Mountain Sheriff

by B. J Daniels

  He frowned. “You said Nina was going to write something down for you? Like what?”

  Charity shrugged. “She said she’d had an interesting life. Everybody thinks their life would make a good book. What would make Wade think Nina met with foul play?”

  He shrugged.

  She wasn’t buying it. “Maybe there was something going on between them.”

  “I don’t think so.” He tried to think of something to change the subject.

  Charity looked disappointed but not deterred. “It would explain why Wade hired her without any experience and so quickly, why he seemed to think she could do no wrong, even why he’s so worried about her now, huh?”

  Yeah, that was one explanation all right.

  “But then there’s the gun she bought for protection,” Charity said.

  “Gun?” It wasn’t registered to Nina Monroe or it would have come up on the computer. And why had she thought she needed protection?

  “She showed it to Hank Bridges one night at the Duck-In.”

  “She showed it to the bartender?” He definitely didn’t like the sound of this.

  “I guess she’d had quite a lot to drink—she was the last to leave the bar. Hank was worried about her getting home safely. She told him she could take care of herself, then opened her purse and showed him the gun.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  “You know Hank.” She rolled her eyes. Hank Bridges still lived with his parents. His mother, Sarah, was Timber Falls’s postmistress, and Buzz, his father, was a carver out at Dennison Ducks. His younger brother, Blaine, was still in high school and worked part-time for Charity. Neither young man was what you’d call manly. Hank, especially, was scared to death of guns and spiders and, well, most everything outdoors.

  “Hank didn’t know what kind of gun it was.”

  Charity nodded. “Just said it was small but lethal-looking.”

  “When was this?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “What if Nina did write something down and mailed it to me?” she cried.

  He stared at her. “Like what?”

  “Her life history. Or maybe why she was carrying a gun for protection?” Charity suggested.

  “Sounds like a long shot.”

  “But it’s a theory, anyway.”

  Charity and her theories.

  He swore under his breath. Just a few nights before Nina disappeared she’d been at the Duck-In drinking too much and waving around a firearm? She’d also had an argument with some man at her bungalow earlier Tuesday evening, according to Florie. “She happen to mention to Hank why she thought she needed protection?”

  Charity wagged her head. “Hank didn’t want to know.”

  “That’s everything you know about Nina?”

  She nodded.

  He studied her. Why did he get the feeling she still wasn’t telling him everything? Because she was Charity.

  “You can’t really keep me from doing this story, you know,” she said.

  He knew. It would soon be public knowledge that one of Dennison Ducks painters had gone missing. He couldn’t keep Charity from printing that.

  What worried him now was that Charity would go after the story like the bloodhound she was. He groaned at the thought, remembering what Ethel had said.

  “This could be dangerous,” he warned.

  Charity arched a brow. “I’m a journalist. We don’t back off from a story because it might be dangerous. It would be like you refusing to do your job for the same reason.”

  Right. “Okay, how are your sisters?” he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to change her mind. Not Charity. And the harder he pushed, the more determined she would become.

  “Why are you asking about my sisters?” she questioned suspiciously. “Is one of them missing, too?”

  “No, I just…” He wished now he’d simply eaten his pie and said nothing. “I was just curious. I saw Hope a while back, that’s all.”

  Charity was still eyeing him as if he’d only brought up her family as an example of why the two of them were so wrong for each other. Her crazy family. Not to mention his own. And all he’d wanted to do was change the subject. “Hope told me she split up with her boyfriend.”

  Charity made a face. “Good riddance. She deserved better.”

  “You’ve seen her, then?” he asked, surprised. He got the impression that Charity tried to distance herself from her family—as if that would change her DNA.

  “Hope drove up one night last week, brought a bottle of wine and a pizza from the Duck-In. We both got a little tipsy and giggly.” She smiled in memory.

  He wished he’d seen that. He could just imagine Charity’s full lips stained red with wine. Damn, but he missed kissing her.

  Charity pulled her piece of lemon-meringue pie close enough so she could get a fork into it. She gazed down at the bite with nothing short of worship. “Her boyfriend turned out to be a real bastard.” She put the bite in her mouth, closed her lips on the tines and shut her eyes as she slowly withdrew the fork from between her lips.

  He groaned inwardly as he watched her and tried damned hard not to remember a time he’d been responsible for putting that look on her face. “How was he a bastard?”

  She opened her eyes, grimaced as if disappointed.

  “Tart?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “You say the sweetest things.”

  “I meant the pie.”

  She smiled and took another bite, obviously knowing only too well what he meant. She didn’t close her eyes this time. “I think her boyfriend took advantage of her.”

  Mitch felt himself squirm. “In what way?”

  She looked over at him, her gaze locking with his. Her eyes were warm honey, flecked with equal amounts sunbeams and mischief. “He wanted her—just not badly enough to marry her.”

  “The bastard,” Mitch said.

  “Funny.” She took another bite of pie.

  Speaking of boyfriends… “Do you know if Nina was seeing anyone?”

