bears—and tried to picture his precious daughter in this room, but it was too heartbreaking.
“Mr. VanHorn?”
He turned from the room, practically fleeing down the hall to where Red stood, giving orders on the phone to whoever was doing the cleanup.
“I found some blood,” Mason said the moment Red got off the phone.
The ranch manager nodded. “There’s some on the bathroom floor and the windowsill, too. One of them must have gotten injured breaking in.”
What had happened here last night? “Who did you have watching the wells behind the ranch house?” Mason asked.
“One of my best men. Brandon McCall.”
Mason couldn’t speak. He started shaking so hard he thought he was having a seizure. Brandon McCall was working security on his ranch? A McCall on VanHorn soil? “Fire him immediately!”
“He’s one of my best men,” Red said, staring at him in stunned surprise.
“He’s a McCall.” It had never dawned on Mason to tell Red never to hire a McCall. But more to the point, what the hell would a McCall be doing working on this ranch? Only one explanation presented itself. “No. Don’t fire him. Bring him to me. Now!”
He stormed back down the hall to the bathroom, stooping to pick up the iron cowgirl doorstop on the floor. As he lifted it, he saw the dried blood. “Get me McCall,” he yelled back at Red, feeling as if he still might have that seizure.
* * *
HEAD ACHING, Brandon set out to find the woman vandal. He started in Antelope Flats, cruising down Main Street, keeping his eye out for her. Antelope Flats was a tiny western town in the corner of southeastern Montana. Tiny and isolated, just the way he liked it.
He’d been born here and lived his whole life on the family ranch north of town. This was his stomping grounds and he knew this part of the country better than anyone. If the woman was still around, he’d find her.
Not that he expected to see her walking down the street. She was much too smart for that. But he thought he might see her car. He’d picked up an accent last night that he couldn’t place, but one thing was clear: she wasn’t from around here. That meant she was driving either a car with out-of-state plates or a rental car.
There were a few vehicles in front of his sister-in-law’s Longhorn Café, the only café in town. But he recognized all of them. Most were pickups, since Antelope Flats was born a ranching town. A few of the trucks were from the coal mine down the road, tall antennae with red flags on top so they could be seen in the open-pit mines.
Antelope Flats had only one motel on the edge of town, the Lariat. He drove out there, but wasn’t surprised to see that the parking lot was empty. Anyone who had stayed here last night was already gone.
He found Leticia Arnold in the apartment at the back of the office making what smelled like corncakes.
She saw him and motioned for him to come into the kitchen. “Want some pancakes?”
“No, thanks.” Leticia was his sister Dusty’s best friend. After high school graduation, while Dusty had opted to stay and work the ranch, Leticia had taken over running the motel so her elderly parents could move to Arizona. Leticia had been a late-in-life baby, the Arnolds’ only child.
“I’m looking for a woman,” he said, pulling up a chair as she sat down in front of a tall stack of corn-cakes. Leticia was thin as a stick with a wide toothy smile and all cowgirl.
She grinned up at him. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?”
He laughed. He liked Leticia’s sense of humor. “I’m too old for you.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
He reached over and took a bite of her pancakes.
“Wow, you’re a pretty good cook. Maybe I’ll reconsider,” he joked.
“You wish. You’re right, you’re too old for me,” she said, trying to sound disappointed.
“You probably have some rodeo cowboy you’ve got your sights on anyway,” he said.
She looked surprised. “Did Dusty tell you that?”
He laughed and shook his head. His sister Dusty never told him anything, but he knew that the two friends had been hitting every rodeo within driving distance and he doubted they were going there for the fried bread.
He described the woman he’d seen last night as Leticia ate her pancakes and then got up to cook a few more.
“She didn’t stay here, but there are tons of motels down in Sheridan you could try. What happened to your head?”
“I thought I was smarter than I was.”
She laughed. “I could have told you that and saved you a lot of pain.” She put the last batch of corncakes onto a plate. “So this woman made a lasting impre
ssion on you and yet you don’t know where to find her?” She laughed. “A bad-boy McCall chasing a woman? She must really be something.”
If you considered a scar on the back of his head a lasting impression. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“Then you’re going to need your strength,” she said, sliding the plate of pancakes over to him. “Dusty told me that you had a woman in your life.”
“Did she now,” he said, seeing that Leticia was just dying to call his sister and tell her he’d been by asking about a woman. No way around that. Let Dusty think she was right and that he’d fallen in love. Better than the truth.
* * *
SHERIFF CASH MCCALL made a few calls to Sheridan about the private investigator. He’d just hung up when he got a call from the Wyoming Highway Patrol.
“We’ve got a body just over the state line a few feet,” the patrolman said. “Looks like she’s yours since she’s in Montana. Her car’s parked along the road. Appears to have fallen down the embankment. Ended up at the edge of the river in the rocks.”
“Have you called the coroner yet?” Cash asked.
“Raymond’s on his way. He said he would stay at the scene and wait for you. We’ve got a semi overturned in the southbound lane between here and Gillette.”
“Go ahead and respond. I’m on my way. You ID the body?” Cash asked. He hoped it wasn’t a local. This was the part of his job he hated. Before the day was out, he could be banging on a door somewhere in the county to inform a relative that their loved one was dead. He also hoped it wasn’t the missing Lenore Johnson.
“A woman. I’d say about sixty. The car is locked, keys in the ignition. Her purse is inside along with what looks like a half-empty fifth of vodka. I didn’t attempt to open the car—did run the plates, though. The car is registered to an Emma Ingles.”
CHAPTER FOUR
His head throbbing with pain, Brandon spent the better part of the day checking motels in and around the town of Sheridan, Wyoming, south of Antelope Flats, Montana.
Few of the clerks could recall a woman matching the description he gave. As luck would have it, he found where she’d been staying at the last motel he checked. Clearly, the woman he was chasing hadn’t wanted to be found.
