Mercy (Beartooth, Montana)

by B. J Daniels

  Each time, though, she prayed that this time would be different. Even now, she told herself it would be. Quickly turning from the window, she opened the closet, knelt down and pried up several of the floorboards she’d loosened when she’d first moved in. The box had belonged to her grandmother. Carefully she lifted it out and, rising, took it over to the table. Lifting the lid, she caught the sweet scent of the candles that had been stored inside for years, along with the deck of worn tarot cards.

  Her sweet, tiny grandmother on her father’s side had been a fortune-teller, her mother had secretly informed her. Unfortunately, she’d never gotten to meet her. She’d never known any of her family other than her mother. Her mother refused to talk about her side of the family, not even by name.

  Callie could hear the cook downstairs preparing for the opening of the café soon. Without much time, she hurriedly removed the cloth-wrapped bundle from the box, loosened the ribbon holding it and carefully lifted out the gun. It felt cold to the touch. Callie closed her eyes for a moment, then hurriedly dropped the small loaded handgun into her bag and put the box and its contents back in its hiding place.

  * * *

  NETTIE BENTON TURNED her engagement ring distractedly as she stared out the café window at the construction crew across the road. The men had quickly cleaned up the mess from the fire and were already laying the stone walls. Apparently, they weren’t going to have to replace the old foundation that had been there for more than a century.

  “I heard they’re rebuilding the store exactly as it was,” she said as Kate refilled her coffee cup and took a seat across from her. The morning rush was over, so the café was nearly empty. Callie could handle what few remained. Like most mornings since the store had burned, Nettie sat and visited with Kate.

  “That’s what one of the men they brought in told me, as well,” Kate said. She put down a plate with a large cinnamon roll, two forks and some butter, knowing how Nettie liked them.

  At this age, Nettie was seldom surprised by human nature. But her friendship with Kate—a woman she had suspected of unthinkable things—had come as a complete surprise. When Kate had suddenly shown up in town, Nettie was sure she was hiding from something. Of course, she was, and Nettie had finally gotten to the bottom of it. It was a source of pride for Nettie that she often got to the bottom of things.

  “Did the man you talked to mention who is behind rebuilding the store?” Nettie asked.

  “You should know,” Kate said with a laugh. “You sold it to them.”

  “I dealt with some lawyer.” People in these parts had about as much faith in lawyers as they did politicians. “At the time, I didn’t care who bought it or why. I never dreamed someone would want to rebuild the store.”

  “It is curious.”

  “Can’t help but wonder why all the secrecy,” Nettie said as she helped herself to a piece of the cinnamon roll, slathering it with the fresh creamery butter before taking a bite.

  Kate grinned at her across the table. “Come on, I know you’re dying to find out. So, what’s stopping you?”

  Nettie finished her bite before breaking into a smile. She’d been known as the worst gossip in the county, probably more than one county, for years. But certain events had made her realize how dangerous gossiping could be. She’d sworn off it, promising herself and her fiancé, Sheriff Frank Curry, that she was finished.

  “It isn’t really gossip,” Kate said, as if reading her mind. “It’s more like investigative work, and we all know how good you are at that.”

  Nettie laughed. She’d spent hours trying to uncover Kate’s secrets. But her more recent foray into snooping had almost cost her her life—and had gotten her store burned down.

  Looking into the benefactor who was rebuilding her store and half the town... Well, that at least shouldn’t be dangerous, right? And like Kate said, it wasn’t gossip. It was simple curiosity. Then again, curiosity killed the cat.

  * * *

  THE COWBOY TOOK the same table he had yesterday. Callie had sensed him when he’d come in. Not that she was picking up any psychic pulses from him. She’d been expecting him, so she wasn’t surprised when her headache worsened.

  He was somehow a part of whatever was going to happen, she realized as she grabbed a menu, a pot of coffee and a glass of ice water before heading to his table.

  It was only on those days when she woke with a killer headache that she knew something bad was going to happen. Who the bad thing would happen to, she didn’t know yet. But in the next few days, her headache would become blinding, and then she would have a vision of a scene that no one should ever have to witness.

  She had tried everything to lessen not only the pain but also block out whatever vision was coming. Nothing had worked—certainly not drugs or alcohol or trying to distract herself.

  Now as she approached the man, she told herself to just ride it out. Whatever was coming...well, she had no control over it. That was the most maddening and frightening part. Why was she the one who got these...premonitions? What was she supposed to do about them? They never let her change the outcome, so what was the point?

  She’d actually gone to the police station and tried to tell someone once. The officer had been kind to her, but had made it clear he thought she was nuts. Or worse, putting him on.

  Later, she’d heard he’d come looking for her, thinking she was somehow involved. She’d learned her lesson after that. She kept it to herself, dreading autumn and what was coming.

  Callie felt sick at heart that it was happening again. She’d gone for almost two years without one of these major incidents. She’d actually thought they had stopped. Then this cowboy had shown up and set her nerves on edge, and now her head was splitting.

