by Josh Lanyon
“He took our coats and our shoes. Told us not to go anywhere—and where could we go on foot in the middle of the night? As it was, I thought for sure we’d freeze to death.” Mary pointed at a wide snowy track lined with trees. “He set off down the road.”
“He’s making for the old Kirkley Ranch,” Jamie said.
Robert nodded, thinking.
The Kirkley Ranch was not a real working ranch. In the spring, summer, and fall, it operated as a dude ranch for city folks who had never been on horseback or gone fly-fishing. Occasionally during the winter, it was home to the Kirkley family, but mostly it was occupied by the caretaker.
“He has a cabin hideout in Ralston,” Grace said. “That’s where he was taking us. We begged him to let us go, but he said he needed us for hostages.”
Robert said, “We’re nowhere near Ralston. He can’t be that lost. It’s clear over in Deer Lodge County.”
“He told us his cabin was in the hills about Anaconda,” Mary said. “That’s rough territory up there.”
“He drove in the opposite direction—more than one hundred miles out of the way.”
“He can’t walk that far,” Jamie said. “Not in a snowstorm. He’ll have to find another car.”
Even driving wouldn’t be easy. These country backroads were dark and unmaintained. And if the snow started again, even the regular highways would be largely impassable. Dangerous conditions for both hunted and hunters.
Robert came to a decision. “I’m going to radio for help and then hike up to the ranch. You three will wait here.” His leg throbbed in outrage at the idea, but out here the sound of a car engine carried for miles. If he could just once get the drop on that bastard Braun—
“Like fun you are,” Jamie said.
This was where he would not make a good soldier.
“We can’t take two women into a possible gun battle,” Robert pointed out. “And we can’t leave them here alone, half-frozen and in shock.”
“Every lawman in the state is searching Southwest Montana for hide or hair of Braun. They won’t be alone for long.”
“We’re not quite that fragile,” Mary put in. “We’re the ones who derailed the fiend, after all.”
“That may be, but I’m responsible for the safety of all three of you.”
“Horsefeathers,” Jamie said, “There is no way in hell”—he glanced apologetically at the women—“you’re marching up there on your own, Robert Garrett. That is the worst idea I ever heard—and you know it’s a terrible idea.”
“It does seem like a terrible idea,” Grace said.
“Maybe we could call someone in charge,” Mary suggested, looking from Robert to Jamie.
“I am in charge.” Robert was getting exasperated. “I’m Bolt’s chief of police.”
Grace said, “Yes, of course, but we’re in Madison County now. This must surely be a matter for the Madison County Sheriff’s Office?”
Jamie gave a funny abbreviated laugh. “You’re quite right, Miss Roby.”
“Not another word out of you,” Robert told him. “In fact, not another word out of any of you. I’m going to radio for help and then—”
“You and I will walk up to the house,” Jamie interjected.
Robert hesitated, weighing his options. It was hard to say whether Braun was a wily bastard or just lucky, but so far, he’d had all the breaks. Robert needed reinforcements, and Jamie had acquitted himself well that day, so why not accept the help he was offering? What was Robert trying to prove?
As for the Roby girls, it seemed pretty unlikely Braun would come back this way. They would surely be safe for the twenty minutes or so it might take someone to reach them.
Robert expelled a long, resigned breath. “Yes. All right. You and I will walk up to the house.” He reached for the radio, ignoring Jamie’s triumphant grin.
Chapter Four
The full moon turned the dark windows and the snow blanketing the roof of the two-story log cabin to sparkling silver.
Not a single light shone in the long building. No smoke drifted from the chimneys at either end.
“You think it’s the blackout?” James asked softly. He and Rob were crouched behind the smokehouse, a few yards from the main house.
“No.”
No, James didn’t think so either. Most people in towns and cities complied willingly with the blackout proclamations—failure to do so was punishable by fines up to three hundred dollars and ninety days in jail—but the farther out into the countryside you got, the less people recognized the need for compliance. And in all fairness, it was pretty unlikely Hirohito was going to direct bombing raids on Montana.
His heart thumped with excitement and nerves. If Braun was in that house, it would be up to him and Rob to bring him in. Rob was counting on him—and he’d rather die than let Rob down.
Which didn’t change the fact that he was shaking with cold and tension. He had never shot anyone before, but in a few minutes, he might be put to the test. He was terrified he might fail. And more terrified that harm would come to Rob because he failed.
He said, “Maybe they’ve gone to bed.”
“Maybe.”
How the hell could Robert be so calm? He was, though. He was like a rock. Hands steady, voice even, breathing easy and untroubled. But then after the charnel house of the Philippines, chasing down a lone outlaw was probably a cakewalk.
James suggested, “Or they could be away for Christmas?”
Christmas. That sure seemed like a lifetime ago.
“The caretaker would be here,” Robert said. “Henry Floyd.”
“I guess I could just walk up and knock on the front door.” It took all James’s courage to suggest it. “I could say my car broke down.”
“I guess you could not do any damn such thing.” Robert fell silent, thinking. He said finally, “Let’s do a little reconnaissance.”
