Winsor, Linda

by Along Came Jones

  He started for the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head. Maybe she'd left ketchup in the bottle to get dinner down.

  "Are you too disappointed?" she called after him with a crescendo of emotion in her voice.

  "Nope, don't sweat it. I've seen worse than that."

  Shep closed the bathroom door behind him and looked at the mirror. "You're a lying son of a gun," he accused the twin staring back at him. He hadn't seen a meal done quite to that extent, even when Tick overturned a fry pan of fish in the campfire.

  And he was disappointed. But the latter had nothing to do with food, he realized, flipping the water on at the sink. It had to do with deceit and all the past it dragged up.

  Shep lathered and rinsed his hands and arms, then buried his head under the lukewarm flow, rinsing away the dust as vigorously as he mentally dismissed the memories. Giving his squeeze-dried hair a dog shake that splattered the mirror, he reached for the clean towel on the back of the bathroom door, when he caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent.

  It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it wasn't perfumy like a bathroom lotion or cleanser. Shep smelled the towel. That wasn't it. Confounded, he sniffed like a bloodhound homing in on the scent until he reached the door itself where it was strongest.

  That city gal had to have scrambled more than his wits, because if Shep didn't know better, he'd swear he smelled butter.

  ***

  By the time Shep returned to the kitchen, Deanna had pulled herself together. She forced an overbright smile and shrugged.

  "Sorry I went all wimpy on you. I'm not really a crybaby. I just wanted to make it up to you for your taking me in and turning Hopewell into a shelter where I can regroup my thoughts."

  "It's no big deal, Deanna."

  She turned away hastily and took the meatloaf out of the oven. "I promise I'll do better tomorrow. You'll have a meal fit for a king."

  This time tomorrow Shep wouldn't be grappling for words to put her mind at ease. Deanna Manetti would be in the custody of the DEA. "Any idea what you'll do when you get your car fixed?"

  "Go back to New York, I guess." She thumped the meatloaf she put on the table with her finger and wrinkled her nose. "Better get a sharp knife. It's kind of dried out."

  "I'm sure it's nothing ketchup and applesauce can't fix."

  Shep took a carving knife from the drawer by the stove and plied it to the meatloaf. "Though I've sawed through firewood that wasn't this hard," he added with a quirk to his mouth.

  His humor put a smile on heretofore trembling lips. "You're a good guy, Shepard Jones," Deanna said. "I'd begun to think that even God had forsaken me when your horse ran me off the road. I had nowhere to run. And then along came you—oo—oo." She mimicked the song they'd heard on the radio.

  Deanna's choice of words in describing her plight was a direct hit, striking a painful chord from his past. After Ellen broke their engagement, he hadn't been able to run home to the high country fast enough, crippled knee and all. It was just the place he needed to heal, both physically and spiritually.

  "You can't outrun God, especially here in Big Sky country. That old saying head for the hills' works for all God's creatures, man included." Heaven knew he told it straight. "The wilderness always has been a refuge for saint or sinner." Man, he was starting to sound like Reverend Lawrence. "What I mean is that the farther you are from the distraction of life in general, the easier it is to feel God's presence. That's why David—even Jesus—got away sometimes, you know. Just to feel closer. And take my word for it, up there on the mountain top, surrounded by God's untarnished creation, it's hard not to think of Him."

  "Yeah, if one of God's creatures doesn't eat you before you can pray to be saved."

  Not even Deanna's half smile could hide the sense of loss and desperation Shep witnessed in her eyes. Beyond the wet glaze that some women could produce at will, her very spirit cried out to his kindred one.

  In that instant, Shep not only knew her pain, he knew this was no criminal. She was just a frightened, lost, and lonely soul— and that spooked him more than looking into the cold conscienceless void of a hardened assassin. On the brink of a leap he wasn't sure he wanted to take, Shep put the knife on the side of the platter as though its slight weight might carry him over. Lord, I can't do this.

  "I'll get the ketchup." Deanna turned stiffly to the refrigerator, unaware that she'd offered reprieve. "I mean," she said to the interior, "I thought I was happy with all that distraction. Now I'm not so sure. This enough ketchup?" She held up a half bottle of the red save-anything sauce.

