So they weren’t here to make a simple arrest. There was only one explanation. Her father must be back in the country, and they assumed he’d be in contact with Isabelle. They were going to watch and wait.
“Asshole,” she muttered as she closed the curtains and locked her door. She hadn’t bothered with that kind of thing in years. She’d finally felt safe from the world up here in the mountains outside Jackson, Wyoming. What the hell was she going to do now?
She stood in her entry for a moment with no clue what her next move was. She couldn’t run again. She didn’t want to. This was her life. Her real life. The world she’d chosen for herself.
She wouldn’t run.
Fuzzy with shock, she headed back to her studio, feeling like a toy that was slowly winding down.
Did that guy really think she’d fall for such a flimsy story? She’d been around cops all her life. A protection detail was a protection detail; they didn’t canvass neighborhoods asking who you were hiding in your house.
Her head buzzed with the noise of a thousand memories as she stopped before her easel and took up the brush. She held it poised above the line she’d painted earlier, but the color wasn’t alive anymore. It wasn’t good. She looked at the photos again, trying to absorb the life captured there, but when she looked back to the canvas, her mind gave her nothing. Nothing except Chicago and her parents and her old home and friends and Patrick.
She set the brush down and switched off the lamp. She wouldn’t be able to work this evening. And she wouldn’t be able to relax. That was the reason she’d started this new life in the first place. For peace and quiet and forgetting. And now he’d blown it up with a casually dropped bomb. Deputy Marshal Tom Duncan, asshole extraordinaire.
Heading toward her tiny living room and the ancient laptop she kept there, Isabelle pulled his card from the pocket of her jeans and shot it a nasty look. She’d find out exactly who he was and what he wanted, and she’d figure out if there was any way to make it better. And then she’d get back to painting.
* * *
TOM STOPPED AT the end of the snowy driveway and glanced back toward the cabin. He could barely see it from here. Just the highest point of the roof, the sharp corner dark against the gray clouds and blurred by falling snow. But her house number was posted here on the road, likely only because it was required by law. The woman didn’t seem the type to welcome unfamiliar visitors. Certainly not the kind with badges.
Still, her reaction wasn’t necessarily unusual in Wyoming. Plenty of good people around here were raised to distrust the federal government. That didn’t mean they were doing anything wrong. They were just private. And maybe that was exactly what she was, too.
But Tom’s mind buzzed with warning. He’d find out who she was, at least. See if she had a past. Or a warrant.
He typed her address into his phone to reference later, then tucked it away so it wouldn’t get wet as he walked through the snow to the next house a few hundred yards down the road.
She’d looked harmless enough. In her thirties, maybe, dark haired and serious, though her skin had been streaked with the occasional swipe of color on her fingers and wrists. An artist, he assumed. Eccentric. So maybe she was only growing pot in her basement.
He glanced back again. From this spot in the road he could see her dark front window. She wasn’t watching him leave, at least. Still, Tom was too curious to wait until later to find out more about her, so he pulled his radio out and transmitted her address to the local sheriff’s office for identification. It took only a moment for his radio to squawk back.
“Tax records show that property belongs to Isabelle West. Purchased in 2006.”
Tom made note of that on his phone as he headed up the next driveway. This cabin sat a little closer to the road, and lights blazed from every window, despite that it was only 4:00 p.m. The afternoon was dreary enough to need it, but the rooms behind Isabelle West had been dark.
Further research would have to wait until he was at his computer, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking toward her place again, noting that from this cabin’s front porch, he could see the steps that led up to the other cabin and part of its driveway. He watched for one moment then raised his hand and knocked.
“Be right there!” a woman called, her footsteps quickly moving closer. The door nearly flew open.
Her greeting was a marked contrast to what he’d received from Isabelle West. This woman was a little older. Fifty, or maybe a bit older than that, as the black twists of her hair were streaked with gray. Her wide smile grew wider as she looked him up and down. “Hello!”
