The Rivals

by Joan Johnston

  Well, the answer to that was simple. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d been feeling. Oh, God, had she been feeling. So much. So wonderfully much.

  A knock on the window jerked her back to reality, and she stepped out of her Tahoe. “Hi, Jim,” she said, greeting the investigative sergeant who’d taught her everything about police work that she hadn’t learned during the FBI course she’d taken at Quantico. Sergeants didn’t work on weekends, and yet Jim was here, on his way out as she was coming in. “What’s up?” she asked her boss.

  “Anything new on the Grayhawk girl?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “We’re getting a lot of pressure to find her,” Jim said.

  “From Blackthorne?”

  “Yeah, from him. And from King Grayhawk. He wants his granddaughter found. Now. The sheriff has every available deputy working double shifts.”

  “I’ve already done my extra shift,” Sarah said. “I’ve got some paperwork to do and then I need to go home.”

  “I need you to—”

  “Not today,” Sarah said firmly. “My kids need me at home. I’ll be back at work first thing in the morning.”

  “All right. I’ll cover for you.”

  “Thanks, Jim,” Sarah said. She’d only planned to spend an hour at the office, but several calls came in regarding Kate. By the time Sarah had taken them, it was dark outside. She felt guilty for having worked so late as she hurried out to her Tahoe and headed home.

  Sarah’s house was on the hill above Snow King Mountain. Most locals could no longer afford to live in Jackson because the dearth of real estate—97 percent of Teton County was forest service land—made it incredibly valuable, and the influx of politicians and Hollywood types had pushed property values sky-high. When folks couldn’t keep up with the property taxes that escalated along with the property values, they sold out.

  So far, Sarah had held on to the house, a simple wood-frame home with a brick fireplace. It had three bedrooms but only one bath, and a water heater too small for five people to get hot showers one after another.

  Tom’s disappearance had reduced that problem by one, but had created a financial, as well as an emotional, nightmare for Sarah. Instead of two incomes, she and the kids had been managing for the past fifteen months on one and a half—the half being all the extra shifts Sarah worked for any patrolman who was on vacation or had a family emergency. It was still tough to make ends meet.

  If Tom had died, his life insurance would have kept them afloat. But until Tom’s body was found, he wasn’t “officially” dead. So Sarah worked long hours and endured the accusing faces turned on her by her children when she arrived home at odd hours.

  Nate and Brooke were old enough to understand her financial dilemma, but she’d worked too much overtime before this emergency for them to accept the need for it now.

  Sarah pulled the Tahoe into the driveway and cut the engine, then let her head fall forward onto the steering wheel. She’d willingly take ice-cold showers the rest of her life if Tom would just show up and explain why he’d left in the first place.

  Sarah needed to go inside and be a mother to her kids, but her feelings were still raw. She couldn’t believe what she’d done with Drew. For the first time since she’d promised to love, honor and cherish Tom Barndollar, till death should part them, she’d betrayed her marriage vows. She was surprised at how guilty she felt.

  And how angry she felt.

  “Where are you, Tom?” she raged. “Where the hell did you go?”

  It was time, Sarah realized, to file for divorce. Time to move on. Time to admit, at last, that Tom was never coming back.

  “Oh, God.” She gasped with the pain the mere thought of taking such a step caused her. She hadn’t grieved her loss, because she hadn’t admitted to it. What had happened with Drew had been a shock. She’d felt alive again. She’d wanted to live again.

  Recognizing her loss meant grieving. And grieving meant the wrenching pain of letting go, knowing that she would never really let go until Tom—or his body—was found.

  Sarah shivered and realized she must have been sitting in the Tahoe long enough for the last of the heat to dissipate. She shoved open the door and headed inside to see her children.

  Which was when she realized her pickup wasn’t in the driveway or parked on the street. There were lights on inside the house, which meant the kids had been home after dark. But where were they now?

  Sarah hurried inside, suddenly worried. She depended on Nate and Brooke to take care of Ryan, and they’d always acted as responsible baby-sitters. She stepped into the living room and found Ryan lying on his belly, Brooke beside him, both already dressed in pj’s, playing a desperate game of Metroid on the TV.