  Ketchup was good. Glad to be returning to neutral ground, he breathed a little easier. Maybe his luck would last until tomorrow, when choice was removed from his hands. "For starters. But I'll get the piece de resistance."

  In their effort to sidestep each other, Deanna heading for the table and Shep for the cupboard, they nearly collided.

  "Yo, cowboy, this kitchen ain't big enough for the both of us."

  Montana wasn't big enough for the two of them. As though she were toting a loaded six-gun instead of a ketchup bottle, Shep bypassed Deanna and fumbled through the cabinet for a jar of... What was he looking for?

  A jar of applesauce caught his eye. Yes, that was it.

  Lord, just help me make it through the night, Shep prayed as he returned to the table. And maybe when the setting sun coming through the kitchen window didn't bathe her in its angel aura, he'd be just fine.

  ***

  An overcast sky cast a cryptic gray cloak over the morning skyline of the city From the penthouse view of Ontario Imports, the high-rises appeared as stark and still as tombs against it. Below, tiny humans and miniature vehicles worked, silent as maggots in the asphalt bowels of the city streets. Insignificant in the overall scheme of things.

  Seated at an oriental desk of carved teak, a man in a tailored gray suit turned from the vista. Fifteen years ago, Victor Dusault was one of them. Today he sat in a god's seat, silver wings distinguishing his once pitch black hair at the temples like medals of honor. At his command, the drugs his men smuggled into the country were turned into money, and money, after being laundered through some of his legitimate corporate investments, into power.

  A soft, gliding sound drew his attention from the outside world to a glassed-in cage that took up one entire wall of his suite. Ama, a gift from one of his key Mexican associates, slithered off a length of dead log and over the floor of the habitat toward the feeding door, where a small white rabbit quivered, frozen to the spot.

  It was a natural law. Power begat power. The strong drew it from the weak. Dark eyes narrowed in anticipation, the man waited for the nine-foot boa to make its kill when the phone rang. With little more than an annoyed glance away from the cage, he turned on the speakerphone.

  "Yes?"

  "We found the woman," a voice crackled on the other end of the line.

  Now this news was worth distraction. Swinging his leather chair about-face to the desk, he folded his hands in satisfaction. "Where?"

  "She's taken up with an ex-U.S. Marshal near a hole-in-the-wall called Buffalo Butte... still in Montana," the answer came. "The Marshal became suspicious of her behavior and called an old buddy to check up on her story. One thing led to another."

  Victor smiled, an unnatural expression that strained the taut set of his mouth. "It's always nice to have the authorities help us out."

  "We aim to please."

  "You know the procedure. Don't kill her until she tells you where Majors put the money." Majors was an idiot to trust anyone, much less a woman. There was no room for trust in female characteristics, not in fickle, frivolous, or fun. A half smirk settled on Victor's mouth. But then, what could one expect from a peon who double-crossed a powerful man like himself?

  The position to which Victor had elevated Majors as CEO of Amtron Enterprises simply proved too tempting. His only regret was that he couldn't personally show others, who might think of getting away with a similar scheme, what hap
pens to anyone who disappoints Victor Dusault.

  "My guess is she'll lead us to more than the money."

  Victor tapped impatient fingers on the corner of his leather desk pad, waiting for his informant to continue.

  "Someone else is very interested in her whereabouts besides us and the authorities."

  The tapping stopped, his fingers fisting. "I don't have time for word games."

  "Majors is alive," the caller answered hastily. "His body wasn't in the charred vehicle."

  This was better news than finding the money. Money Victor could replace. The opportunity for revenge came only once. "Sloppy of him," he said, masking his delight with indifference.

