Woman in Shadow

by Carrie Stuart Parks

  Without a word, he turned, tugged on the reins, and started leading the big Belgian toward the Mule Shoe.

  I tangled my fingers through the horse’s mane and stared sightlessly at the horizon. I will not cry. Not anymore.

  Chapter 14

  Bram couldn’t marshal his thoughts. They flew through his brain like the flurry in a snow globe. She’s disabled. But he’d never seen more than a slight limp. She lied. No, she just never told him. She led me on. Or had he pursued her?

  He risked a glance at her face. Skin pale. Eyes . . . He looked away quickly and walked faster.

  He had pursued her in his mind. He’d allowed himself to picture being with her, getting to know her better. Face it, Bram. She’s not perfect.

  Don’t be like your worthless mother or brother, Bram. It’s up to you. Choose the right road. Make sure you do something perfectly or don’t bother . . . His grandmother’s warning slammed into his brain. He’d fallen head-over-heels in love and married a woman who was perfect on the outside and amoral inside. His plan to help his brother had failed. He’d stayed on at a dead-end job because he didn’t have the courage to seek work elsewhere. For crying out loud, he had a master’s degree in project management. He could get a job anywhere. His grandmother’s voice was a chant in his head. Make sure you do something perfectly or don’t bother . . .

  He shook his head and gripped the horse’s bridle tighter. Just get back to Mule Shoe.

  The two dogs kept close to them, not stopping to check out any trees or interesting smells.

  It was nearly dark and they hadn’t caught up with Liam before the resort came into sight. As they passed through the gate, the dogs took off toward one of the cabins.

  Shortly, Holly yipped.

  “Something’s wrong,” Darby said.

  Bram let go of the reins and ran toward the sound.

  Both dogs were circling around a dark object. It looked like someone had dropped a jacket or pile of clothing. The object took form as he approached.

  A body. The assistant wrangler.

  Bram didn’t need to feel for a pulse. The man’s sightless eyes stared upward.

  Darby was right behind him, still mounted. She expertly turned the big horse sideways to see. “Is he—”

  “Yes.”

  “How?” She slid from the horse’s back, landing lightly on the ground.

  He lifted the man slightly and looked underneath, then gently lowered him. “There’s a rock with blood on it there.” He pointed. “And blood on the back of his shirt. I’d say stabbed, maybe shot, but I’m not a medical examiner.” He looked around. The ranch was quiet. There should have been guests moving around, staff working on evening chores, the sound of food preparation in the kitchen.

  “What is it?” She was scratching her neck and staring intently at his expression.

  He reached for his holstered pistol. “Darby, I have no idea what’s going on, but I want you to stay close to me, okay?” He kept his gaze on the surroundings and felt, more than saw, her nod.

  The wind bent the tops of the pines, sounding like distant traffic. The rapping of a woodpecker was followed by the scratchy rac-rac-rac of a Steller’s jay.

  The big draft horse sidestepped away from the smell of blood. “Bram—”

  “Shhhhh.”

  “Look at the dogs.”

  Both Maverick and Holly were running back and forth, sniffing the ground. Then they took off toward the barn.

  He waved her behind him, then led the way. They entered the side door open to the horse pasture. Inside, Bram held up his hand and listened. He couldn’t hear the dogs. He helped Darby with the straps and buckles on the Belgian’s harness, then removed the heavy collar. He left her to unbridle and turn the horse loose in the pasture while he examined each stall. At the last one, he stopped.

  “Here’s another one.”

  Darby joined him. “Who is it?”

  “One of the workers, a maintenance man from West Yellowstone. I never caught his name.” He moved over to the man and checked for signs of life. “Looks like he was struck on the head, just like the wrangler, then stabbed or maybe shot as well.” When he straightened, he expected to see Darby on the verge of collapse. Instead her jaw had tightened and her eyes narrowed.

  “How many people were here when we left?” she asked.

  Bram placed the broken brake handle inside his belt to free his hands. “The staff, maybe four or five of them. Roy, Wyatt, Angie, Cookie . . . the remaining art students . . .”