  “Mornin’.” She put a glass of water on his table along with a menu. As she began to fill his empty mug with coffee, he turned his gaze on her.

  “Good morning.”

  She felt the low rumble of his voice at chest level again. “I forgot if you wanted cream with your coffee,” she lied. He threw her off balance—just as he’d done the day before when she’d spilled his coffee.

  When he didn’t answer, she finally looked at him. His dark-eyed look said he didn’t buy that she’d forgotten for a minute.

  “Just black, thanks.”

  “I’ll give you a minute to look at your menu,” she said and started to turn away.

  “I’ll have what I had yesterday,” he said. As she turned back, he reached for his menu to hand it to her. “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t the one who waited on me.” His grin was good-natured, but there was a challenge in his voice.

  It felt strange that she picked up no flashes of information from him. Nothing. It was as if he was protected by a wall that she couldn’t penetrate. Why was that? Who was this man? Looking into those dark eyes, she was assaulted by a mix of emotions, but none she could trust or make sense of other than fear.

  “Ham, eggs over easy, hash browns and whole-wheat toast.” She could have told him that he also dug through the jellies until he found blackberry, which he spread thickly on his toast. That he ate only one piece of his toast and that he liked to mix his eggs with his hash browns and douse them with hot sauce and ketchup. But that was all she knew about him.

  “I believe I heard Kate put your order up,” she said.

  He smiled and held out his hand. “Since I’m going to be staying for a while, I thought I should introduce myself. Rourke Montgomery.”

  She had no choice but to take his hand. “Callie Westfield.” But she suspected he already knew who she was, that he’d come here looking for her. His hand was big and warm, her hand disappearing into it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montgomery.”

  The flash was small and weak. Under normal circumstances, she would probably have missed it.

  The cowboy had just lied to
her. But then, she’d just lied to him, as well.

  * * *

  ROURKE SAW THE sudden change in her. She withdrew her hand and took a step back from him. Her reactions to him kept throwing him. What had he done now?

  “I’ll get your order right up.” She turned and was gone before “It was nice to meet you, too, Callie” was out of his mouth.

  He’d had a rough night, sleeping little after he’d returned from his trip into the mountains looking for her. The coffee helped a little. He thought about calling Laura to see if she’d made it to her mother’s all right, but hesitated since it was still early. Laura wouldn’t have gotten to Harlowton until the wee hours of the morning and with her mother sick...dying...

  When his cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket, it startled him. He instantly expected bad news. Laura? He pulled out the phone. Edwin Sharp. Finally the call he’d been waiting for.

  Glancing around the café, he saw that it was almost empty. Kate was sitting at a booth with an elderly redheaded woman some distance away. Two noisy cowboys had just come in, but they were at the counter talking loudly.

  Anxious to speak with Edwin, he picked up. “I can’t really talk. I’m in a café, but I can listen,” he said without preamble.

  “Then I’ll make this quick,” the P.I. said.

  Rourke listened, holding any questions he had for later when he could talk freely. He couldn’t believe what Edwin was telling him.

  “I’m on my way now to talk to a woman who reportedly took in some of the girls from that home after it closed,” the P.I. said. “I’ll call you later with what I find out. But a woman named Caligrace definitely lived in that place—and died there—and she had a daughter who apparently shared her first name. No last name, though.”

  Rourke disconnected and looked in Callie Westfield’s direction. She was filling the coffee cups of the two noisy cowboys. They were flirting with her, teasing her, and one of them was clearly trying to get her to go out with him.

  One was blond, the other dark-haired, both handsome and apparently locals. Had one of them brought her here?

  He watched Callie. She was putting up with them but not encouraging them. As she moved away from their table, the blond man said something about her behind.

  If Callie heard, she didn’t show it. But Kate heard it. She rose from the booth where she’d been visiting with the redhead and went over to the cowboys. He heard her tell them to be respectful to her waitress or they would have to leave.

  They finished their coffee and got up to go. As the blond cowboy paid their bill, the dark-haired one apologized to Kate, then hung back to talk to Callie.

  Rourke couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could read the dark-haired cowboy’s body language. He was pushing hard for her to go out with him, and apparently this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to persuade her.

  Callie was shaking her head. Rourke could tell she was turning him down politely, but it wasn’t deterring the cowboy.

  Rourke got up with his half-empty cup and walked toward the two, pretending he just wanted a warm-up on his coffee.

  “I appreciate that, Carson, but the answer is still no, thank you. I need to get back to work.” Callie started to move away from the man, but the cowhand caught her wrist.

  Rourke moved on past to the counter where Kate had just made more coffee. As she refilled his cup, she, too, was watching Callie and the man Callie had called Carson. He guessed this would be the Carson Grant the sheriff had told him about.

  “Just give me a chance,” Carson said as Callie pulled free of his grip and shot him a warning look that seemed to encourage the two men to leave. Carson tossed a few bills on the counter and moved toward the door where his friend was waiting for him.

  Callie glanced away from Carson to meet Rourke’s gaze. She looked as angry with him as she was the cowhand as she took the coffeepot from Kate and headed for the redhead in the booth.

