Pocketing her phone, she turned to find Harlan hovering nearby, not hiding his curiosity. “You ready tell me what you’re up to?”
“I already told you,” she said. “Finding our fugitives.”
Chapter Twelve
Katie Patterson was not what most people thought of when you said the word librarian. At fifty-four she was a twice-divorced bottle blonde with a raucous, tobacco-tinged laugh that had taken more than a few of her patrons by surprise.
Most of her nights were spent at a bar in town called Little Pete’s where she regularly debated politics, sports and religion. And if the right man made the right moves, she sometimes wound up sleeping in a bed other than her own.
Katie didn’t look, act or talk the way you’d expect a librarian to, but she did have three important things going for her. She was smart as a whip, did her job better than any of her predecessors and everybody in town just plain loved her.
“Got it all right here,” she said as she emerged from a hallway at the rear of the Williamson County Library. It was long past business hours, but she had been happy to open the place up, especially after she found out she’d be helping in an investigation. “Everything there is to know about the Pritchard gang, all in one box.”
She let out a husky laugh and dropped a large storage box on the table in front of them. Callie, Harlan, Rusty, Landry and Sheriff Mercer all watched as she pulled the lid off to reveal several documents, yellowed by time, along with a stack of folded maps and an envelope full of archival photographs.
Callie immediately reached for the envelope and opened it.
“You know what you’re looking for?” Katie asked.
“Photo I remember seeing when I was a little girl. Pritchard posing for a local photographer.”
“That would be Terrance Scarne,” Katie said. “Those are his photos hanging in City Hall. He chronicled the history of Williamson for nearly five decades.”
Anyone who had gone in to renew their driver’s license had seen those photographs. Stark black and white shots of horses and buggies on unpaved streets, back when Williamson was little more than a shanty town.
Callie found what she was looking for and said, “Here it is,” then showed the photo to the rest of the group.
It was a posed shot of a tall, unshaven man wearing a dark hat, vest and dungarees, a six shooter slung on his hip as he stared unsmiling into the camera. In the distance behind him was a large wooden cabin, smoke billowing up from a chimney into a cloudless Wyoming sky.
“Jeremiah Pritchard,” Katie said. “The Robin Hood of Williamson County.”
Harlan didn’t seem impressed. “Fascinating. But I’m not quite sure why we’re looking at it.”
Katie frowned. “This is history, son. Don’t need a reason to be looked at.”
“Unless you have one,” Callie said, then pointed to a handwritten caption in the lower right corner:
ROBBERS CANYON 1887
“Is that something significant?” Harlan asked.
Callie nodded. “Robbers Canyon was the Pritchard gang’s hideout in the Bighorn Mountains. Nobody outside the family knows where this photo was taken, but some people say the Pritchards have kept the place in good repair. That Jonah would go there sometimes and spend the night, soak in the ambience. Which isn’t surprising when you consider his love of his outlaw heritage.” She paused, looked at Landry. “I’m betting you know something about it, too.”
Landry’s trademark smile had apparently taken the night off. “Is that what you dragged me here for?”
“I brought you here because I think you’re lying to us. I think you know full well that Megan and Billy Boy Lyman were in that house, and this is where they went.” She tapped the image of the cabin for emphasis.
Landry scoffed. “If that was true, why wouldn’t I tell you? According to Rusty here, they’re the ones killed Jonah.”
“And I imagine that’s troubling to you,” Callie said, “but your loyalties aren’t just to the old man. You’re so used to protecting the Pritchard family secrets that you’re no doubt feeling pretty conflicted right now.”
She could see that conflict in his eyes, but he was so deeply indoctrinated that he wasn’t about to admit it. Not out loud. “You’re out of your mind.”
“There’s no shame in feeling this way, Landry. You’ve been with that family your entire life. Your own kin used to ride with Jeremiah Pritchard and you’ve seen them through births and deaths and divorces, all the time doing what you could to help them out.” She paused. “But even Gloria herself says her daughter’s out of control. She’s the one who told us Meg pulled the trigger.”
A flicker of surprise replaced the conflict, but it quickly disappeared. “I don’t have to listen this,” Landry said, then started away from the table.
Harlan grabbed him by the forearm. “Hold on, Bickham, not so fast. I don’t think she’s finished.”
Landry wasn’t a small man, but Harlan didn’t seem too concerned about his size. He swung him back around to the table and nudged him forward.
“Floor is yours,” he said the Callie.
Callie reached into the box and pulled out the stack of folded maps. There were dates penciled in the corner of each. She found one dated 1888 and unfolded it onto the table.
It was hand drawn, showing Williamson and the surrounding area from a time nearly forgotten, including the acreage that comprised Pritchard Ranch and a good portion of the Bighorn Mountains.
She pointed to those mountains. “Now I know that people have long speculated where Jeremiah’s hideout may be, but those who’ve been adventurous enough to try to find it have never been successful.” She looked up at Landry. “But I think you’ve been there with Jonah. And I think you know exactly where it is.”
He eyed her defiantly. “So what if I do?”
Callie smiled. “You’re going tell us how to get there.”
