The Rivals

by Joan Johnston

  “None. It’s dry as a bone in here.”

  Libby aimed the flashlight at the front wheel well and realized the water came up that far, but no farther. She’d never thought she would be grateful for the drought that had kept the rivers so low, but the dearth of water in the Snake River had kept a bad situation from becoming a disaster.

  “I think I should come and get you out of there,” she said. “You need to be checked out in a hospital.”

  “Look, Libby,” he said. “I’m safe and dry in here. Why not drive on in to Jackson and send someone back to tow me out?”

  “I don’t want to leave you here.” She knew how she would have felt sitting in the dark in the middle of a river in freezing weather. She would a hundred times rather have slogged her way through the icy water to safety.

  “I’m in more danger trying to make my way across the river on foot than I will be if I stay right here and wait for a tow truck to pull me out,” Drew said. “Go for help, Libby.”

  “I’d call for help, but—”

  “I’ve already tried 911 on my cell,” he said. “Without any luck. The sooner you take off, the sooner someone will be back here to get me.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “Go,” he said. “Get.”

  Libby headed back up the hill, which turned out to be a lot more difficult than the trip down. She stumbled once and her knee came down hard on a piece of shale. She could feel her oldest, most comfortable jeans rip and then felt a warm trickle of blood. Considering everything, she felt lucky to get off so easy.

  On the rest of the drive into Jackson, she kept her speed a little slower than the limit, still trembling with the realization of how narrowly she and Drew had both escaped disaster. She kept trying her cell phone, wanting it to work, hoping there would be some blip in the atmosphere that would allow the satellite to hone in on her signal.

  She wondered what had brought Drew DeWitt here at this time of year. He owned half of a ranch called Forgotten Valley outside Jackson, but it was run by a manager. Drew sometimes came to hunt in the fall, but deer and elk season was long past. Maybe he’d come to ski.

  She wondered if Clay Blackthorne was with him. The two men were cousins. Their mothers, Ellen DeWitt and Eve Blackthorne, had inherited Forgotten Valley from their mother and decided to give it to two of their sons. Libby had no idea why Clay and Drew had been chosen, when both of them had siblings. Maybe their mothers had drawn straws.

  Libby wondered if Clay had ever told Drew the awful truth about what had happened all those years ago. How sixteen-year-old Elsbeth Grayhawk had misled and seduced twenty-seven-year-old Clay Blackthorne.

  Libby felt her face flush as she remembered how foolish she’d been. It had all been a childish game to her, one which she’d deeply regretted when she’d realized just how much pain she’d caused. What she’d done was unforgivably cruel. No wonder Clay had been unable to forgive her.

  Libby tried to remember what was going through her head at the time. Excitement at attracting the attention and admiration of a man so much older than she was. Brand-new—and very powerful—feelings of arousal and desire. And a cockeyed notion that she could finally avenge the wrong done to her father.

  It was asinine, immature sixteen-year-old thinking.

  But not surprising, considering how often during her youth she’d heard her father damn Clay’s father, Jackson Blackthorne, to hell for stealing the woman he loved, Evelyn DeWitt, right out from under his nose.

  King Grayhawk had married and divorced three times and had indulged in an equal number of affairs seeking a replacement for Eve DeWitt. But no woman had been able to measure up to his lost love.

  Libby had learned to hate and blame Blackthornes for every ill wind that blew in her life. But most especially for the women who came and went in her father’s life, none of them willing to mother some other woman’s brat.

  She and her two older brothers, North and Matt, had been the offspring of her father’s first wife. The two stepmothers passing through her life had given her two half brothers and two half sisters that she was left to care for.

  When the chance had come for revenge against the Blackthornes, she’d wrapped her arms around the son of her father’s enemy, whispered lies in his ear, and kissed him until she didn’t know which way was up. It had seemed a sweet irony to have Clay Blackthorne fall in love with her—and then walk away.