  “Grace, Stacy, and Peter. And where did Liam go? We’d better find them.” Without a word, she headed out of the barn.

  Bram ran to catch up with her. “We need to stay together. Whoever did this could be out there . . . waiting.”

  * * *

  My heart slammed against my chest, my stomach twisted, and sweat chilled me. The familiar PTSD symptoms swarmed me like hornets defending their nest. I reached into my pocket and felt the rocks Scott Thomas had sent me, then squeezed them until they hurt my fingers. Not this time. I wasn’t going to give in. Two people had been murdered, and several others were missing, Dee Dee was dead, and I needed to keep my head. I turned and started toward the barn door.

  Bram ran up behind me. “We need to stay together. Whoever did this could be out there . . . waiting.”

  I jerked to a stop. “It’ll be dark soon. Shouldn’t we split up? We could cover more ground.”

  “No. We need to stay in sight of each other. Those two men were attacked from behind.”

  “Right.” I took off my glasses and tossed them aside.

  Holly let out an excited yip.

  “That came from over near the staff housing.” Bram motioned for me to follow, scanned the area, then raced toward the rear of the lodge. I kept up the best I could, my leg squeaking with every step. As we cleared the corner of the lodge, the next body came into sight.

  Cookie.

  Bile rose in my throat. Had she survived whatever horrible event took her to Clan Firinn only to be murdered here?

  Holly circled her, giving anxious yips.

  As with the two men, a bloody rock was next to her body. Bram leaned over her and placed his fingers on her neck to check for a pulse. “She’s alive!”

  I awkwardly knelt beside her. Freckles I’d never noticed stood out against her pale skin, and her chest rose and fell with shallow breathing. I found the knot where the rock had smashed her skull behind her ear. “Do we dare move her?”

  “We’ll have to. We can’t leave her here. Can you carry her legs?”

  “Yes.”

  He offered his hand to help me up.

  I ignored it and stood.

  He cleared his throat. “You know, I—”

  “It’s not necessary—”

  We both stopped. “Let’s just get her inside.” He holstered his pistol, then lifted her to a seated position.

  I grabbed her legs, trying not to grunt at her weight. As soon as we lifted her, it was apparent she had been stabbed as well. Blood stained the back of her shirt. We shuffled her to a door leading to the lobby. Once inside, we moved her to the sofa facing the unlit fireplace.

  Liam entered, drinking a can of beer. “Where is every—Whoa, what happened?”

  “Someone’s murdered two people and attacked Cookie.”

  Liam dropped the beer. “No way!”

  Bram ignored him. “I’d really like to take her someplace where we could lock the door, but for now . . . at least we can see anyone coming. Liam, don’t just stand there. Get a fire going. I’m going to get on the two-way radio and call for help. Darby, can you see how badly she’s been hurt?”

  Liam slowly moved toward the fireplace.

  Bram hesitated a moment before leaving. “I guess I don’t have to say watch your back.” He pulled out his pistol, then sprinted from the room.

  I carefully rolled Cookie onto her side and lifted her blouse. The injury was a nasty-looking slice below the ribs. It looked painful, but fortu
nately not deep. “Liam, do you know where I can find a first-aid kit?”

  “Kitchen. I’ll get it.” He left, returning shortly with a respectably large kit. Inside I found bandages and tape, which I used to bind up her injury. After covering her with the throw from the back of the sofa, I trotted to the door we’d just come through, opened it, and called the dogs. I wasn’t sure how much aggression they’d show a knife-and-rock-wielding killer, but they would react. Holly entered without further encouragement, but Maverick stayed outside at a cautious distance.

  “Okay, Holly,” I whispered to the wiggling canine. “If you see a bad guy, lick him to death.” By the time I returned to the fireplace, Liam had a decent fire going.

  Bram returned, his lips compressed into a straight line, carrying a messenger bag. Behind him was Roy.

