Bitter Rain (Kate Fox Book 3)

by Shannon Baker

  “Kate.” We both paused for no reason. Finally, he said, “It’ll be okay.”

  He had a way of putting my fears for Carly in a bag and tying a string around the top. Containing them somehow. It wouldn’t hold forever, but for now, I could go on. I repeated Dad’s favorite saying and Baxter joined in, having heard it from me. “It’ll be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.”

  The quiet comfort Baxter offered lasted long enough for me to turn from the lake road to the highway. That’s when a doe decided to play chicken with my Charger. She sprang from the barrow ditch on the left and bounded in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, the seat belt slicing into my shoulder. I flinched, ready to feel the impact of flesh and steel.

  I must have squeezed my eyes shut for a split second because I opened them to see her dashing off to the west, like Bambi after a butterfly.

  My blood racing, heart pumping, breath sucking, all I could think of was the Mercury Marquis on its roof. I remembered the caller’s plea. Help me!

  “I’ll try,” I answered, then felt foolish for talking to the windshield. I started back down the road.

  Since I didn’t know the caller’s identity or if she needed rescuing, my first priority was to find out about the preppers. If I could come up with some probable cause—and heaven only knew what that might be—I could check out their ranch headquarters. Find out if the girl was there.

  On my way into town, I called Dad’s cousin Stormy at R&S Auto. Stormy worked on cars, tractors, and haying equipment, sharpened ice skates and mower blades, and on slow afternoons, played pitch in his oily back room with some of the old ranchers who’d retired and moved to town. Someone answered and then hung up.

  A minute later, my phone rang. “Sorry, Katie. I’m not used to this phone. It hangs up every time I answer the damned thing.”

  I’m pretty sure the whack I heard was his wife, Donna, slapping his arm. I’d seen her do it a hundred times. “Stormy!”

  He sounded contrite to me. “Pardon my French.” Donna had even less tolerance for cursing than Dad.

  I warmed at the thought of them going through their same routines after forty years of marriage. “I’ve got an abandoned vehicle off the highway north at the county line. Can you tow it to town for me?”

  “No can do. Brenda shelled out that pumpkin last night, and me and Donna are on our way to Broken Butte to see it.”

  More commotion on their end, and Stormy followed up. “Donna says it’s a granddaughter, not a pumpkin or an it. But I can get ’er towed first thing tomorrow mornin’.”

  That would have to do. It only took ten minutes from my front porch before I slowed my speed on the edge of town. A closed sign hung in the Long Branch window, and the few other businesses in Hodgekiss were dark. Tuff Hendricks’s pickup was parked at a wacky angle on Main Street, but that was probably from last night.

  Backing the cruiser into its spot close to the courthouse back door, I gazed up at the still-sunny sky. It’d be nice to enjoy the morning before the rain hit. Too bad I couldn’t still saddle my old roan, Cactus, and ride the hills. Ted still owned Cactus. Carly’s mare, Burner, was a full sister to Cactus, five years younger. Ted insisted I let Burner stay at Frog Creek, safe and sound until Carly returned for her.

  I couldn’t find Carly. But maybe I could find the other missing girl. Giving one last glance of regret to the blue sky and sunshine, I unlocked the courthouse door and clambered up the back stairs in the mausoleum silence of the century-old building. I hadn’t ever seen a ghost here, but it seemed possible they’d lurk in these halls. I didn’t exactly run to my office, but I didn’t waste any time slapping on the lights in the windowless cubby at the end of the corridor. I booted up ol’ Bessy, my computer, and connected to a 70s rock music station, setting the volume low.

  Ethel Bender, the county assessor, kept the records on who owned property in Grand County. Betty Paxton, the county treasurer, collected taxes on the properties. Either of them could probably rattle off owners without taking time to consider. Unfortunately, on a Sunday, my best option seemed to be public records online. It didn’t take me long to find the free website and punch in Grand County.

  My phone rang and I was concentrating so hard I didn’t check the caller ID. I recognized my mistake as soon as I said, “Sheriff.”

  Louise, my older sister, sounded like tiny vise grips squeezed her vocal cords. “Why aren’t you out here?”