  They’d spent the whole glorious month of June making love every day. Morning picnics. Afternoon assignations. Secret evenings under the starry night skies. She’d planned to spend the Fourth of July with him and, after the fireworks, simply disappear without a word or a clue as to who she really was or where she’d gone.

  She hadn’t counted on falling in love with him. Hadn’t counted on getting pregnant. Hadn’t counted on her father’s damaging interference when Clay Blackthorne had wanted to do the right thing and marry her.

  “What he did was statutory rape,” her father had said in a steely voice. “You go after him and I’ll have him arrested. You let him near my grandchild and I’ll have him arrested. I want him out of your life. Is that clear?”

  It had been years before she stopped to wonder why her father hadn’t had Clay arrested anyway. Years before she’d realized that Clay’s father had had enough money and power and influence to keep his son out of jail despite her father’s threats.

  Because she’d loved Clay, she’d sent him away, telling him enough lies to make sure he never came back.

  She’d left home with her two-year-old daughter on the day she turned eighteen. North had given her a refuge at his ranch in Jackson Hole, in an old cabin that was a legacy from their departed mother, a place that must have been used by settlers in bygone days. That was where Clay Blackthorne had found her when he’d finally come looking.

  He hadn’t come right away. In fact, not long after the fateful day she’d sent him away, he’d gotten engaged. Libby had died inside, wishing she could be the one that he was marrying. She’d felt torn when she’d learned that Clay hadn’t gotten married after all, because his fiancée had been murdered a week before the wedding.

  Libby hadn’t been able to keep from indulging in the fantasy that Clay would come looking for her someday. That they would marry and raise their daughter together.

  It had never happened.

  In the end, Clay had come, all right—to seek out his four-year-old daughter. That first visit had been awkward. Amazing how cordial two people could be for the sake of a child. Amazing how well she’d been able to hide her aching heart.

  Clay had never publicly acknowledged Kate. A bastard daughter sired on a sixteen-year-old mother wouldn’t have been good for a politician’s career. And Clay’s family had great plans for him.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Clay hadn’t wanted Kate to be forced into the spotlight. But with a grandfather like King Grayhawk, the spotlight had been unavoidable. And devastating for a vulnerable child.

  The Grayhawks might be Jackson Hole royalty, but King had made a lot of enemies over the years. There were plenty who snickered when his eldest daughter had become an unwed mother. They were quick to brand King’s granddaughter with the label of bastard—behind her back. No one would have dared to say such a thing to her face, fearing King’s swift and certain retribution.

  Nevertheless, Kate had been aware of the slights, the sniggers, the whispers behind her back.

  Which was why Libby had spent every penny she’d earned, and money loaned to her by North, to send her daughter to a boarding school in Virginia, where Kate could make friends who didn’t know about her birth or her family.

  King had offered Libby money for Kate’s support, but Libby had known better than to take it. With such webs were sticky familial traps laid. And Libby had told Clay, when he offered, that if he wanted to give Kate money, he should put it in trust for her until her twenty-first birthday.

  Libby had been proud of managing on her own, and Kate had never wanted for anyt
hing. Except a full-time father.

  Over the years, Clay had spent his holidays vacationing in Jackson, as did many other politicians, and found time to spend with Kate. But Libby had borne her daughter’s tears each time Clay left. And it had broken her heart.

  After Clay married Giselle Montrose, the daughter of the American ambassador to France, he’d spent even less time in Jackson. But he and his wife had never had children, and Giselle had died a year ago of cancer.

  Clay was on his own again.

  So was she. Libby had tried marriage, and when it hadn’t worked out, had gone so far as to get engaged to another man. She’d backed out three weeks before the wedding, realizing that she didn’t love her fiancé enough to marry him. She was no more able than her father to find someone to measure up to her first love.

  Libby had resigned herself to being alone. That was better than repeating her father’s mistake and kept her from putting any more men through what her stepmothers had endured. It wasn’t fair to them or to her or to her daughter.