IT TOOK LANDRY A WHILE to break, but with Harlan once again threatening to arrest him for aiding and abetting a fugitive he finally gave in. He refused to admit any knowledge that the trio had gone to Robbers Canyon—or that they’d been to the Pritchard Ranch at all—but with great reluctance he dropped a finger to the map and showed Callie and the others how to get there.
What they learned was that the trail to Robbers Canyon was nearly a day-long trek, and could only be accessed on horseback.
Sheriff Mercer mentioned the possibility of going in by chopper, but Landry assured him that a helicopter wouldn’t have a place to land. Besides, Harlan told them, even if it did, the noise would give them away and they’d lose the element of surprise. Not something he was willing to risk.
“Which once again leaves us with you,” Callie said to Landry.
“Meaning what?”
“You can be our guide. Take us in there nice and quiet.”
Landry balked. “Now, hold on. I already told you how to get there, and that’s about all I’ve got to offer. You can’t force me to go along, and I’m not about to volunteer, so you’re on your own from here on out.” He looked at Harlan. “And if you wanna throw me in the bucket, so be it. Couldn’t be any worse than the Cottonwood Inn.”
“How about if we paid you?” Mercer said.
“Paid me?”
“With Jonah dead, you might be looking for a job. Not a place you want to be in this tight economy, and I’m sure we could scrounge up a little cash for your services.”
Landry shook his head. “With all due respect, Sheriff, I’d just as soon take money from the devil himself.”
Which, to Callie’s mind, was exactly what he’d been doing all along.
Why change now?
THEY MADE PLANS TO LEAVE first thing in the morning. Sheriff Mercer, who had a small stable of his own, promised to bring the horses, and they arranged a rendezvous for seven o’clock at Pritchard Ranch.
That would leave Callie just enough time to swing by the bakery and pick up Nana’s muffins. She felt a little guilty about ta
king a trek into the wilderness on the day the doctors would be poking and prodding the old woman, but Nana understood the nature of Callie’s job and would insist she go. Besides, Judith would be happy to play stand-in.
As Callie and Harlan headed out to their cars, Harlan said, “Good thinking in there.”
They were being cordial now, and she wasn’t quite used to it. Had to readjust a little. “Thanks.”
“Sheriff says all the road blocks have come up empty, so I’m pretty sure you’re right about this. Makes sense that Billy Boy would want to lay low for a few weeks, in hopes we’ll get tired of looking for him.”
“As if that would ever happen.”
Harlan grinned. “Billy Boy Lyman has the intelligence and foresight of a two-year-old child.”
Callie gestured to the bruise on the side of his face. “That didn’t stop him from putting one over on you.”
It was a good-natured jab and Harlan took it that way. “I’m laying this one on cousin Meg. I knew she was a force to be reckoned with the minute I walked into that convenience store. I figure she’s the one dreamed up Lyman’s escape.”
“Nobody’s ever accused her of being dumb, that’s for sure. And if they are at that hideout, somebody had to give them supplies.”
“You thinking Landry?”
She shrugged. “He was awfully reluctant to help us. And considering Gloria gave Meg up to us in about ten seconds flat, I don’t think she’s the one.”
“Could be Jonah had them set to go before things got ugly.”
“True. He would’ve done anything for that girl. Maybe they had this whole thing figured out days ago. Billy Boy’s escape, the trip up to the hideout. But I don’t think killing Jim Farber was part of the plan, and that could be another reason Jonah and Meg got into it. He probably didn’t know about the murder until I told him.”
Harlan nodded agreement. “Whatever the case, I’d bet a month’s salary they’re stoking up that cabin’s fireplace as we speak.”
“No doubt,” Callie said.
They were quiet for a moment, then Harlan broke off and stepped toward his cruiser. “Wouldn’t mind stoking up a fireplace myself. I could fall asleep right in front of it.”
“You have a place to stay?”
“I thought I’d head over to that motel. The Cottonwood?”
Callie nodded, then took her keys out and opened up her SUV. She was about to get inside, when she stopped herself, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.
She said to Harlan, “I’ve been pretty hostile to you and I’m sorry about that.”
“I haven’t exactly been Mr. Agreeable.”
“I hate to see you stuck in a place like the Cottonwood. Why don’t you come on over to the house? We’ve got a guest room you can use.”
Harlan looked surprised. “You sure you want to do that?”
“No,” she said, “but I’m doing it anyway. You’re just lucky Nana won’t be there.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’d be trying to get us all to sit down for tea and sandwiches.”
Harlan laughed. “Well, in that case I think I’ll take you up on your offer.” He gave her an imaginary tip of the hat. “Thank you, kindly, ma’am.”
Callie suddenly felt something warm stir inside her. The hat tip was a gesture that the old Harlan made on a pretty regular basis. It was his ode to John Wayne, one of his heroes.
On their first date he’d taken Callie to a revival of the Western McClintock. They’d only been study friends until then, but halfway through the movie she saw Harlan quietly mouthing one of The Duke’s lines—“You have to be a man before you can be a gentleman”—and she knew she was in love.
She had put her hand in his and leaned her head on his shoulder, and before the night was over, she lay for the first time in his bed, exhilarated by his touch and his complete lack of selfishness. She discovered very quickly that he was both a man and a gentleman.
