Winsor, Linda

by Along Came Jones

  "Easy He's not worth working yourself into a tizzy." The sympathetic touch of Shep's hands on her shoulders checked her ballooning fury. She turned and leaned into the circle of his waiting arms.

  "So now what'll we do?" she asked, laying a weary head against Shep's shoulder. "I don't want to go with them. I shouldn't have to. I'm innocent."

  "In that case," Voorhees said, "you won't object to my searching your purse."

  The purse. Of course. Whatever C. R. was after was in her purse. "Not at all. All I know is you won't find any money... except the five you gave me," she said to Shep.

  Agent Voorhees took up the dusty purse Deanna had left on the table in her angry confusion. But after opening it and dumping out all the contents, nothing was revealed that didn't belong there—a few folded tissues, a spare lipstick, folding hairbrush, and a wallet containing Shep's five, her license, and assorted medical and charge cards. Stymied, the official ran his fingers inside the expensive clutch, along the seams, and discovered its single zippered compartment. Aside from dental cleaning gum, a safety pin, a ball of lint, and a small tin of aspirin, there was nothing else.

  "Not exactly the Denver mint, is it?"

  Unphased by her dry observation, Agent Voorhees started patting C. R. down.

  "What, you think he might have it on him?"

  Voorhees pounced on Deanna like a cat on a mouse. "And what would that be, Miss Manetti?"

  Trying not to shrink from the agent's grilling look, she shrugged. "How should I know? Whatever it was he was trying to steal my purse for."

  "What I'd like to know," C. R. spoke up, his speech a little slurred by his swelling lip, "is how you feds caught up with us so fast."

  Deanna bristled. "Don't you say us, you creep."

  "So how did you find me?" C.R. repeated as Voorhees finished patting down his back. "Did you follow her and wait?"

  "That's about the size..."

  "Marshal Jones tipped us off," the agent said.

  "Marshal?" A shower of icy pinpricks lifted the gooseflesh on Deanna's skin from head to toe. Her mind staggered over the ragtag timeline of events. No one could have followed her. She was lost... desperate and lost when she ran off the road on Shep's ranch. Then two days later, the geologists appeared. Except they weren't geologists like Shep said... lied.

  "Marshal?" Deanna repeated, not wanting to believe her shepherd had betrayed her. But Shep was a rancher. No way could he fake Hopewell and set up Buffalo Butte just to trap a fugitive. That had to be real. "Like in a police kind of marshal?" she asked Agent Voorhees.

  "Ex-marshal, Deanna," Shep clarified... like that somehow made his calling the federal agents on her all right. He turned her so that she had to look him in the eye. "I knew you were in some kind of trouble, and I wanted to help."

  "When did you call them?" She felt sick to her stomach, or maybe she was going to pass out again.

  "I called in the first day we came to town, but that has nothing to do with—"

  "No, don't." Deanna backed away from Shep, wishing she would pass out. And when she woke up again, none of this would have happened. "Not another word. I wouldn't believe anything you said anyway."

  Things like I love you. I want to share my dream with you. Would you consider giving the West another chance? She bit her lip as hard as she could, but nothing she did or willed stopped the glassy hurt gathering in her eyes. I ran away to the hills, too; God healed me. God is enough. What kind of a man would use God to further his lies?

  Voorhees came to Shep's defense. "He was just doing his duty, Miss Manetti. If he hadn't tried to win your trust and get you to talk, he'd have been guilty of aiding and abetting a criminal."

  "If you're trying to help me, Voorhees, I'd appreciate it if you stop now."

  Invisible fingers of conviction constricted around Deanna's throat, forcing her to swallow the cold, harsh lump of reality As its poison digested and spread, she stared in anguish at her fallen knight—her fallen shepherd. "You knew all along."

  "Deanna, I was professionally obligated to cooperate—"

  "So that's what you call it." Her nostrils flared with the distress of her breath. What a pathetic sap she'd been, so desperate for love that she'd taken the fall, not once, but twice. "Well, you did it real good, mister."

  Shep reached for her. "Deanna—"

  "Don't you come near me, Shepard Jones, or so help me, I'll... I'll..."