  Libby forced herself not to yearn for what she could never have. Clay had loved her once upon a time, and she’d betrayed that love. She wasn’t going to get a second chance to make things right. Blackthornes weren’t any more forgiving than they were merciful.

  Kate had remained the center of Libby’s life until she’d headed off to boarding school in the ninth grade. Since then, Libby had focused on her work.

  She loved taking city folk into the mountains and showing them the savage beauty of the wilderness. She never embarrassed them by exposing their ignorance, just did her best to ensure they enjoyed the pristine wilderness that still existed in so much of Wyoming. She’d established a reputation as someone who was friendly and competent, and her guide services were much in demand.

  It wasn’t a perfect life. But it was satisfying.

  Libby felt her heart clutch. Please God, she prayed, don’t let Kate be pregnant. Anything but that.

  Libby wondered if she ought to call the sheriff’s office to report the accident with Drew but realized if she did they were liable to tie her up filling out forms and answering questions. Instead, she called the local garage that had towed her car in the past.

  “Hello, Theresa? I need help. A friend of mine went into the Hoback south of Jackson. He’s sitting in his pickup in the middle of the river. He needs a tow.”

  Libby gave Theresa the mile marker where Drew’s truck had gone into the river. “Please hurry,” she said. “Oh, one more thing. I haven’t reported the accident yet.”

  Theresa said her husband Mike would be there as soon as possible. And if the police needed to be called, Mike could call them.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” Libby said. She clicked off her cell phone and hurried through town toward home. Kate’s plane had long since landed. Libby only hoped her daughter had come home and stayed there. She called her home number but got the answering machine. Then she called North. She felt her heart race when he picked up and said, “Hello.”

  “North, is Kate there with you? Did you pick her up from the airport?”

  “She’s not here, but I found a message on my machine when I got home that she’s in town. Is something wrong?”

  “She probably hitched a ride home with someone, but she’s not answering her cell phone. Will you go by my place and see if she’s there? I’m coming home now. Give me a call to let me know either way.”

  “Will do,” North said.

  North’s ranch was north of Jackson, and Libby broke the speed limit again getting there. She hit the brakes hard in front of her cabin. The lights were on inside, and she shoved her way through the door, expecting to see Kate.

  “Oh. I thought Kate was here,” she said, when North rose from a leather armchair. Her eldest brother was tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. His blue eyes cut at her like two chips of ice, and his mouth was thin, almost cruel.

  “There’s a message from her on your answering machine,” North said, “saying she’s in town and that she needs to talk to you. Nothing else.”

  “Oh, God,” Libby said.

  “What’s she doing here, Libby?” North asked. “What’s wrong?”

  Libby clenched her teeth to keep her chin from quivering. “I don’t know. But when she finally shows up, I’m going to give her a good piece of my mind!”

  “I’ll start some coffee,” North said.

  An hour later, Libby said, “I can’t sit here doing nothing. I’m going looking for her.”

  “I’ll go with you,” North said.

  “No. Please. Stay here. Something terrible must have happened for her to come home like this. She’ll need someone to be here when she shows up.”

  Libby bit her lip to keep from blurting out her fear that Kate might be pregnant. She was terrified, but if she’d learned one thing growing up, it was to hide her fears. She met North’s piercing gaze and realized he wasn’t fooled.

  She wished they were the sort of family that hugged one another, but they never had been, and she didn’t expect North to start now. She needed someone to tell her everything would be all right, that Kate would turn up in a minute safe and sound. North wasn’t that person.

  Sometimes Libby wondered if her eldest brother had any feelings at all. He never lost his temper. He rarely smiled. He made every decision with cold-blooded reason. And he never made a mistake—or at least, never admitted to one.

  “Anywhere in particular you plan to start looking?” he asked.

  “I’ve called all her friends,” Libby said. “None of them have seen her.”

  “You might try the bars.”

  Libby frowned. “Kate’s too young to drink.”

  “Your choice,” North said.