James nodded, though the idea of separating filled him with alarm—which angered him. How the hell would he ever make it through his first battle if he was afraid to let Rob out of his sight? Rob would not be overseas to hold his hand.
But then the fear was not really for himself. He had nearly lost Rob once that day. He couldn’t stand the idea that the worst still might happen.
“I’ll go around and check the doors and windows. You cover me,” Robert said. “Keep your head down and your rifle ready.”
James nodded, then realized what Rob was saying.
“I can’t cover you from here.”
“Sure you can.” Rob was moving away from him in a half-crouch that had to be hell on his bad leg. “Just do as I say.”
There was a time not so long ago when that would have worked. In fact, it was still ingrained in James to obey Rob. But the distance they had traveled that day had not merely been one of miles and altitude.
He grabbed Rob’s arm, halting him. Rob glanced at him in surprise.
“Nice try. I’ll take the west side of the house.”
Robert swore quietly. “All right. But I’ll take the west side. Be quiet and stay alert—and don’t shoot me.”
James nodded. They parted ways, staying low and running as best they could across the open—seemingly endless—distance from the smokehouse to the main ranch house. James reached the end of the porch, ducking down and listening.
He could hear nothing from inside the house. No radio playing. No comfortable clink of pans or cutlery. No voices.
He rose and peeked through the window. The curtains were open. It was too dark to see much of the room. Just the shapes and silhouettes of furniture.
He dropped down again, took a couple of deep breaths, and scuttled silently to the next window. Here too, the curtains were open. He could make out the tall posts of neatly made twin beds. There were a couple of bulky pieces of furniture, dressers or bureaus, but no sign that the room was in use.
It began to seem like nobody was home.
Maybe the caretaker had gone away for Christmas? Maybe he
was enjoying a holiday dinner with family and friends and had decided to wait out the storm?
James slid down the rough log exterior, resting on his haunches, listening for Rob.
The only sounds were the night wind rustling the snowy pine branches, the cowbell chimes on the front porch clanking as they swayed, and across the yard a hoot owl addressing the usual suspects.
Who? Who?
Unless that owl was actually Rob calling to him. He turned his head, listening more closely, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as a tall shadow materialized next to him.
“It’s me,” Rob said—unnecessarily—and rested his hand briefly on James’s shoulder. “There’s no one here.”
That was embarrassing. Rob had searched the entire perimeter of the house in the amount of time it took James to check two rooms.
“Maybe—”
Rob cut him off. “Listen.”
They both listened to the distant wail of sirens.
Rob cursed softly. “Here comes the cavalry.”
And thank God for that.
But Rob didn’t seem to see it that way. He said, “If Braun is in hearing distance, he knows we’re coming.”
“He knows we’re coming, with or without sirens, doesn’t he?”
Rob grimaced. “You’re not wrong there.” He nodded toward the front of the house. “Let’s check out the garage.”
James was ashamed that his first instinct was to say, Leave it for the reinforcements. Maybe he really was a coward.
In any case, Rob didn’t give him a choice. He was already moving, a soundless silhouette coalescing with deeper shades. Heart in his throat, James followed him across the lawn and the gravel drive to the garage. Rob threw open the double doors. The garage was empty.
“Look.” James pointed. He could feel the hair on his head standing straight up.
They studied what appeared to be a large pool of blood in the center of the floor as the police cars started down the snowy road, red and blue lights blinking through the towering Ponderosa pines.
Anticlimactically, the “blood” turned out to be engine oil, and Sheriffs Riddle and Brooks decided to call a halt for the night.
The rescue of the Roby sisters had been the first priority, but now that the women were safe—and with no sign of Braun in over two hours—the consensus of opinion was that whether Braun had holed up for the night or not, only a damn fool would be driving around in a snowstorm. Enough officers had been injured or killed for one day.
Clearly, Rob didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue. James didn’t argue either. Nor confess he was relieved at the respite. He could see Rob was in a lot of pain—though Rob would have to be dying to admit it. As a matter of fact, James wasn’t feeling all that grand himself. His sinuses were burning in a way that never boded well, and he was starting to feel the effects of getting tossed around inside a speeding car. The adrenaline rush of the last few hours drained away, leaving him empty and sort of numb.
When Rob suggested stopping somewhere to sleep, James was all for it.
It took them some time to find anywhere open—or even with a light on—that time of night. At last, about a mile or so from Ennis, they came to a country farmhouse surrounded by a grove of winter-bare silver cottonwoods.
Mrs. McLennan said she had been listening to the radio and had not heard them knocking. God only knew what horror stories she had heard, but she waved away Rob’s identification and told them that if they didn’t mind sharing a room, she could put them up for the night in one of her back bedrooms.
The house was warm and smelled of baked ham and fresh bread. It smelled like Christmas when he had been a kid, and James was reminded that for some people, maybe even most people, this was a day of celebration and hope.
“That’ll do fine,” Rob assured her. He was limping badly as they passed an old-fashioned parlor with a large and spindly Christmas tree decked with strings of popcorn and colored beads and stenciled Christmas ornaments. Pine garland was wrapped around the staircase bannister. More garland was draped from the fireplace mantel
“Do you have a lot of family staying with you?” James asked. They followed her tiny, bustling figure down a hall lined with walnut-framed family portraits.