“Ma’am,” he said, flipping out his badge, “I’m Deputy US Marshal Tom Duncan. Sorry to bother you, but I’m giving everyone in the area a heads-up that we’re on protective detail in—”
“Oh! Is this about Judge Chandler? That poor man. I read about it in the paper. You’re no bother at all, you fine thing. Come on in out of the cold.”
“Ma’am, I—”
“Don’t ma’am me. Have I gotten that old, or are you just past charming? Nothing wrong with calling a woman miss. Or ms., if you’re going to quote me. I don’t want my feminist card revoked. I’ve worked too damn hard.”
Tom blinked several times and followed her into her house and all the way through to a kitchen where the aroma of roasting meat overwhelmed him. Cast-iron pans hung from the ceiling along with dried braids of garlic and herbs that he’d never be able to name. Whatever they were, they smelled damn good.
“I have the perfect tea to warm you up, Tom.” She paused and turned purposefully toward him. “I’m Jill Washington.”
He shook her outstretched hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Washington.”
She flashed a smile at that, then got back to work making tea. Tom didn’t particularly like tea—he was a black-coffee kind of guy—but he’d do everything possible to keep her friendly. If he needed an ally in this non-neighborhood, she was clearly the prime candidate.
“I’m getting snow on your floor,” he said, reaching to take his boots off, but she shook her head.
“That’s why they’re stone. Hard on the back, but they absorb all manner of sins. Your boots are fine, so say what you came here to say.” She bustled around her kitchen as she spoke, getting cups and saucers and a tiny pitcher of cream.
As he took a seat, Tom gave her the same speech he’d given Isabelle West, though with a very different result. Jill was all concerned expressions and sympathetic tutting as he explained why he needed community support. The judge’s home was isolated, and the man refused to live in a hotel for the two weeks the trial was expected to last. “Everyone around here knows each other. You know better than I who belongs here and who doesn’t.”
“Well, it’ll be easy to spot strangers here on Spinster Row.”
He frowned as he accepted the cup of tea and waved off the cream. “Thank you. Spinster Row?”
She laughed, the sound natural and well used. “A joke. It’s just Isabelle and me on this part of the road. She’s unattached, and my relationship is complicated, starting with the fact that my girlfriend has been stationed in Guantánamo for two years and doesn’t seem inclined to come visit. But that’s more than you asked.”
But not more than he wanted to know. “I met Ms. West a few minutes ago. An artist of some kind?”
“A painter.”
Maybe she really was a free-spirited libertarian who didn’t like government types. “So it’s just you two up here? No kids or live-in companions I should know about?”
“It’s just us. I guess I shouldn’t tell a stranger that, even if he is a cop, but everyone else around here knows.”
“I promise I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need the information,” he assured her. “I live alone myself. I understand the safety issues.”
She laughed heartily at his wink.
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. Washington?”
“I’m a chef. Or I used to be, I suppose. Now I write c
ookbooks and while away my days here in my little place. It’s just me and the elk and a deep freezer full of test recipes. Oh! I’ve got just the thing for you. Beef Stroganoff. You look like a red-meat kind of boy, and you’re probably living off pizza on a job like this. Where are you from?” She hurried to the freezer and pulled out a paper-wrapped packet.
Tom knew the polite thing would be to say no, and he really wasn’t supposed to accept gifts, but his stomach tightened at the thought of giving up a good meal. He was sleeping on a cot in the judge’s basement, and despite it being a rather luxurious basement, it wasn’t home.
He gratefully took the frozen meal. “Thank you. That’s very generous. I’m over in Cheyenne.”
“Are you single? Four hundred and fifty miles might be considered long distance in most states, but here in Wyoming, Cheyenne’s practically within dating range of Jackson. I’m not asking for myself, of course.” She looked purposefully in the direction of Isabelle West’s house.