  “Did you get through on the radio, Bram?” I asked.

  “Someone destroyed it,” Roy answered before Bram could speak. “How’s Cookie?”

  “She was stabbed, but the bleeding has stopped. I was just about to get ice for her head.” I sent a questioning glance at Bram.

  “I’ll come with you to the kitchen.” Bram pulled the brake handle from his belt, placed it into the bag, then dropped the bag next to the sofa. I followed him toward the dining room. Once we were out of earshot, he said, “I found Roy in his office. He said Cookie came by and said no one had shown up to start dinner prep. She was going to look around and see why the staff was AWOL. He went to his office and found the radio destroyed. He thought he heard something, so he jammed a chair against the door.”

  “I see some holes in his story.” We entered the kitchen. Everything looked chillingly normal. “When Cookie didn’t return, why didn’t he go looking for her?” I picked up a dish towel, opened the oversized freezer, and filled the towel with ice.

  “Agreed.”

  “Then again”—I closed the freezer and walked toward the door—“why would Roy go on a murderous rampage on his own ranch?”

  “We can’t assume anything, but if he is the killer, we just left one of his victims alone with him.”

  We both rushed back into the resort lobby, then jerked to a halt.

  Wyatt stood at the front door with a rifle aimed at Roy and Liam. He immediately shifted his attention, and his aim, to us. “Drop the pistol, Bram.”

  Bram shook his head. “You don’t want to do this, Wyatt.”

  My focus narrowed. A high buzzing started in my head. I reached for a nearby wall to keep from falling. The world was moving in slow motion.

  Wyatt’s face was flushed. “Don’t move. Drop the pistol. Don’t make me have to shoot.”

  “Why did you do it, Wyatt?” Roy asked.

  “I didn’t do anything.” Wyatt moved so he could keep the rifle on all of us. “I just got back from trying to find that last horse and mule and found the body in the barn.”

  I clung to the wall.

  “How do we know you didn’t kill him?” Bram asked.

  “And how do I know you aren’t the killer?” Wyatt shot back.

  Cookie moaned.

  Her voice shook me out of my stupor. I walked on unsteady legs to the prone woman. “Go ahead and shoot me, but don’t let Cookie suffer.” I reached her and placed the ice on the lump behind her ear. “Wyatt, I’ve been with Bram and Liam this whole time.”

  “Not quite,” Bram said. “You were with me the whole time. Liam walked back to Mule Shoe by himself.”

  I nodded. “Right. Anyway, there was an accident . . . or at least we thought it was an accident.” I told the others about the landslide, the wagon, Dee Dee, the brake handle, and then finding the wrangler’s body behind the cabin and the man in the barn.

  Wyatt slowly lowered his rifle. “The radio—”

  “Destroyed,” Roy said.

  Wyatt returned to the front door and shut it. “So we’re effectively cut off from the world with a badly injured woman and a homicidal maniac on the loose.”

  Chapter 15

  The sun dropped low. Roy sat hunched in a chair, bent over, head in his hands. Bram and Wyatt kept their weapons out and stared at each other. Liam mopped up his spilled beer, found another can of brew, then settled near the dining room. I stayed next to Cookie, pressing the ice pack to her head. Her color looked better, and her breathing was less labored.

  My neck itched like crazy, but I held off scratching, knowing once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

  Wyatt relaxed slightly. “There’s still four members of the regular staff unaccounted for, plus Angie and the three guests. And we need to move those bodies. Bear, wolves, cougars—”

  “We get the drift.” Bram looked at me.

  My chest tightened and heat flushed my face. Bram saw me as a delicate invalid. Even without knowing I was a coward, he’d discovered my prosthesis, seen the PTSD episodes.

  I just wanted to get back to Clan Firinn. Back to safety.

  Bram glanced out the window. “We’ll need to locate everyone one way or the other. They could be injured, like Cookie. And we need to secure an area for the night. We don’t know if this person is armed, and there are too many ways to get into this room.”

  A log popped in the fireplace.