“No. Not this year. It’s only me this year. But it’s important to observe the traditions, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” James said, who had never given it a thought.
Mrs. McLennan had a face like a hickory nut. She wore a man’s purple wool bathrobe and her long gray hair in two schoolgirl plaits. She told them that her son was with the Northwest African Strategic Air Force under Major General James Doolittle.
Rob replied that he had been in the Philippines. Naturally, she asked about the Battle of Bataan. Rob admitted he had taken part in the battle and then turned the conversation back to her son.
He never spoke of the war. James only knew because of Joey that Rob had won both the Bronze Star and Purple Heart for his service. Rob never showed his medals to anyone, let alone revealed how he’d earned them.
James was silent while the other two talked. He found moments like this excruciating, although he knew there were plenty of reasons a man couldn’t serve and that not everyone assumed the worst.
They reached the Little Roses room, and he forgot the shame of being ineligible to serve his country in the face of sheer astonishment. The room was not large, most of the floor space taken up by an old-fashioned brass bed topped with a pink satin bedspread, mounds of lace-edged satiny pillows, and an ivory rose-pattern crocheted quilt. Four framed “Fashion Plates” from the 1800s graced the delicately papered walls, and a Victorian oil lamp with a white globe painted with red roses sat next to the bed. A small Victorian fireplace was cozily positioned across from the bed.
Rob cleared his throat. “This looks very comfortable.”
Mrs. McLennan laughed self-consciously. “It’s the only downstairs room with a bed—and it’s the warmest room in the house.” She pointed to a white door. “You have your own bathroom. This was my daughter’s room. She’s married now. Her husband’s with the Eighth Air Force.”
“It’ll do us fine,” Rob said.
James murmured politely. The idea of sharing that small bed with Rob made him feel peculiarly weak in the knees.
“Would you like me to fix you something to eat? I don’t suppose you’ve had anything all day.”
James only realized then how hungry he was. He had not given food a single thought since Eugene Boswell had burst into the Scandia Bar a million years ago.
Rob hesitated and then said, “If it’s no trouble, ma’am.”
“I’ll bring you something on a tray,” Mrs. McLennan promised. And then to James, “You get that fire going, young man. You’ll stop shivering in no time.”
She bustled away down the hall.
James murmured, “It looks like a genteel bordello.” Or a bridal suite. Though he’d never have said that.
Rob swallowed a laugh. “Shh. We’re lucky she even opened the door. She was standing on the other side of it for about a minute.” He limped over to the bed, sat down, and sank a foot or so.
Jamie gave a strangled laugh at his expression.
Robert’s answering grin was almost boyish. “It’s a feather mattress. I haven’t slept on one of these since I was a kid.” He used his hands to lift his leg onto the bed, and leaned back with a pained sigh into the Valentine’s Day nest of pink and white and red pillows.
James’s heart twisted in sympathy. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Rob gave him a funny look, and James flushed as though he had suggested something improper. In fact, he wasn’t sure what he was suggesting. He hated to see Rob in pain, hated that Rob always thought he had to be stoic in the face of what was clearly physical anguish, hated that Rob thought he had to pretend to him.
But then Rob seemed to think it over. “You could ask Mrs. McLennan if she has a bottle of something. Anything will do. Hell, I’ll dri
nk horse liniment if she has it.”
He was not much of a drinker since the war, so he had to be suffering. It was a relief to be given something practical to do. James went down the hall into the cheery kitchen, explained the situation—sort of—to their hostess, and received an unopened bottle of Schenley Reserve blended whiskey and two short glasses.
“My husband used to like a nip or two,” Mrs. McLennan said wistfully.
Usually James’s reporter instinct would have kicked in and he’d have asked her about Mr. McLennan. It was clear that there was no man of the house now. What was her story? Why was she living by herself in this big old farmhouse—tricked out like she was planning a Christmas Ball? Tonight he was just too tired to care.
He thanked her and returned to the pink boudoir, holding up the bottle for Rob to see. “‘Your holidays deserve sunny morning flavor,’” he quoted from an Esquire magazine ad.
“I’ve always wondered what ‘sunny morning flavor’ is,” Rob said, taking the offered glass and holding it up to be filled.
James poured them each a drink, then applied himself to starting the fire in the grate. In no time there was the comforting pop and crackle of flame licking wood. James rose and swallowed the rest of his drink.
“Another?” he asked Rob.
Rob nodded, and James poured them another drink. “Is it helping?” he asked.
Rob had been staring into his whiskey glass. He glanced up, his expression confused. “Is what helping?”
“The hooch. Is it helping your leg?”
“Sure. It stiffens up if I sit too long, that’s all.”
James nodded. Opened his mouth to ask—he wasn’t exactly sure what—but Mrs. McLennan was back carting a tray loaded with sandwiches, pie, and a pitcher of milk.
He took the heavy tray and thanked her. She wished them good night. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the sudden curiosity in her gaze as she studied his face.
James’s cheeks felt warm as he closed the door behind her. But after all, they weren’t doing anything wrong. There were any number of reasons she might be curious about him.