  Might be better to pop back out to the Olson place and face Marty and Rhonda and their firearms than Louise when she was stressed out. Luckily, she couldn’t strangle me through fiber-optic line. “Something came up. I’m not going to make it today.”

  “Something…?” Sputter, sputter. “No. I’ve got this listed in the program. ‘Four County Sheriffs Compete in Wild Cow Milking.’ It’s the grand finale. The others are here.”

  Big doings were underway today at the fairgrounds in Grand County. Rog and Kendal Dugan’s little girl, Scarlett, had been born with a rare disease I couldn’t pronounce, and since Rog worked as a hired man on a local ranch, they didn’t have much to see them through the long trial ahead. Louise had arranged a committee to put together the mother of all fundraisers. It would start with a barbeque beef lunch, all food donated and free-will offerings accepted. It moved on to a team roping competition and ended with a wild cow milking contest.

  I winced as if warding off the blows. “I didn’t plan an accident. Even you know that official sheriff business needs to come first. Milo, Pete, and Lee will still give a good show.” And they would, but I’d get the real blue ribbon for avoiding that particular activity in which no one would emerge with dignity intact.

  Louise had some more to say, including accusing me of lying to dodge my civic duty and how I had never been a team player and how disappointed Dad would be in my behavior. By way of penance, I listened until she wore down, then apologized again and tried not to feel too relieved when I hung up.

  With three older sisters and one older brother, and three younger brothers and one younger sister, I was the ultimate middle child. I missed the wise, calm authority of Glenda. As second oldest, Louise took it upon herself to mother the rest of us, who had no intention of letting her get away with it. Diane, the next oldest, held the Overachiever card. She managed a big bank in Denver, drove the BMW whose key fob Mom used, and lived in a McMansion. Like Louise, Diane felt a certain proprietary right to direct my life.

  It’s no mystery why I relished privacy and solitude.

  Bessy, the computer, had taken a nap while Louise burned my ear, so I woke her up with a jiggle to the mouse and continued my search. The site allowed me to zero in on the renovated ranch and get an eagle’s view of the buildings. On my screen the large carport didn’t sit in the middle of the ranch yard, and the barn had a much smaller footprint. The date on the images showed the photos had been taken three years ago. I experimented with the site, trying to get it to cough up the new owners. I could search for names or addresses. I had no address for the ranch, and inserting section, township, and range didn’t get me anything. I tried variations of the Olson name to search for owners, but that netted me zero information.

  I sat back while Led Zeppelin climbed one tall stairway. Dad knew everyone and kept their family trees planted in his memory. He might know the nephew’s name who inherited the Olson place. Or maybe the name of the ranch, or even if and to whom it was sold. He was at the fairgrounds. Along with a good chunk of the population from the four-county region.

  With a big enough crowd and my well-honed Louise radar, I might be able to slip in and out with no one getting hurt. And by no one, I meant me.

  5

  There were maybe twenty thousand things I’d rather do than glad-hand at the fundraiser and perform in the grand finale by trying to squeeze a few drops of milk from a rangy cow and run it across a finish line.

  At best, I’d end up with cow manure slathered down my clothes and mud in my hair. At worst, my skull w
ould be smashed by a well-placed kick. In the middle loomed humiliation, broken bones, and missing teeth, not to mention being forced to hang out with Lee Barnett and pretend we were amiable colleagues.

  I couldn’t see where being in the cow milking would help the Dugans much, since everyone there already paid an entrance fee. And my embarrassment wasn’t an extra charge. This kind of event was mostly good public relations so I could get reelected.

  I cruised three miles east of town to the fairgrounds.

  The thirty acres of mostly sand and some scraggly grass featured a rodeo arena at its center. The wooden stands, painted every five years or so by the 4-H clubs, rose on the south side. The crow’s nest towered on the north. Chutes and holding pens clustered on the east and west ends.

  Pickups and stock trailers ringed the arena, where those who couldn’t climb the stands or wanted the privacy and comfort of their vehicles could watch the action. Farther out from the arena people parked their stock trailers. Others rode horses or wandered around the grounds, visiting and teasing friends.