  She wanted to grab both of them up in her arms and hug them, she felt so grateful to find them safe and sound. She got a quick, “Hi, Mom!” from Ryan, who remained focused on the game, and no greeting at all from Brooke.

  “Where’s Nate?” she asked.

  “Out with some friends,” Brooke replied, not looking up from the game.

  “He was supposed to be home before dark,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, so were you,” Brooke said.

  Sarah felt mortified.

  “I win!” Ryan shouted gleefully.

  Brooke looked at the screen, groaned and said, “No fair. Mom broke my concentration.”

  “Have you had supper?” Sarah asked.

  “Ryan was hungry,” Brooke said, staring her in the eye. “So I fed him.”

  “Thank you, Brooke,” Sarah said, swallowing her pride. “Did Nate say when he’d be coming home?”

  “Before curfew,” Brooke replied.

  Nate’s curfew was midnight, which meant that despite how tired she felt, Sarah would be up late waiting to make sure he got home safely. “Did you have a nice day with your friends?” Sarah asked Brooke.

  “Yeah. When Ryan wasn’t bugging me to death.”

  “You like me,” Ryan said, grinning at Brooke as he dropped the controller and sat up. “You know you do.”

  Brooke ruffled Ryan’s hair and grudgingly said, “Yeah, bug, I do.”

  Ryan jumped up and crossed to Sarah and hugged her around the waist. “I’m glad you’re home, Mom. Brooke and me were getting scared.”

  Sarah met Brooke’s gaze and saw the fear behind the sullen mask on her stepdaughter’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t call to let you know I was running late. I’ll try to do better.”

  Brooke turned away without acknowledging the olive branch she’d extended. Ryan grabbed her hand and said, “I’m nearly finished with Harry Potter. Will you help me read an extra chapter tonight?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said as she slid her arm around Ryan’s narrow shoulders and walked with him down the hall.

  By the time Ryan had finished reading two chapters of Harry Potter and Sarah returned to the living room, Brooke had disappeared into her bedroom. She could hear her stepdaughter talking on the phone. Sarah realized she was famished and headed into the kitchen, wondering if Brooke had made something for dinner that had resulted in leftovers.

  She opened the fridge and found it nearly empty. She was supposed to have shopped for groceries this afternoon. She wondered what the kids had eaten for supper. The kitchen counters, she noted, were wiped clean. The sink was empty of dishes. She had Brooke to thank. And hadn’t thanked her.

  Sarah sighed. She wasn’t doing a very good job as a mother. She felt frustrated that her work as a deputy sheriff hadn’t produced the results she would have liked, which is to say, that she hadn’t found any of the missing girls…alive.

  “Mom?”

  Sarah turned to find Brooke standing in the kitchen doorway, her eyes wide and frightened. “What is it?” she asked.

  Brooke held out the cordless phone and said, “It’s the Jackson police. They want to talk to you. About Nate.”

  Sarah’s heart leaped to her throat. A call from the police when your teenage son was out
driving around at night was every mother’s nightmare. She didn’t dare let her terror show. Brooke already looked scared to death.

  Sarah took the phone from her daughter and said in as calm a voice as she could manage, “This is Sarah Barndollar. To whom am I speaking?” She kept her face blank as she said, “I see. Thank you, Harry. I appreciate the professional courtesy.”

  She hung up the phone and met Brooke’s gaze.

  “Is Nate all right?” Brooke asked, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “He’s fine,” Sarah said, crossing to Brooke and hugging her tight.

  “Where is he? What happened?”

  Sarah sighed. “He’s been arrested.”

  “Arrested?” Brooke jerked free and stared up at Sarah, shocked. “What for?”

  “Vandalism. He and a couple of other boys apparently tried stealing antlers from the town square. The other boys got away. Nate got caught. A friend of mine is holding him for me in an interrogation room.”

  Brooke’s eyes were huge. “Will Nate have to go to jail?”