  What could she do, take Shep and an armed federal agent on? Looking about like a trapped animal for any means of escape, Deanna spied the open closet door.

  "I'll be in here until our ride comes."

  She spoke to Agent Voorhees, not Shep. He wasn't going to exist in her world. Yet halfway inside, raw emotion overrode her will. Deanna peered around the door at the handsome Judas. "You knew that C. R. was alive, didn't you?"

  His silence shouted admission from the thinned line of his mouth. Deanna felt she needed to run, to retreat before she made a total fool of herself, but she had one last round of condemnation to fire, its fuse burning, painful, within the innermost chamber of her being.

  "You know, lying and leading me to think that I was safe and... and even loved was low enough, Shepard Jones, but..."

  Her voice broke, choked off by a sob Deanna was determined to suppress. Its razor-sharp barbs cut all the way down. "But that guy..." She jabbed a finger at C. R. "...was a prince, compared to what you did." Tears trickled down her cheeks with a will of their own. "He used love to fool me, but you used God."

  Deanna drew in a ragged breath, glowering at Shep's tall blurred figure through emotion-razed eyes. "He broke my heart, but you—" Bitterness seeped into her mouth, saturating her voice. "You... broke... my... spirit."

  Ducking into the stuffy darkness of the small enclosure, Deanna shut the door behind her. There without prying eyes and false wagging tongues, she could cry. There she could wear her bruised and battered heart on her sleeve. There she could plead for God to remove her broken spirit from its bleeding, beating ruin, never again to be healed. She couldn't—wouldn't—bear its breaking again. God had to understand. It hurt too much.

  Twenty-eight

  "Deanna!" Shep stuck his head in the door of the sedan, cutting Jay Voorhees off from getting into the drivers seat. Deanna had refused to come out of the closet or accept the agent's offer to allow her to ride back to Hopewell with Shep. Eyes swollen and nose red, she looked away from him, staring out the tinted window in the backseat. Agent Kessler separated her from the cuffed C. R. Majors. Much as Shep hated an audience, he had no choice but to say what he had to.

  "All I ask is one thing." When she refused to look at him, Shep forged on. "Don't do the same thing to me that the authorities did to you. Don't judge me guilty until you hear me out."

  "Isn't that sweet—" Majors grunted, slammed by the backhand of Deanna's purse before Kessler could even react. Her aim was incredible, considering she'd not even moved her unseeing eyes from the dark window.

  Majors swore through the fingers he pressed to his fresh bleeding lip. "She did it again! You keep her away from me or I won't tell you anything."

  "Just shut up or I'll move up front and let her at you," Kessler warned in disgust at the whining perp.

  "Just think about it, Deanna," Shep pleaded. "That's all I'm asking." Having been in the center ring of this circus long enough, he backed away to let Voorhees take the wheel. Aside from thumping Majors, Deanna had been in a zombielike state since she emerged from the pantry

  "See you back at the ranch, buddy," Voorhees called through the open window of the car as he shoved it into reverse.

  I'mnot your buddy.

  Shep checked the annoyed retort. It was as pointless as his plea to Deanna. Even if he could convince her that he'd acted in her best interest, there was her tirade about being stranded on the backside of the world, cleaning stables, and wearing hand-me-downs when she was accustomed to the Manhattan rush hour, diesel fumes, and Fifth Avenue fashions. Had he misread her a
s badly as he'd done Ellen, thinking that Deanna was actually warming to his lifestyle?

  Behind Shep, a horn blew loudly, startling him from his dirge of introspection. The crowd erupted into a rousing cheer for the winners of the roofing contest, the purse-snatching incident already forgotten. The world went on, he thought, too dour to bother with looking back to see who won. He was better company for the folks in the cemetery on the other side of the chain-link fence.

  "Hey handsome, you look like you just lost your best friend."

  Just ahead, Maisy winked at him from the remuda of horses tethered next to the graveyard. With her were Esther, Ruth Lawrence, and Ty McCain.

  "Is Deanna in trouble?" Esther promptly covered her mouth, as if she had no right to ask. "You don't have to tell us anything secret," she added hastily. "We're just concerned."

  "Yeah, she looked like she'd been dragged behind a horse when those fellas put her in the car," Ty observed. "Kinda like somebody else I know."