  Cars and SUVs filled the dirt parking lot in front of the metal 4-H building several yards from the arena. Grimy kids chased each other through a half-dozen packed picnic tables where people enjoyed beef sandwiches. The entire fairgrounds rang with good cheer, like the Fourth of July.

  If Marty and Rhonda were the kind to mingle with their neighbors, they’d be here, too. They were definitely not like us. Who were they, and why had they moved to Grand County? If Dad didn’t know anything, or more likely wouldn’t tell me, maybe someone else would. Eldon Edwards’s ranch shared a few fence lines with the Olson place. He’d have been a good one to talk to, if he hadn’t been murdered a year ago last April. Since Eldon had been Carly’s granddad, thinking of that sent me full circle back to her and one step more to the girl on the phone.

  Rain clouds edged closer but still looked a ways off. Cursing rain was something you never did in the Sandhills. Our main industry was grass. Tall, green pastures of lush grass fed cattle. And cattle ruled the Sandhills economy.

  The beautiful spring morning might have helped draw out this big crowd. Even if plenty of folks out here didn’t have two nickels to rub together, that didn’t stop their generosity. Between the roping fees, the free-will contribution for the food that was prepared and provided by volunteers, and the donated silent auction items, this day would probably net the Dugans ten thousand dollars. Knowing their neighbors cared about them enough to pull off this kind of shindig might offer some comfort. It was all we could do.

  I wandered into the 4-H exhibit hall and the smell of beef barbeque, warm and savory. I wanted to ask everyone here about the Olson place and Marty and Rhonda. But the last thing I needed was the likes of Aileen Carson banging on Rhonda’s barricades with a basket of muffins to welcome them to Grand County. I scanned the crowded building for Dad.

  Guilt balled in my gut. Why was I working so hard to avoid helping Louise? Would it really kill me? I made a deal with myself. If I ran into Louise before I finished up official business, I’d go ahead with the wild cow milking spectacle.

  Holding a plate of beef barbeque, Dad stood alone by the silent auction table containing one of Mom’s hand-sculpted butter dishes. Someone would probably bid ten dollars for that dish, not knowing that in a gallery in Santa Fe, it would go for seven times that amount.

  Before I took more than three steps in Dad’s direction, a friendly voice caught me. Josh Stevens, a dark-haired man a little older than me, maybe thirty-six, seemed surprised he’d gained my attention. He stood six foot four, thin but muscular, with a generally serious face. Josh Stevens reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, only nicer looking. His grin surprised me, since I’d always thought of Josh as dour. But that might’ve been because I first met him last January, when he wasn’t at his best.

  He stared for a moment, as if hunting for conversation. “Looks like it’s gonna rain.”

  Even though I knew exactly what the clouds looked like, I acted as if the impending storm was news to me. “We can always use the rain.”

  He nodded. “Makes the grass grow.” And we came to the end of that conversation. After a moment, he started another riveting topic. “So. Ready for the cow milking?”

  I dodged. “How’s Enoch getting on?”

  Josh latched onto the conversation. “He’s having a sandwich outside. He’d love you to come say hi.”

  Enoch, Josh’s elderly father, spent some of his days mired in memories and confusion. Seeing him alert would be nice. “Of course. I need to talk to Dad first and I’ll be right out.”

  Josh stood a moment longer, then smiled again. “Okay, then. I’ll go on out and tell him.”

  I stepped back on the trail to Dad, only to find him missing. Dang. A quick scan of the 4-H building didn’t cough him up. The line for food dwindled and nearly dried up, and a hunger pang punched my gut, so I altered my plan. I’d turned into an opportunistic diner since living alone.

  Louise had recruited a slew of family to help out. I stepped up to Aunt Twyla, Dad’s sister who owned the Long Branch. Her long dark hair was pulled back from her hard-living face and dangled between her shoulder blades. On the back side of noon, her usual hangover had probably started to lift.

  With her scratchy voice, she barked at me. “Grab you a plate.”

  I didn’t feel like I had time to sit and eat a whole meal. “Just a sandwich, thanks.”