As Callie thought about this, however, the warmth she felt gave way to sadness.
How could she have let that go?
How could she have let any of it go?
“Shall we take your car?” Harlan asked. “Or do you want me to follow you?”
She pulled herself from her thoughts. “I’ll drive,” she said, then climbed in behind the wheel.
Chapter Thirteen
Harlan didn’t quite know what to make of Callie’s invitation. The move was unexpected. But then he thought again about what her grandmother had said.
She’s still in love with you, you know.
Was there any truth to that?
Part of him wanted to believe it, but a bigger part had serious doubts. She was simply being kindhearted, because, beneath it all, that was Callie. She may have had her stubborn streak, and that hair-trigger temper, but the woman he’d known had been a nurturer at heart. Offering up her spare bedroom was just the kind of thing she’d do. So there was no point in reading anything into it.
Besides, why should it matter to him? He and Callie were long done, and he had his own life in Colorado Springs. True, he’d kept his relationships casual since his divorce, but he didn’t often fret over his life as a single man.
He had freedom, could come and go as he pleased. And coming home to an empty apartment was something he’d gotten used to.
But if he was entirely honest with himself, there were nights he’d walk into that apartment and yearn. Not for his ex-wife—that had been a mistake. And not for any of the women he was currently dating.
But for Callie. For that feeling they’d once shared. As if their souls had somehow been connected.
Those were the times he’d root around in his kitchen cupboard until he found a bottle of Jack Daniels. He’d quietly get drunk as he watched the night sky, thinking about all the things he should have said and done back when Treacher was killed. But he’d been too young and stupid—Billy Boy Lyman stupid—and he’d let grief devour him, just as it had devoured Callie.
Harlan sometimes hated Treacher for what he’d done to them, for his irresponsibility. Couldn’t he see how much in love they were? What made him think he had the right to destroy that with his reckless behavior?
But if Harlan got drunk enough, he sometimes wondered if Callie had been right. If he’d been more forceful, if he hadn’t been distracted by a woman—a major bone of contention with Callie—Treacher never would’ve gotten behind the wheel of that car and would probably be alive today.
If, if, if…
Sometimes on those nights Harlan saw his best friend smiling at him from beyond the stars, and all the promise in that youthful, charismatic face. And sure enough, Harlan would find himself crying. Drunken tears, but tears nevertheless. Something he didn’t like to admit to, but he figured you weren’t really a man if you didn’t know how to let it loose now and again.
So he let it loose, mourning his losses like a child who has finally realized that his runaway dog isn’t ever coming home again.
And the hardest part of all was knowing that when he woke up in the morning, his apartment would still be empty.
HARLAN WAS THINKING about these things as they pulled into to Callie’s driveway.
“Home sweet home,” she said, setting the parking brake.
He studied the house, a modest one-story structure with a rustic feel. It looked liked home. Comfortable. Aged, but well-tended.
“You were born here, weren’t you?”
“Probably die here, too,” Callie said. “This house and Nana Jean are the only constants in my life.” She paused. “And the job, of course.”
“Of course. The all-consuming beast.”
She smiled. “But in a good way.”
“Tell that to my face,” he said, gesturing to the bruise.
They both laughed as they opened their doors and climbed out, and it was good to hear Callie laughing. There had always been a bright, musical quality to the sound that lifted his spirits. And they needed lifting right now.
&
nbsp; Callie jangled her keys and let him in through the front door, then they moved together through a small parlor into a modestly appointed living room, Callie flicking the lights on as they went.
“The spare bedroom is in back,” she said, then gestured to a stone fireplace in a corner of the room. “Or you can start that fire you wanted and sleep on the sofa. Your choice.”
“No contest,” he told her. “Fire it is. As long as I don’t wind up like Jonah Pritchard.”
“Ugh,” Callie said, then pushed him away.
“Bad taste? Too soon?”
“Way too soon.”
“So I suppose if I say I want Rice Crispies for breakfast, you’ll throw me out of your house?”
He could see that she was about to laugh again, which, of course, was what he’d been hoping for. Cops weren’t known for their tasteful humor, and Harlan wasn’t any exception. The kind of job they did, humor was often their only relief. Even if it was a bit morbid.
But before he could say anything more, she seemed to sense he was about to crack another joke, and held up a finger.
“Stop,” she said, stifling the laugh. “Keep your mouth shut and get to work. I’ll grab you some blankets.”
So Harlan did as he was told and moved over to the stack of wood next to the fireplace. Shoving aside the grate, he stacked several pieces inside, turned on the gas, then took a long-nosed utility lighter from a basket next to the wood and lit the fire.
It would be a few minutes before the wood caught and he could turn off the gas, so he moved to a rack on a nearby wall that held several bottles of wine. He found a nice Pinot and held it up as Callie came back into the room carrying two blankets and a pillow.
“Quick drink before bed?” he asked.
One of Callie’s eyebrows went up. “This isn’t a date, Harlan. Don’t take this offer the wrong way.”
“How could I?” he said. “You’re always pretty clear about what you think and feel.”
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