Tom smiled, hoping to charm her into giving up a little information about her neighbor. “Ms. West didn’t seem inclined to find out more about me.”
“Oh, God, that’s just Isabelle. If she was working when you knocked on her door, you’re lucky she didn’t throw her brush at you.”
Not exactly a recommendation for dating, but Tom didn’t mention that. “She did seem a bit antisocial.”
“Don’t let her fool you. She’s a lot of fun, but she does value her alone time. Like most people up here, really.”
“But not you?”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “I can talk to anyone. For hours.”
“Well, I’m afraid I have to move on before the sun sets.”
“Fine, but stop by for dinner tomorrow. You protect me from that crazy Stevenson man, and I’ll feed you. Deal?”
He stood and shook her hand. “Deal.” He’d take her up on dinner in case he had more questions about Isabelle West. And because it was only day two, and he was already sick of pizza. And his team.
There were only five of them here, and his second-in-command was staying at a hotel across from the courthouse. They had a temporary office at the courthouse, but they were using the judge’s place as a base, so Tom had decided it was best for operations if he stayed on site. Good for operations, maybe, but not good for his mood. At least the room he was sleeping in had a door, and there was a kitchenette in the larger open area of the basement. He could microwave his beef Stroganoff and close his door while he looked into the mystery of the grumpy artist down the road. She probably wasn’t a threat, but he trusted his instincts enough to do a quick check.
But first he had two more miles of forest to check out and a few motion-sensitive cameras to test. Duty before mysterious artist. Or beef Stroganoff, unfortunately.
CHAPTER TWO
GOD, SHE HATED PEOPLE. Even living in a cabin in the Wyoming wilderness wasn’t far enough away to be rid of them. Here they were, seeping into her house through seams and crevices, like slime. Or sludge. Or a trail of annoying ants.
Isabelle groaned and let her head fall back onto the office chair wedged into the corner of her small living room. Her neck hurt from hunching over the computer for too many hours. It wasn’t a natural fit for her. The only things she used her laptop for were ordering supplies, shopping for books and looking at gorgeous men online.
But she’d spent last night and all of today clicking through link after link looking for a clue, any clue at all. She’d found nothing.
Marshal Tom Duncan was exactly who he said he was. No surprise there. And there were some articles about Judge Chandler and the security issues surrounding the trial of a survivalist who’d killed two state troopers. His brother had been involved in the shoot-out and hadn’t been seen since, but he’d sent a threatening letter just a week ago.
So there was a case in town that involved the marshals. There was a possible reason for Tom Duncan to be here. But she still wasn’t buying it. She knew how these people worked. He’d look into her life just for the fun of it. Just because he was in the neighborhood. And he wouldn’t give a damn about what it would do to her.
She hadn’t worked at all today. She’d stood in front of her current project, the biggest painting of the commission, and she’d done nothing but stare. Her hands had failed her. Her father was in her head again. Him and all the dangerous, lying men he’d brought into her world.
Now she was back at the computer, searching, searching. But there was nothing about her father there. Nothing but ancient newspaper articles and old court filings and everything she already knew. He’d thoroughly disappeared from the world. He hadn’t been seen in fourteen years. If they were after her again, it wasn’t because her father was back in the news.
So...what if Tom Duncan wasn’t lying?
“Right,” she huffed. They were always lying. All of them. She was vulnerable, so they’d play with her like a toy.
But there were such things as coincidences. There was a tiny possibility that a US marshal had shown up on her doorstep, and it had nothing to do with her father being a federal fugitive and Isabelle being an impostor. If that was true, she had to play it cool. Cautious and careful, but cool.
Isabelle stretched hard and pushed up from the chair. She’d found all she could online. Now she was chasing the same phantoms around and around. Tomorrow she’d paint even if she had to force it. But tonight she needed a shower. And a drink.
Forty-five minutes later, she twisted up her damp hair, shrugged on a thick coat and grabbed two bottles of wine. One for her and one for Jill. Tonight, Isabelle wasn’t sharing.