  She huffed her disapproval but thrust the tongs into the loose beef and plopped it on the bun and shoved it at me. I lifted the bun lid, held the sandwich out to Uncle Bud, who towered over her.

  He ladled sauce on top. “Ready for the cow milking?” He let out a belly laugh, no doubt picturing me covered in slimy manure.

  My return chuckle was meant to be good natured and noncommittal. I retreated outside. Clouds were falling into formation for their march on our afternoon.

  I had taken one bite of the tender shredded beef slathered in Aunt Twyla’s tangy sauce, when my nephew, David, fifteen and with all the geeky charm of a toad, slapped me on the back.

  “Hey, I need you to come to my Lifestyles class on Wednesday for career day.”

  I mumbled around my sandwich.

  His braces gave him a big-lipped lisp. “Sorry, forgot to tell you. No big deal, just a fifteen-minute talk about what you do.”

  I managed to swallow. “I—”

  “Oh, and you’re supposed to do PowerPoint.” He loped off with a posse of equally awkward teens.

  Another bite of pure Sandhills beefy deliciousness. I caught the flash of a familiar brunette ponytail disappear around the side of the 4-H building. Stuffing a few more bites of the sandwich in my mouth, I followed her.

  I rounded the building, not liking what I found. Sarah bent over, her arm propping her on the wall of the building, her head down, and her whole body heaving. Glad I’d managed most of my sandwich, I tossed the last of it in a trash can and hurried to her.

  I put my hand on her back. “Don’t tell Twyla her sauce made you sick.”

  She sounded shaky. “Not even. All I did was smell the potato salad and Tigger rebelled.” Tigger was the name Sarah and Robert gave to their unborn baby.

  “Potato salad doesn’t smell.” When I thought about it, though, I supposed onions and mustard might turn a sensitive nose.

  She gagged. “Tigger is going to kill me. If you loved me, you’d pull this parasite from inside me and protect me, like in first grade.”

  Sarah and I had been practicing roping a fence post when Grady Brown ran by and pushed her. I roped that little brat and tied him to the merry-go-round, and Sarah and I were about to run him like a horse in a round pen when Mrs. Macomber stopped us.

  Sarah and I were always on the same team. “That one got me prison rations and a week of extra chores.”

  “Wish you could help me now.”

  Me, too. “I love you, but the friend contract clearly includes Tigger under my protection.”

  Her s
houlders relaxed, the puking over for now. “You’re the best aunt.”

  Yeah, that’s why Carly had run away. “I’ll grab you some water.”

  She pushed herself from the wall and pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket. “Thanks.”

  Barb Houser stopped me on my way back and wanted to know if I thought drug dealers from Omaha were targeting our kids. With a little sympathizing and uh-huhing, I was able to get away from her fairly quickly.

  I stepped around the side of the building. No Sarah. Probably felt better and got tired of waiting for me. I’d say a quick hello to Enoch and try to track Dad.

  Several picnic tables were scattered around, and Josh waved at me from the one farthest away. Sharp-faced Enoch, with his dandelion wisp of hair fluffing in the breeze, scowled my way. I took it as an invitation, since Enoch wasn’t prone to happy faces.

  Between me and Josh was a table filled to overflowing with kids sitting on laps and everyone else squeezed together. The adults leaned into the center of the table, obviously cussing and discussing something engaging. The very definition of trouble in Grand County.

  My immediate Fox clan—most of us, anyway. With brothers and sisters, various spouses, and offspring, we’d grown into an intimidating army. Even Diane managed to visit from Denver, and the youngest, Susan, a student at the University of Nebraska (Go Big Red) sandwiched into the mix.

  My heart squeezed a drop of acid into my gut when I noticed my not-so-loyal clan had admitted a new member. Roxy. For the younger Foxes, that might make sense. They’d consider Ted family, and since he had a new wife, she’d belong, too. I thought my family ought to be more discriminating.

  Roxy was sitting right next to Sarah, who looked more alive than she had a few minutes ago.

  As I approached, Jeremy, second youngest, poked his head up and spotted me. He spoke loud enough to drown out the others. “Anyway, I’ve always said Nebraska should stick to the running game.”