  C. R. Majors was such an amateur minor player; he hardly deserved Victor's personal attention. A pro would have at least put another body in there to buy time. Call it an alternative answer to the homeless problem. "So she outsmarted him, eh?" Deserving or not, the double-crossing little twerp was going to get his full attention for as long as it took for a bullet to close the distance between Victor's gun and Majors' head. As for the Manetti woman—

  "Not quite." The eagerness on the other end of the phone line reflected Victor's own. "We found a tracking device on her car, and it wasn't one of ours. If it were, she'd either be singing at the top of her voice or no longer with the living. It had to be Majors. I say we wait and catch the proverbial two birds with one stone."

  "You say?" He hated working with government agents. They had trouble recalling where the bulk of their paycheck came from.

  "I think. I meant to say I think. It's your call, sir."

  "Just sit on this little love nest until both birds are home. My team and I will be waiting for the word."

  Astonishment echoed in the caller's voice. "You're coming across yourself? What if it's a setup?"

  "Then it would be extremely tragic for you." Victor needn't elaborate. The silence on the other end told him his informant understood completely. "You know the information we'll need. Don't call without it."

  "No, sir." The connection went dead.

  Behind Victor, the sun broke through the morning cloud cover, reflecting his much improved humor. Now his denied urge to squeeze the life out of the little fool heartbeat by heartbeat lived again. Victor could almost smell the stench of fear seeping through Majors' pores—the fear that precipitated the last breath of a man who looked death in the face.

  The leather of the chair creaked as Victor swung his attention back to the habitat. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips. He'd missed the kill. The rabbit was gone. Satisfied, the snake constricted the muscles beneath the diamond and oval patterns of its brown and cream skin around the unresisting remains.

  Survival of the fittest. Animal or human, the same rule always applied. Which was why Victor used his money and power to stay fitter than the next man—or woman, as the case may be. He looked forward to the same satisfaction as his pet, growing stronger on the weakness of his prey. At this point, the money was secondary

  Twelve

  Shep pulled his Jeep headfirst in front of the sheriff's office, scattering a small puddle left over from the early morning shower. The sun had come out shortly after the rain and glared off the wet road the entire drive into town. Unaccustomed to wearing sunglasses—they only got in a cowboy's way—he winced from the blinding light that worked its way under the brim of his hat. That and guilt over the searching looks Deanna had given him across the breakfast table had worried the fire out of him.

  When he'd emerged from the shower first thing that morning, fresh dressed and shaved, Shep had found his tousled house-guest preparing breakfast in his robe. As much as he'd seen Aunt Sue in the same getup on many a morning, it had never hit him like a cross between a kick in the belly and the flu. Worse, he almost liked it.

  Nothing he said sounded right after the lie he told about going into town for some forgotten supplies, so he'd stuck to little more than polite conversation. He insisted the omelet she'd made was delicious, even if he'd left part of it untouched. And it was. It just didn't go well with the casual deceit sometimes required by his former profession.

  Shep would like to think he fooled her, but the half-frightened expression on her face as she stood in the door and saw him off left him unsure. The only thing he was sure of was that the sooner this was over, the better.

  "There's our boy now, right on time," Clyde Barrett announced when Shep entered his office to the eighth strike of the courthouse clock.

  "Clyde," Shep acknowledged, waiting for his eyes to adjust to being inside.

  His chair scraping on the hardwood floor, Clyde got up and cleared his throat. "Shepard Jones, meet I.S. Special Agent Voorhees. He's the fella handling your little gal's case."

  "Not my little gal." Did Clyde say Voorhees?

  At Shep's disclaimer, the agent stepped into his line of sight. "Long time, no see, buddy. How's the knee?"

  Shep heard Clyde's introduction as well as recognized the agent extending his hand to him, but he had a hard time believing either. Gearing down to avoid the ice patch instinct of what lay ahead, Shep turned without a word and hung his Stetson on the paneled wall next to the door. Unlike the rest of him, his mind was in overdrive, jerking him into the past where his last encounter with Jay Voorhees lay incredibly fresh.

  There was Jay, years younger, hovering over Shep's stretcher as the paramedics loaded him into the ambulance with his knee blown to bits.

  A fierce anger Shep had thought long buried flashed over, curling his fingers into tight fists against his palms as he stared at Voorhees's outstretched hand. From beyond the heated turmoil, a voice reminded him that he'd forgiven the man. It had been part of his healing process.