  Shep felt as if he'd been dragged behind a horse and kicked to boot. "I think it will all straighten itself out in time," he said uncertainly At least Deanna would be cleared of criminal charges. Then she'd be free to go back to New York.

  "You're not going to let her go, are you?" Maisy exclaimed. "Honey, she put more twinkle in your eye than a night full of stars in July."

  Not to mention fireworks. Deanna made him feel like a new man... when she didn't have him twisted in knots. Or squirming in misery in front of his friends. He forced brightness into his voice. "What brings you four hanging out here anyway, when the celebration's back there?"

  "Because we're all of the same loaf, Shepard," Esther told him. "That's what the Holy Book says."

  "And you look like you're about to crumble." Maisy gave Shep a big hug.

  "Besides, what's to celebrate?" Ty grumbled. "The farm boys beat us by no more than a shingle's worth of time."

  "You'll take them on the riding relays," Shep assured his friend.

  "And you'll get Deanna out of this mess and into that church," Maisy finished with a the-deal-is-sealed nod.

  "Dragging feet win no race, Shepard," Esther reminded him, every bit the schoolmarm challenging her student. "And I fully anticipate this cowboy will win this one. So off with you."

  Ty extended his hand. "Give 'em thunder."

  "Thunder my foot," Maisy derided. "Give 'em—"

  "Come along, Maisy," Esther cut in, herding the outspoken waitress like one of her prodigal students back toward the church. "Our prayers are with you, Shepard," she called over her shoulder.

  "Me and the boys are coming out this fall to get that stallion. Mark it down," Tyler promised before heading back to the relay field.

  Of the same loaf. Warmed by the support of his friends, Shep picked up his pace, thanking God for every slice and crumb.

  The Jeep was intact, save a sprung handle on the back window where Majors had broken in. Shep slipped into the driver's seat with renewed determination. How could he fail, when he had the loaf and the Baker behind him? As he inserted the key Deanna left on the table in the community hall, an electronic beep sounded from under his seat. Raising a puzzled brow, Shep reached for the cell phone he kept there.

  The message-waiting feature blinked on its face. Shep activated the caller ID, tensing as he recognized the number of Will Addison's private line in D.C.

  Of the same loaf. Esther's gentle reminder served as a balm. After initializing the hands free option, he pushed recall. Electronic fingers amplified by the Jeep speakers dialed a snappy, if unmelodic, tune above the roar of the vehicle's reversing engine.

  Lord, he prayed when the line started ringing, I'm counting on this being the icing on the loaf.

  The call was answered on the second ring. "Addison here."

  "Shep back at you, Will," he replied crisply, bracing himself. "What have you got for me?

  ***

  Deanna brooded in silence on the ride back to Hopewell, while Jon Kessler grilled C. R. on the extent of her involvement. C. R. was doing the right thing, but for the wrong reason. The more he cooperated with the authorities, the more consideration he'd receive when charged. Singing like a songbird was how the crime shows characterized his confession, but it was hardly music to her ears. The more he said, the angrier she became—angry at herself for being so gullible, angry at C. R. for his total lack of contrition, and angry at Shep because... just because. She needed time to sort out the information being revealed bit by bit.

  "You have to admit, Deanna, you were the perfect choice." C. R. announced, adding insult to injury. "Ambitious, which meant you'd grab at the chance to manage your own team, with a nonexistent social life, which made you susceptible to charm from unexpected quarters, like the boardroom. New to the job, which made you the perfect patsy. People in-house would have questioned the deposits. Of course the fact that you're a looker made it more pleasant for me."

  Jon looked at the man in disbelief. "I don't think there's enough room in here for your stupidity, much less your ego, Majors."

  "He's right though." Deanna's flat-line admission capped a tumult of emotions, gnawing at her insides and clawing to be released. "I was an easy mark."

  "But it was fun while it lasted, doll. That's why I'm clearing you."

  "Ignore the jerk." Jon placed a restraining grip on her arm. "You can get even on the witness stand."

  "That's all well and good, Majors," Agent Voorhees spoke up from the driver's seat, "but if she's so innocent, why did you tail her? She hide the money or what?"