  He never imposed his will. Just made it impossible to ignore his reasoning. And he was always right. “All right,” she said. “Maybe she went to a bar with a friend to wait until she could reach me by phone. I’ll check them out.”

  Libby looked in every bar she could think of in Jackson. No one had seen Kate. She returned to the house at seven o’clock, her heart in her throat, her stomach a knot of pain.

  “No sign of her?” North said, as she stepped inside.

  “Nothing. It’s as though she’s disappeared into thin air.”

  “I called the hospital. They haven’t checked in anyone matching her description. It’s time to call the police, Libby.”

  Libby felt the blood drain from her face. “You don’t think—”

  “She would have called,” North said. “She wouldn’t have made you worry like this. So yes, I think something has happened to her.”

  Libby’s knees buckled and she sank into the nearest chair. This was every mother’s nightmare. Even worse was the knowledge that two other young women had disappeared from Jackson Hole over the past fifteen months. Someone bad was out there. And he might have taken her daughter.

  “Wait,” she said, rising abruptly. “Before you call the police, let me make a call.”

  “Have you thought of someone who might know where she is?” North asked.

  “Yes,” Libby said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think to call him sooner.”

  North raised a brow. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Kate’s father.”

  2

  Sarah was making oatmeal raisin cookies after dinner when she got the call from her sister-in-law that Sarah’s brother Mike was drunk again and had run the tow truck off the road on his way to a job. Theresa couldn’t leave the kids alone and wanted Sarah to please rescue Mike and then go tow some idiot out of the Hoback River.

  “The call came in more than an hour ago,” Theresa said. “The guy must be going crazy waiting for his tow.”

  “No problem, Theresa,” Sarah said. “I’m leaving now.”

  Sarah yelled for her stepson. “Nate, can you come and keep an eye on the cookies in the oven? I’ve got to go do a tow for Uncle Mike.”

  “I’m playing Metroid,” Nate shouted back
. “I’m about to defeat Mother Brain. Can’t Brooke do it?”

  “Brooke is getting Ryan ready for bed.”

  “Is Uncle Mike drunk again?”

  Sarah headed into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and got there in time to meet Nate’s eyes as he finished speaking.

  “Yes, he is,” she said. “Which should be a lesson to you about the dangers of drinking.”

  Nate flushed. He’d been caught the previous Friday night drinking at the Valentine’s Day dance at school and had been suspended for three days. He set down the controller and rose from his seat on the floor facing the TV, heading for the kitchen. “You’ve made your point, Mom,” Nate said. “Endlessly,” he muttered under his breath.

  Once upon a time, Sarah would have ruffled her stepson’s hair as he passed by her. But Nate was already six feet tall and still growing. He had her husband Tom’s wiry build and Tom’s warm brown eyes, sandy hair and freckles. She brushed a hand down the sleeve of Nate’s black-and-gold Jackson Broncs sweatshirt instead, wanting the contact, wanting to reassure him that they were going to be all right, despite the hardships of the past fifteen months.

  “Thanks, Nate. I appreciate the help. Don’t eat all of them before I get back,” she said with a grin. “Save one for me.”

  “Sure, Mom,” he said, shrugging free of her touch.

  As she was putting on her coat, her eight-year-old son Ryan came running toward her, his pajama top still unbuttoned. Brooke came stalking in behind him, her hands on her hips—her jeans a few inches below that—and her fifteen-year-old eyes so caked with mascara that it was hard to tell they were hazel behind the black fringe.

  “Where you going, Mom?” Ryan asked as he launched himself at her.

  Ryan was too big to be picked up, really, but Sarah picked him up anyway. If Tom were still around, he could easily have hefted Ryan’s weight. But Tom was gone.

  Sarah knew there was debate in town about whether Tom Barndollar had finally gotten tired of his wife wearing the pants in the family and taken off. In fact, she and Tom had argued the morning he’d disappeared about the long hours Sarah was spending as a Teton County Deputy Sheriff hunting for some missing teenage girl, instead of staying home and taking care of her own family.