It was almost full dark by the time she set off, but she wasn’t worried. On the off chance that a murderer was actually hanging around, his interest wasn’t in Isabelle. The Stevenson family hated cops and judges, and a solitary woman with no family or connections wouldn’t make very good leverage if he decided to take hostages.
She trudged through the snow toward the bright glow of Jill’s house, not bothering to head for the road. The snow was deep here, but it was a straight shot, and she liked the lost feeling of wandering through the trees. The moon kept her company the whole way.
“I brought dinner,” she called, holding up the bottles as Jill opened the door.
“Oh, and here I bothered making a pork roast.”
“We can have that, too, if you want. It’s up to you.”
“Lush,” Jill said, ushering her in and taking her coat. “I’m just glad there’s someone around for me to eat with or I’d go crazy.”
“I’d say the same about drinking,” Isabelle said. She tugged off her boots with a sigh. “God, I’ve had a crappy day.”
“The painting isn’t going well?”
“I didn’t paint one damn stroke today.”
Jill opened the first bottle and poured two generous glasses. “Does that put you behind?”
“No, I was a little ahead of schedule. It just pisses me off.” She glanced around the kitchen, noticing the loaves of herbed bread cooling on the counter. “Uh-oh. You’re baking bread. A bad day for you, too?”
Jill arched a sour look over the tops of her reading glasses as she collapsed into the couch. Isabelle had never seen a couch in a kitchen before coming here, but Jill lived in this room, and it was big enough for the couch and the eight-person table that sat a few feet away.
She joined Jill and brought the rest of the wine for good measure.
“Well,” Jill sighed, “we’re officially seeing other people.”
Isabelle gasped before she could stop herself. “You did it?”
“I issued the ultimatum, and Marguerite took me up on it, so I’m not sure if I did it or she did.”
“Shit,” Isabelle whispered, taking Jill’s hand to give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry. So it’s over?”
“I told her I needed additional company if I couldn’t see her more than twice a year. I’m not saying it’s over, but... She chose to spend her last week of leave on her own
. So I guess I’ll be seeing other women.”
Isabelle gently clinked her glass against Jill’s. “Back in the saddle?”
“If I still remember how to ride. Marguerite’s last visit was eight months ago.”
“You’re probably better off than I am,” Isabelle said drily.
“I don’t want to hear that bullshit. I’m a black lesbian living in Wyoming. You get no sympathy from me.”
Isabelle laughed until she snorted. “Okay, you’ve got me there. Then again, nobody’s forcing you to live in Wyoming.”
“No, but...” Jill waggled her eyebrows. “The flip side of that is I’m the only one around to fill the black-lesbian niche. Time to get back on the circuit.”
“All right. You’ll come out with me and Lauren for this week’s girls’ night out.”
Jill shook her head. “No. I’m too old for that.”
“Bullshit. You’re fifty-five. You’re hardly any older than I am.”
Jill howled. “Are you kidding me? You’re thirty-six. Imagine how much you’ve learned since the age of sixteen, and then double that for wisdom. That’s how close we are in age.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “It feels a lot closer than that.”
“Well, it’s not. So next time you have a girls’ night in, let me know.”
“Come on,” Isabelle pressed. “How will you meet anyone if you don’t get out?”
“It’s called internet dating. Maybe you’ve heard of it. I’ve spent more years picking up sexy young things at bars than you have. I’m done.”
Isabelle gave in with a grumble. When Jill dug in her heels, that was the end of it. “Well, I’m sorry. I know last time Marguerite was here, you two were trying to work through it.”
Jill waved a hand and got up to peek into the oven. “Enough about that. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for months. And I’ve got the perfect new topic.” She pulled the roast from the oven and smiled at Isabelle past the steam. “That hot US marshal who came by yesterday.”
Flirting with Disaster & Fanning the Flames Page 2
