by Lara Lacombe
“Stop it,” she told herself. Surely Russell would walk up any second to show her a falcon’s feather he’d found or tell her about an armadillo or a family of piglike javelina he’d spotted on his walk.
Holding the image in her mind, she went to his pickup and opened the unlocked driver’s side door. Reaching over, she grabbed his unzipped backpack from the passenger seat, where she spotted a familiar compact tool kit and sighed in relief. Even if Russell had grown impatient enough to break the rule against climbing up the turbine alone, he never would’ve done so without taking what he needed to attempt repairs.
Uncertain of what else to try, she hit the horn twice—two long blasts that ought to get her assistant’s attention if his cell’s battery had run down. When he still didn’t appear, she closed the truck’s door, listening as the warm wind rushed around the parked vehicles, scouring their paint jobs—and her exposed skin—with abrasive grains of sand and somehow heightening her sense of isolation. Her vulnerability, out here in the open, so far from the things people so often took for granted. Things like witnesses and help.
Something tugged hard at her shoulder. Sucking in a sharp breath, she spun around, heart slamming her sternum, before looking down.
“Darn you, dog! Don’t sneak up on a person like that,” Emma said, realizing that River had returned and grasped the day pack in her strong jaws. Returned alone, and was now backing up, her long tongue lolling and pure duck-lust gleaming in her deep brown eyes.
Knowing she would get no peace until she turned over the squeaky toy, Emma pulled it from the pack and threw it. While River bounded off, Emma tried phoning Russell instead of texting, needing the reassurance of his voice.
The call rolled over to his voice mail. Frustrating as that was, Emma was distracted to see River drop her squeaky duck and race barking to a spot about twenty feet out from the windmill’s base.
A bird. She’s run across another turbine blade-strike victim. One Russell hasn’t found yet. Trained to alert but not disturb, River should run to it and then lie down. Instead, she ran in tight circles before looking up and all around herself, as if in confusion.
Trotting closer, Emma was confused, too, to find no telltale mound of feathers. Nor did she glimpse Russell’s reddish hair or spot his body half-hidden in the dry gold grasses. Instead, she was jolted to spot his smartphone, a crack across its screen. As she picked it up, she made out the missed call from her number and the list of several unread messages on the mostly readable display.
“So how’d your phone get broken?” she asked aloud. “And how’d it end up down here?”
Her heart pumped faster, harder, the horror dawning in her body before her mind could grasp it. She looked beyond the phone’s screen, her gaze funneling toward the turbine’s base, catching that spot near its curved edge where the service door stood slightly ajar.
“Oh, Russell. Oh, no.” Her stomach plummeting, her voice tightened. “Please tell me you didn’t—you didn’t go...up.”
With her legs shaking so hard she could barely remain standing, she swallowed a whimper. Forced herself to tilt her head back. To look high above her, at the dark shape silhouetted against the impossible stark blue.
At the sight of his body, limp and dangling just beneath the housing of the turbine, something broke inside her.
Emma’s shrill scream joined the wind’s howl, and she crashed down to her knees.
* * *
Emma didn’t remember calling 911, but she clearly must have done so. By the time she’d climbed back down from the turbine, sobbing and bleeding from the fresh blisters she’d torn open, the first responders had begun arriving. She spotted sheriff’s department vehicles, volunteer firefighters offering manpower and a pair of EMTs leaving their ambulance.
As two of the latter had tried to persuade her to let them check her over, a stocky man in a Western hat and khaki uniform shirt waved them off and introduced himself while chewing on a toothpick half-hidden by his drooping, gray-blond mustache. Sheriff Wallace Fleming, he’d had to say twice before Emma’s shell-shocked brain could make sense of the words. Walking her over to his vehicle, he asked bluntly, “What happened here?”
“It’s Jeremy. Jeremy Hansen, my ex-husband. I—I think he’s killed Russell.” The whole story gushed from her, from this morning’s unsettling phone call to the moment she’d found her assistant dangling. The only time she slowed down was when she handed the sheriff Russell’s phone, with its cracked screen. She then passed over her own unlocked cell as well, and showed him the call log that would corroborate what she had told him about this morning’s calls.
As he looked down at the screen, she continued filling in Fleming on Jeremy’s troubled history. River pressed close beside her, whining and licking at the top of Emma’s free hand in a clear attempt to soothe her.
“That’s enough,” Emma told the dog, gently pushing her muzzle away as it finally sank in that the sheriff’s eyes were anything but sympathetic.
Confused by the man’s obvious disapproval, she struggled to formulate a question. “Will you put out an APB?” she finally ventured. “Find Jeremy before he can do more damage?”
“I was wondering—” Fleming sounded droll as the toothpick bobbed to the other side of his whiskered mouth “—when you might finally come up for air. First off, I think you mean a BOLO, for ‘be on the lookout.’ That’s what those of us in law enforcement like to call ’em. And generally, we like ’em to be our idea—once we’ve determined that an actual crime has been committed.”