  "It reminds me it's there now and then," Shep replied, completing the handshake out of polite obligation, nothing more.

  He had forgiven Voorhees, hadn't he? It wasn't as if Jay had intended to end Shep's career and engagement. The ambitious agent had simply pushed the envelope of risk, ignoring Shep's instinct and protest. It had all been the result of the same-old, same-old interdepartmental competition common to different agencies forced to work with each other.

  Shep was to protect the DEA witness against a major drug trafficker. As head of the DEA investigation, Voorhees was Shep's senior, there to make certain the U.S. Marshal succeeded in his assignment. Shep's wariness of the forced partnership had been justified by too little shared information and too much fervor to advance a career.

  "You two know each other then?" Clyde remarked in surprise.

  "We've worked together before." Shep shifted a riveting look back to Voorhees. "International Services, eh? You've been moving up the ladder." Voorhees had been a Special Agent assigned to the Intelligence Center in the District of Columbia, where Shep worked. His loose-cannon approach evidently hadn't hurt his career.

  "I'm in the highest percentile for conviction rate. That kind of record speaks for itself," Voorhees answered without a modicum of modesty

  "Well, I'm glad to have played my part in your success." Shep's wry drawl sent his memory fast-tracking back to the past, defying his notion that he'd let it go and let God.

  The desk clerk had clearly been out of his element when they checked in at the Interstate Motor Lodge after a twelve-hour drive. Although reservations had been made and paid for by the agency under their assumed names, the clerk had to start the check-in procedure over three times. Then he had trouble finding the right keys, the whole while wiping sweaty palms on his shirt and saying he was new at the job.

  While his explanation seemed reasonable, it just hadn't felt right. As a precaution, Shep suggested they just go elsewhere on their own when he returned to the car, but his partner nixed the idea. Voorhees joked that if it were a setup, they'd catch the hit men too. At least Shep had thought the agent was joking at the time.

  That night Shep slept in a chair behind the only entrance with one eye and both ears open—a move that saved their lives. He'd heard or rather sensed their stea
lthy approach in time to send the witness into the bathroom with Voorhees. When the intruders burst in, SWAT style, semiautomatics firing, Shep took them both out from behind, but not before a ricocheting bullet caught him in the knee. Two dead men and hospitalization for Shep later, the witness testified, putting a major hitter in the drug world away. Voorhees got a commendation and a promotion. Shep got a commendation and a disability discharge.

  "Oh, I've earned a few on my own since then," Voorhees said, pulling Shep back to the present. "Heckuva bad break for you though."

  Voorhees was as full of himself now as back then. Shep maintained indifference to hide his quagmire of emotions. "Goes with the job, I guess."

  Clyde broke the awkward silence that followed. "Can I get you some coffee, Shep?"

  "No thanks. Let's just take care of Agent Voorhees's business and let me get back to my own. So what's the story on Deanna Manetti, Voorhees?"

  "Maybe embezzlement, maybe money laundering, maybe poor taste in lovers... or maybe all of the above."

  Shep took the first two in professional stride but mentally tripped over the word lovers. It wasn't as if it was news that Deanna had made a bad choice in men, but the shabbiness implied by Voorhees's word choice didn't fit Shep's perception of her. She needed help, not persecution.

  "...car bomb, but forensics found no body," Voorhees went on. "My guess is, he double-crossed the Canadian cartel and faked his death to throw them off his trail."

  "Whoa," Shep said, throwing up his hands to gain time to catch up. He was not Deanna's keeper... not now. "Cartel? Deanna was laundering money for a drug cartel?" Beyond skeptical, Shep was incredulous. "She hasn't got a dollar's worth of change to her name, unless it's stashed somewhere else. I flipped through her purse."

  Had she lied about being strapped, too? Considering her state when he found Deanna, she hadn't. If she'd had money, a woman like her would have lit out for anywhere but Buffalo Butte.

  "You can take the man out of the job, but you can't take the Marshal out of the man." Coming from anyone else, Voorhees's observation might have been flattering. "But we checked the car this morning... nothing."