  “No. The officer who caught Nate is going to give him a warning and release him into my custody.”

  “Nate must be scared shitless.”

  Sarah realized Brooke was so scared that she hadn’t even been aware of the language she’d used—which was strictly forbidden. “I’m sure he is,” she said. “I’d better go get him.”

  Before she could take a step toward the door, the phone rang again.

  “That’s probably for me,” Brooke said.

  Sarah handed her the phone and headed for the door, but before she reached it, an anxious-looking Brooke said, “It’s for you, Mom. Sounds like somebody else is in trouble.”

  Sarah took the phone and listened, then shook her head and smiled. “Congratulations, Buck. No problem. I promised I’d cover for you when Bobbie Sue went into labor, and I will. Don’t worry. Tell Bobbie Sue to breathe deep and relax.”

  When Sarah hung up the phone, she saw a mutinous look on Brooke’s face. “I don’t have a choice, Brooke. I have to go.”

  “You just got home. You were barely here an hour. What about Nate? Are you going to leave him in jail?”

  “I’ll pick up Nate and bring him home before I go back on duty,” Sarah said as she headed back to her bedroom to change once more into her patrolman’s uniform. “I’m sorry it worked out this way.”

  “It always works out this way,” Brooke accused. “You’re never home. I can see why Daddy left!”

  Sarah paled as Brooke shoved past her and ran down the hall and into her room, slamming the door behind her.

  “What’s going on?” she heard Ryan call out. “Is everything all right?”

  Sarah hurried down the hall and into Ryan’s bedroom. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “I have to go out again tonight to work. Brooke will stay with you and Nate will be home a little later. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ryan yawned. “Will you make blueberry pancakes for breakfast?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. And realized she was going to have to stop by the grocery on her way home and get milk and eggs and blueberries and pancake mix.

  She knocked on Brooke’s closed door, then opened it and said, “I’m leaving now. Nate should be back soon. Thank you for cleaning up in the kitchen.”

  Brooke said nothing, just curled into a tighter ball in her bed.

  Sarah had a sudden thought. Maybe the kitchen was so clean because Brooke hadn’t eaten anything. But Ryan would have insisted on being fed, so something had been cooked. She wanted to confront her stepdaughter about whether she’d eaten, but right now didn’t seem like the time. Nate was being held at the police station and was probably scared and worried. And she had to go back to work, to cover for Buck, whose pregnant wife had finally gone into labor.

  “Good night, Brooke,” she said.

  There was no answer as she closed her stepdaughter’s bedroom door.

  The phone rang again. Sarah was afraid to answer it, afraid of more bad news. She picked up the cordless phone and said, “Sarah Barndollar.”

  “Are you taking Buck’s shift?” the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office said.

  “Yes.”

  “There’s been an accident with injuries south of town.” The dispatcher gave her a mile marker to locate the scene.

  “Got it,” Sarah said. And then she remembered Nate. She wondered if she dared take the time to pick him up on the way, and then realized that the scene of an accident with injuries was no place to take her teenage son.

  Sarah grabbed her coat and headed out the door. Nate would have to wait.

  10

  Clay had thought the day couldn’t get much worse, but the moment he stepped inside Libby’s cabin, he realized he’d been wrong.

  “Hello, King,” he said when he spied Libby’s father.

  King Grayhawk sat in a studded leather armchair near the fire, like a head of state on his throne, Libby’s three hounds at his feet. Magnum rose and stretched. King had one hand on each redbone hound’s head, and it wasn’t until he released them that Doc and Snoopy bounded over to greet Libby, sad eyes adoring, tails wagging and tongues lolling.

  “Clay.” The older man should have risen to greet Clay, but King used the fact that his left knee was stiff from an old bronc-busting injury, and stretched out on an ottoman in front of him, as an excuse to stay where he was. An impressive, gnarled oak cane with a golden hawk, wings outspread for a handle, remained in place, leaning upright against the chair.