  "You figure it out, Mr. DEA man... or wait till my attorney cuts a deal with the prosecution."

  How could she have ever fallen for such a slimeball? Uncertain if she was going to blow up with rage or implode with anguish, Deanna rested her head against the window as the car turned into the long dirt lane leading up to Hopewell. Hopewell. Two ramshackle rows of buildings of what used to be... or what could have been.

  Either way they were in ruins.

  As they pulled up at the shiny travel trailer, the third geologist, or rather agent, met them. "I've called for a chopper to transport the suspects to Great Falls. Should be here in an hour or so."

  "What's wrong with the car?" Voorhees asked.

  "It's all over the news that Majors' body was not found in the car, so headquarters didn't want to take any chances. Dusault will have his men all over this."

  "Blasted reporters!" Voorhees swore under his breath. "Okay Let's pack up this show." He turned to Jon as he shifted into gear again. "We'll take the suspects to the house. More room to wait there."

  "Who is Dusault?" Deanna asked Jon. She hadn't heard that name before.

  "He's the kingpin of the syndicate Majors double-crossed."

  "You two help us nail him, and we'll go easy on you."

  At least the younger agent acknowledged she could be innocent. In Voorhees's eyes, she was guilty until proven innocent.

  "Don't judge me guilty until you hear me out." But how could she believe what Shep had to say? Granted, she'd told a few lies herself, but—

  "Of course we'll have to keep you in protective custody until the trial," Voorhees explained. "Witnesses against people like Dusault have a way of disappearing or coming to a suspicious end before they make it to the court."

  Protective custody? The words banished one quandary for another. "Do you mean jail?"

  "I hope not," C. R. declared. "That's a death sentence, doll."

  She pulled her arm from Jon's restraining hand and raised her purse in threat. "Call me doll one more time and it'll take more than this agent to keep me from busting your upper lip."

  "Okay, I get it." C. R. threw up his cuffed hands in front of his face. "I never saw this side of you. Must be PMS or something."

  Exactly what happened next was unclear. Someone who looked and sounded like her leaped across the car and Agent Kessler, digging for blood, a pound of flesh, a handful of hair, it didn't matter, just so it came from C. R. Majors. Like a
cat gone wild, her evil twin called C. R. words that brought the taste of Ivory soap to her mouth. Then the white-hot fury of arms and feet dissolved into the bright light of the western sun as Deanna was hauled outside. The thunder in her ears gave way to heavy breathing and a fierce barking.

  "What in tarnation is goin' on?" Ticker Deerfield scrambled over the corral fence and ran after Smoky toward the car Deanna was pinned to, her cheek crushed on the warm hood.

  Before she could even guess, the man holding her down cried out in pain and started to thrash about in a bizarre dance. "Call off the dog or I'll shoot him," Voorhees shouted, digging in his coat for his gun and hopping about on one leg while trying to shake Smoky's snarling grip off his ankle.

  Ticker had to pry the dog's mouth apart with his fingers before Smoky would give up the agent's leg. Voorhees pulled down his sock to examine the damage. "I ought to—"

  Seeing the man reach inside his jacket, Deanna stepped in front of the still growling mongrel. "It's my fault, not his. Smoky thought you were hurting me. It's only a scratch—"

  The agent produced a handkerchief and smirked. "Do you mind?"

  "Does Shep know about all this?" Ticker asked, sparing her from blabbering some sort of reply.

  "The marshal's cooperated all along," Voorhees said, pulling his sock up over the makeshift pad, "in detaining and apprehending the suspects. He should be right behind us."

  "Ex-marshal, you mean," Ticker corrected. "You of all folks ought to know Shep ain't been in the service since you caused him to take a hit in the knee."

  "Comes with the job, Pop." Voorhees flexed his foot. Determining it was okay, he stood up.

  Shep's old war wound, Deanna realized. It also explained his buddies in the service. It wasn't the armed services, as she'd assumed; it was law enforcement. Of all the ranches in Montana, she'd picked a ghost town owned by an ex-U.S. Marshal. It was almost laughable... almost.

  "I'll take the suspects into the house," Jon spoke up from the other side of the car. To Deanna's horror, a trickle of blood ran down from C. R.'s nose. Heavenly Father, had she done that?