  I jerked, then listened. Only the slight crackle of the fire. “Do you hear that?”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Bram said.

  “Right. The hum of the generator is gone.”

  Roy shook himself slightly and looked up. “It’s probably out of fuel. Unless we can get to the generator, the fresh food won’t keep.”

  “And no way will the beer stay cold.” Liam stood and headed for the kitchen.

  Cookie stirred and opened her eyes. “Darby? I . . . I thought you left.”

  “I’m here now.” I gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  Her eyebrows knitted together for a moment. “I couldn’t find my staff. Told Roy, then started for the staff housing . . . I heard a horse walking on the road . . . someone behind me, I turned . . . then nothing.”

  “The horse on the road would have been us,” Bram said. “So the killer took off before he could . . . finish with Cookie.”

  I caught Bram’s attention. “How long do you think those two men had been dead?” I whispered.

  “Not long. Why?”

  Liam sauntered into the dining room, fresh can of beer in hand.

  I looked at Liam, then back at Bram.

  He nodded. “Maybe.”

  Wyatt shifted his rifle from hand to hand. “We gotta get out of here. We’re sitting ducks, just waiting.”

  “Roy, how many firearms do you have?” Bram asked.

  “Several rifles, a shotgun, two pistols . . .”

  “Where are they?” Bram asked.

  “Oh.” If possible, Roy’s face had gone paler.

  “Oh, what?” Bram moved to the older man and sat in a chair next to him. “What?”

  “I didn’t register this earlier. I can’t concentrate—”

  I reached over and squeezed the man’s arm. “What is it, Roy?” I said softly.

  “The guns were shut up in my office with the radio. They’re gone.”

  * * *

  Bram didn’t think things could get any worse, but the news of the missing firearms was the final blow. He figured the killer had knocked out his victims, then used a knife so as not to alert others. But the killer had enough firepower to take out all of them.

  Bram rubbed his face. “The way I see it—”

  “Who put you in charge?” Wyatt faced him.

  “I’m law enforcement. We have three homicides and an attempted homicide, plus missing individuals.” Bram stood. “I’m taking over.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t know this ranch. I should be in charge.”

  “Wyatt, you’re nothing but a broken-down cowboy.”

  “And you’re nothing but a Barney Fife wannabe!”

  Darby stood, moved to the door, and opened it.
Her face flamed red.

  Bram ran after her and caught her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To find the missing people. You two can stay here and decide who gets to be the boss, but someone’s got to take action.”

  “Come back inside.” Bram could feel his own face getting warm as he gently pulled her away from the door and closed it. He looked at Wyatt. “You’re right. You know the ranch. But before we leave here, let’s make sure the lodge has been searched. Darby and I were in the dining room and kitchen, so those rooms are cleared.”

  “Roy’s quarters are upstairs,” Wyatt said, “and there’s the art room and gift shop.” He strolled toward the hall leading to the art room. Bram followed.

  Once there, it took only a moment to see the room was empty. Without a word, Wyatt left, opening a door halfway down the hall. A narrow set of dark and dusty stairs led upward.

  Bram patted the door opposite. “What’s in here?”

  Wyatt opened it to a storage area, clearly void of human occupants.

  Bram pulled out a small flashlight. Wyatt stepped away and let Bram lead. At the top of the stairwell, a simple bathroom was on the left. He played his light over the area on his right. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner with a threadbare wingback chair facing it. A single bed with a quilted bedspread and a small bureau bracketed the fireplace. The closet door stood open.

  “Seen enough?” Wyatt pivoted and clumped down the stairs.

  Bram flashed his light around the room one more time, his flashlight lingering on a pair of worn slippers next to the chair.

  “Wyatt.” Bram caught up to the other man at the bottom of the stairs. “How much do you know about what’s going on at Mule Shoe?”

  “You mean like the murders?”

  Bram turned off his flashlight. “You know what I mean.”

  “He’s my boss. It’s none of my business.”

  “It is now. Roy told me he sold Mule Shoe.”