  Clay wanted to turn around and walk right back out the door, but Libby was behind him, and it would have looked too much like the retreat it was if he’d tried to get past her. And really, what was the point? This confrontation was bound to come sooner or later. It might as well be now.

  “Who told you?” Clay asked as he took off his coat and hung it on an antler hook by the door. He stopped to help Libby take off her coat, then hung it beside his own.

  “Hello, Daddy,” Libby said as she crossed into the living room.

  Clay noticed she made no move to touch her father, not to hug him or kiss him or greet him in any familiar way. She headed directly to the crackling fireplace and stood there, her hands held out before her, as though its heat could warm the cold inside her.

  Clay knew better.

  There was no love lost between King Grayhawk and his eldest daughter. Clay didn’t know all the details of what had transpired between them when Libby had finally told her father she was pregnant, but he knew King had struck her, because he’d seen the bruise on her cheek.

  Someday, he’d vowed, he would repay King for that injury.

  “North called me,” King said, his eyes focused on Libby in condemnation. “I expect to be told when something as monumental as the disappearance of my only granddaughter occurs.”

  “There isn’t anything you can do that we aren’t already doing,” Libby said.

  “You’re wrong,” King said. “As usual.”

  Clay saw the flush rise on Libby’s cheekbones, saw the firm set of her lips as she bit back whatever retort had sprung to them. He opened his mouth to defend her but was never given the chance.

  “I’ve hired private detectives to backtrack Katherine’s steps,” King said. “They’ve already discovered—”

  “They’ve found her?” Libby exclaimed, taking a step toward her father in her anxiety to hear good news about Kate.

  “No,” King conceded.

  Libby stopped in her tracks.

  King continued, “But they’ve got an artist’s rendering of the man who apparently kidnapped her, which they’re circulating among—”

  “The police have already done that, Daddy,” Libby said scornfully. “We’ve talked to everyone, we’ve—”

  “You didn’t issue an Amber Alert,” the old man contradicted.

  Clay watched Libby’s eyes brim with tears that she fought not to shed.

  “You know how few roads there are in and out of here,”
she said. “They were all blocked by police within hours of Kate’s disappearance.”

  “That doesn’t mean someone couldn’t have taken Katherine across state lines,” the old man said stubbornly. “I’ve got a nationwide Amber Alert in place.”

  Clay was grateful for any effort that might help locate Kate, but he’d be damned if he’d thank the old man. “What has your investigator found out?” he asked.

  The old man snorted. “Not much! But I have every confidence that—”

  “Why did you come here?” Libby interrupted.

  It was plain to Clay that, far from finding comfort in her father’s presence, Libby seemed irritated by it.

  King Grayhawk seemed impervious to his daughter’s rebuff. “I’m here to find my granddaughter.”

  “I don’t need you here,” Libby retorted. “I don’t want you here.”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere until—”

  “This is my home. You’re not welcome in it.”

  “I’ll be at the Big House,” the old man said. “I thought you might want to know—”

  “I don’t care why you left that Big House of yours at Kingdom Come and showed up here. I don’t care what you think you can accomplish. I want you out. Get out!”

  Clay could see she was on the verge of hysteria. King apparently realized the same thing, because he reached for his cane, eased his left leg off the ottoman, and shoved his way upright. Clay had forgotten how tall he was, how imposing he looked. King Grayhawk was wearing what any cowboy might wear, jeans and a flannel plaid Western shirt and boots. But he looked far from ordinary.

  The face above the clothes bore snakelike, unblinking eyes, a hawk nose, and sharp cheekbones etched into stone by wind and weather. The shirt did little to conceal broad, powerful shoulders, and the jeans revealed a wiry leanness that came from years in the saddle. The tooled leather belt, with its broad silver buckle, cinched a narrow waist, and the boots were scuffed and crusted with dirt that made it clear this man stood his ground.

  King Grayhawk was not a man Clay admired, but he recognized a powerful adversary when he saw one. Clay had grown up with a father very much—almost exactly—like the man he faced now. They were two giants cut from the same rugged cloth, both shaped by the vast, unforgiving frontier.