  Charity shook her head.

  Damn. He could see the wheels turning. He’d given her something else to go after, and Charity was amazing at finding out information. “If you should learn anything more about Nina or her disappearance…”

  She smiled at him. “I have your number.”

  Yeah. He glanced at his watch, then at her. Time to go. But he hesitated. That stupid red heart-shaped stone bothered him, as did Charity’s story about the black pickup and the man who’d knocked her down at the post office.

  Mitch feared that the black pickup and the man at the post office were somehow tied in with Nina’s disappearance. If Nina really had disappeared. He was still holding out hope that she’d show up before dark.

  “Also, if you see that black pickup or get any more gifts…” He couldn’t help but worry about Charity, especially given that she’d been asking questions about Nina the day the painter had disappeared. Except what could he do? Lock Charity up? Not let her out of his sight? “You’re going back to your office?”

  She nodded.

  “Is Blaine coming in to help put the paper together tonight?”

  Charity smiled at his concern, eating it up like pie. “I won’t be alone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He started to deny that he worried about her, but saved his breath as he picked up his hat from the seat beside him, settled it on his head and looked at her. “Lunch was a good idea.”

  “Lunch is always a good idea,” she said, and smiled up at him as he slid from the booth. She had a killer smile. It had nearly done him in more times than he wanted to remember.

  He stood for a moment just looking at her, tempted. Tempted to ask her to the community-center dance next weekend. Tempted to see what she was doing for dinner tonight. Just plain tempted.

  But then the strangest thing happened. He heard wedding bells. It was only the old bell ringing down at the church signaling school was out, but the effect was like a cold showe
r.

  “See ya,” he said, and tried not to run as he left.

  Charity let out a long sigh and fought to slow her pounding pulse. The man had no idea what he did to her. Thank heaven. If she showed even the slightest weakness, she’d be a goner.

  “How was it?” Betty asked, sliding into the seat Mitch had just vacated. She wasn’t asking about the food.

  Charity couldn’t help grinning at the older woman. “Nice. Sweet. I think I’m getting to him.”

  Betty laughed and shook her head. “I would have given up on that man years ago.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Hell, girl, there’s dozens of men who could curl your toes if you’d just let them.” Betty gave her a sympathetic look. “Some men just aren’t the marrying kind, hon. Mitch thinks he’s…damaged goods because of his folks. You know that. Marriage scares him. Maybe especially with you.”

  Charity nodded. She knew only too well how Mitch felt. “Then I guess I’ll be an old maid.”

  Betty howled at that, sliding out of the booth as a group of out-of-towners came in the door. They shook off raindrops as they inquired about the blue plate special and where exactly Frank, the bread deliveryman, had seen Bigfoot.

  Charity sat for a moment, seriously considering the idea of being an old maid. It didn’t have much appeal. But it would be all Mitch’s fault. That was some consolation.

  As she started to leave, she saw the black pickup. It cruised by slowly, then took off as if the driver had seen her watching him.

  She made a dash for her car, parked down the block in front of the newspaper. Her hands were shaking as she leaped behind the wheel. The engine turned over immediately and she whipped out into the street.

  She could see the black truck turn right at the end of Main onto Mill Creek Road. She took off in pursuit, fumbling to dial the Sheriff’s Department number on her cell phone as she did.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” Sissy said, sounding half-asleep.

  “Where’s Mitch?” Charity demanded, heart pounding.

  Sissy sighed her Oh-it’s-you-again sigh. “Out on patrol.” Mitch could have been in the john or even dead and Sissy still would have said that.

  Charity swung a right just past the Spit Curl. The pickup was already past town, headed out the narrow road that led to Dennison Ducks and beyond.

  “Get word to Mitch that I found the pickup. He’ll know what I’m talking about. I’m chasing it. We’re headed east toward the plant. Tell him to hurry!”

  That’s when she saw the second present. It was stuck to the passenger seat of her car by one long sharp thorn. A bright red rose.

  “WHAT THE HELL is that woman thinking?” Mitch demanded when he got the call over the radio a few minutes later.

  “We’re talking Charity here,” Sissy retorted.

  Mitch swore as he found a place to turn around. He’d stopped by the post office and talked to Sarah Bridges. She hadn’t gotten a look at the person who’d knocked Charity down in the parking lot. In fact, like Charity, she couldn’t even be sure it was a man. Just someone in a big dark hooded raincoat.

  After that, he’d driven around town, thinking he might come across Nina’s red compact. Wade didn’t have a plate number. Just a description of the vehicle. And without Nina’s real name…

  But Mitch hadn’t seen the car. Or a black pickup. Or anyone walking down the highway in a dark raincoat and looking suspicious.

  He had, however, been counting the reasons he should stay clear of Charity Jenkins. There were many. At the top of the list was the fact that the woman lacked good sense and, worse, stole his reason, as well. When he was around her, it was as if she’d drugged him, his desire for her a lethal dose that would kill him eventually if he wasn’t careful.