  “Who were those cowboys bothering your waitress?” he asked Kate as the rowdy cowhands left.

  “Carson Grant and Johnny Franks. They’re harmless.”

  Rourke wondered about that. “Locals?”

  “Carson just returned a couple years ago. Johnny’s new to the area. They both work at the Grant-West Ranch.” She looked at him as if realizing he was awfully nosy.

  “I just didn’t like them giving her a hard time.”

  Kate laughed. “Callie can take care of herself.”

  He nodded, remembering the look in her eye when Carson Grant had grabbed her arm. “That’s good.”

  * * *

  CARSON GRANT LET out a curse as he and Johnny Franks headed for the Grant-West Ranch pickup parked in front of the café. As Carson climbed in, he slammed the heel of his palm into the steering wheel.

  “Hey,” Johnny said. “What’s this about?”

  “That woman.”

  “Callie? Are you serious?”

  “What’s her problem? I offer her dinner at a nice place, a movie... Hell, she should be glad I want to take her out.”

  Johnny looked over at him in surprise. “I thought you were just joking around with her.”

  Carson chewed at the inside of his cheek, so angry he wanted to break something. “I’m sick of not getting what I want.”

  “Hey, Callie doesn’t date anyone. She’s probably one of those women who hates men. You’re better off without her.”

  Carson shook his head as he started the truck and backed up, making the tires squeal. “For once, I’d just like to get something I want.”

  Johnny made a disgusted face.

  “What?” he demanded, seeing Johnny’s reaction.

  “It’s just that I would think you’d want to set your sights higher. Hell, go after one of the Hamilton girls. At least they come with land.”

  Carson shook his head. One of the Hamilton girls would require too much effort. “My whole life I didn’t get what I deserved,” he complained. “It just gets old.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. My old man died without a cent. He sure as hell didn’t leave me anything.”

  Carson let out a bitter laugh. “Mine didn’t leave me anything either.”

  “Yeah, but your sister, Destry, at least gave you some land and a place to live.”

  “A few acres and a cabin.”

  “More than I’ve got,” Johnny pointed out.

  But Carson was thinking about the monstrosity that his father had built that overlooked the ranch. “You’ve seen the house my father built. It’s a mansion. He had the whole county talking about that place. It’s even got a swimming pool. An outdoor swimming pool in this part of Montana.” Carson shook his head. “W. T. Grant didn’t care that he couldn’t use it more than a few months of the year. He got what he wanted. People despised him for it. Me? I work for my sister on the ranch that should have been mine.”

  “You might want to slow down,” Johnny said, hanging on as Carson took a bend in the gravel road too fast. “Killing both of us isn’t going to make you feel any better about your life.”

  Carson swore as he let up on the gas. The truck fishtailed in the loose gravel, but he got it back under control. “You’re right. Callie Westfield is nobody. If I’m going to get all worked up, it should be over one of the Hamilton girls.” He let out a laugh. He knew old man Hamilton wouldn’t let him within fifty yards of one of his daughters. Not that those headstrong women were his type anyway.

  “I hate to see you worked up like this,” Johnny said.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got a couple of meetings tonight,” he said, trying to still the rage inside him. “I always get worked up before them. I know I should be glad my sister didn’t cut me off completely. I’m just having a bad day.”

  “Count your blessings, right? Your sister is easy to work
for and she pays well. Some poor suckers don’t even have jobs.”

  Between his meetings for his alcohol and gambling issues, Carson was sick to death of counting his blessings, living one day at a time and telling himself that he didn’t want a drink or to ante up at one of the local card games.

  His life was a lie, he thought, as he drove toward his sister’s ranch, a ranch that should have been his. He thought of his father. W.T. had been a low-down SOB; no one in the county would argue that. Better that than to be what he knew the county thought of him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “LAURA?”

  She cringed at the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d felt sick the moment she’d opened her eyes. She’d had the nightmare last night. It had felt so real that she’d awakened expecting to be covered in blood.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat up. Dizziness hit her along with the nausea. She put her head down, took deep breaths and tried to still her roiling stomach.

  The creak of her mother’s wheelchair made her look up. She tried to focus, but her head swam. Her mother stopped in the doorway just feet away and watched her.

  As Laura lifted her head and met her mother’s gaze, realization hit her. “You drugged me?”

  Laura knew she shouldn’t have been shocked. Her mother had given her and her sister “just a little something to keep them quiet” when they were children. Had she really thought her mother had changed?

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snapped. “I just gave you a little something in your warm milk to help you sleep.”

  Laura looked past her mother, her head still fuzzy. She felt like a child again, waking in a strange place and knowing she wasn’t safe. “Is Catherine here?”

  Her mother made a pained sound. “Laura—”

  “She’s your favorite. She’s the one you want here.”

  Eyes welling with tears, her mother said with obvious exasperation, “Are you just trying to hurt me?”

  “Fine, we won’t talk about Catherine.”

  “Maybe we should.”

  “Is that why you got me home? You want to talk about my sister?”