  He reached the turnoff and headed toward Dennison Ducks as he tried to calculate how far behind Charity he was. He knew that if she chased the pickup past the plant, she could be in real trouble. The area was isolated, the logging road narrow and seldom used. A person could get lost just a few feet off the road up there, the vegetation was so thick.

  Didn’t she realize how dangerous this was? Chasing a vehicle and driver she thought was following her? What kind of sense did that make?

  What worried him the most was that Charity would be acting on impulse—after all it was Charity—and not even considering that the pickup might be leading her into a trap. If the driver of the black pickup had some reason to get Charity on an isolated road alone, she’d just played right into his hands.

  Just before he reached Dennison Ducks, he tried her cell-phone number. Either out of the calling area. Or turned off. Great.

  Sissy had told him that she’d heard Charity had accosted Liam Sawyer earlier. Liam’s new wife had called to complain. Maybe Charity was now chasing Liam.

  But that didn’t explain the red heart-shaped stone that someone had left for her or the note: THINKING OF YOU. Both worried him.

  Charity was in trouble. He could feel it.

  As he passed the Dennison Ducks parking lot, he looked to see if either rig was there. No black truck. No yellow VW bug. He swore and kept going, driving as fast as he could, considering the rain was making the narrow muddy road even more treacherous.

  He tried not to think about what would happen if Charity caught up with the truck and driver. She wouldn’t have thought that far ahead, knowing her. Damn, why did she always have to be so impulsive and take matters into her own hands?

  He felt a stab of guilt. It wasn’t just her screwball genes. He hadn’t really bought her story and she knew it. He’d had a rational explanation for the present, the attack at the post office, the mysterious black truck she said was following her.

  Now, knowing Charity, she was dead set on proving to him that she was right—even if it killed her.

  He hoped to hell she was wrong this time, though. If the black pickup really had been following her…

  He came around a corner in the road and hit his brakes. The VW bug was sitting sideways in the middle of the road, the driver’s-side door hanging open, the interior light on, but even from here, he could see that the car was empty.

  Dear Lord, where was Charity?

  Chapter Seven

  Charity bailed off the mountainside on foot, clutching her camera to her breast, pretty sure she’d lost her mind.

  Not far up the road, she’d realized—belatedly—that there was a good chance the driver of the pickup was leading her into a trap. He’d left the red rose in her car. Had he also made sure she saw him? Because he wanted her to chase him?

  It definitely looked that way. He’d taken a road that was seldom used, and while it eventually wound back around and came out on the highway into Timber Falls, there was a lot of remote country between here and there.

  He was drawing her deeper into that country. The truth was, he could have lost her easily since he was driving a vehicle that could go faster than hers.

  But at the same time, she desperately wanted to find out who he was—and prove to Mitch the man in the black pickup existed.

  That was when the desperate idea had struck her. As the truck disappeared around a curve in the road ahead, she slammed on her brakes, grabbed her camera from the case, got out of her car and dropped over the side of the road down through the thick tangle of underbrush and trees.

  The plan was simple. She would cut off the pickup on foot. The truck would soon reach a hairpin curve and loop back directly below the spot where she’d left the VW.

  All she had to do was drop straight down the mountainside on foot, push through the jungle of growth, keep from killing herself and reach the road below before the pickup did. Then she could hide in the bushes and get a shot of the pickup—and driver—as both went by.

  She’d come this far and she was going to get a photograph of the truck to show Mitch, or die trying.

  The idea had seemed inspired at the time.

  Now, committed in more ways than one, more out of control than in, trying t
o protect the camera and save her own life, she crashed down the steep mountainside through the soaking wet foliage, ready to admit it had been a less-than-brilliant plan.

  “Eek!” she squealed when, too late, she saw the huge spider web and pretty much fell through it. Frantically she brushed at the silken threads on her face and hair, her raincoat hood falling back, as she continued her downward plunge through the wet ferns and pine boughs, with no chance of stopping. All she could hope was to stay on her feet in the rotting maple leaves.

  Sometimes she scared herself with her harebrained ideas. At these moments, she could kind of see why the thought of marriage to her scared Mitch.

  In the distance, she thought she heard the pickup’s engine. Soon it would be on the road directly below her. She couldn’t see the road yet. Then again, she couldn’t see five feet in front of her because of the forest, but she knew she had to be getting close.

  She just hoped she didn’t come crashing out of the trees and dense brush only to be run down by the truck. Regrettably it appeared she might reach the road at the same time as the black pickup.

  And at some point she’d thought this plan was inspired? She was about to find out the driver’s intentions—and in the worst possible place. That was if she didn’t break her neck before she reached the road. And he didn’t run over her.

  That was when she heard it. Something crashing through the trees and brush just below her on the mountain. Something big. She caught a glimpse of brown fur.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she grabbed at tree branches, trying to stop her descent, thoughts of the black pickup replaced by the terrifying thought of colliding with a bear.

  Unfortunately she was moving too fast down the precipitous slope to decelerate at all.