“Of course a crime’s been committed.” Hadn’t he listened to a single word she’d said? How could he really imagine this might be some sort of accident? “Russell knew how serious the company was about safety—and how fast they’d shut down our research project if we gave them an excuse by climbing up alone.”
Fleming gave a sloppy shrug, the late morning sun glittering off his silver badge. “People get in a hurry, even bright young men who you’d swear knew better. They get things on their minds. They make mistakes. I’ve seen it plenty.”
“Not Russell. He would never—”
“You went up alone, right? Without gloves or proper safety equipment.”
“I had to. Because Russell was—he was hanging up there, and I didn’t—I couldn’t know for sure that he was...gone.” Emma’s voice broke on the awful word. Because Russell was still up above them, as far as she knew, his limbs stiffening like tree branches and his safety harness, which looked to have either slipped or broken, somehow caught up around his neck. She wanted to glance skyward, to confirm the terrible, impossible reality, but she kept her gaze locked on the sheriff’s hard blue eyes.
“Maybe he thought he had good reason, too,” said Fleming. “In a hurry to get that contraption fixed and the turbine back up and runnin’.”
“Not without his tools,” she countered. “I’m telling you, this is no coincidence, after Jeremy’s calls this morning—”
“Calls your phone’s log can’t identify, from a man you’re telling me is five hours away in Waco. That’s where your ex-husband works, right?”
“If he showed up there this morning. He could’ve found me somehow, called from somewhere nearby.”
Another sloppy shrug. “That’s easy enough to check out. You have his employer’s contact information?”
“You’ll find it in my phone there, under RK Construction. But it’s his uncle’s business. Who’s to say he won’t cover for his nephew?” Emma shook her head, frustration boiling over. “I can guarantee you Jeremy’s spent all summer convincing anyone who’ll listen how he’s the victim in all this, and I’m just some scheming tramp who twisted the authorities around my finger. You’re going to have to dig deeper if you want the truth, find witnesses who aren’t related. Maybe call the—”
The sheriff’s hand shot out, clamping down on her wrist with such surprising speed that
she gasped.
“This is Kingston County,” he said around the toothpick, now clamped down hard between his molars. “My county. And no lady bird professor outta Austin’s gonna run my investigation. Hear me?”
The normally gentle River exploded into barking, the hackles on her back raised and her lips peeled back as she leaped toward him. Releasing Emma, Fleming stepped back and drew his gun.
Terror ripping through her, she shouted, “River, down! Down—stay!”
The retriever hesitated before her training—or the urgency in her mistress’s voice—kicked in. Lowering herself slowly, River kept her dark eyes locked on the sheriff, her muscles quivering and the low rumble of her growl vibrating like an idling truck engine.
“Please, no! She’d never bite you,” Emma cried, her voice shaking even harder than her knees. “Please don’t shoot my dog.”
A stillness followed, thin as crystal. A silence filled by the pounding of her heart and interrupted by an unexpected voice off to her right.
“Charming your constituents again, Wallace?” said a man she hadn’t heard approaching, a pair of plastic water bottles in his hands. Taller and leaner than the sheriff, he was darker as well, from his tanned skin to the challenge in his deep brown eyes and the black waves peeking out from beneath a finely made straw cowboy hat. Along with a light blue chambray shirt, he wore a pair of faded jeans, molded to his long legs. “Or maybe bullying’s the right word. You were always good at that.”
The sheriff turned his head to glare at the intruder. “This is my scene, Kingston. Which means I’m in charge here—”
“Well, as the owner of the land it’s sittin’ on, on one of the hottest days this summer, I thought I’d bring by some cold drinks for everybody working—and condolences for the lady here.” Ignoring the drawn gun completely, he nodded in Emma’s direction. “I’m Beau Kingston, and we here at the ranch were so sorry when the news about your loss came over the scanner.”
As the sheriff awkwardly holstered his weapon, Beau Kingston pressed one of the waters, blessedly cold and slick with condensation, into her shaking hand. The relief of it, the simple human consideration, had her choking back tears.
“If there’s anything we can do to help,” he told her, his voice softened with kindness, “all you have to do is ask.”
With that, Kingston offered the second bottle to the sheriff, who had two dark sweat rings blooming in the armpits of his rumpled uniform shirt. “Here you go, coz. You look like you could use to cool down yourself.”
“You’re no cousin of mine,” the sheriff grumbled as he swiped the bottle from the younger man’s hand. Turning, he stalked away, muttering, “I’ve got work to do. Damned mongrel.”
Emma wasn’t entirely certain whether he was referring to Beau Kingston or her dog.
Before Fleming had made it three steps, he whipped around and pointed at her, his hand forming an approximation of a pointed gun. “You. Don’t go too far. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get my—my personnel coordinated.”
Clearly, he was embarrassed to have been thrown off his game, diminished in front of her. And furious that she’d been there to witness the moment. Her instincts warned her the sheriff would remember it, just as Jeremy had remembered every insult. Would Fleming, too, take his humiliation out on her, especially if she didn’t quickly distance herself from the man at her side?
As one of the deputies flagged down his superior, Beau Kingston snorted and shook his head in Fleming’s direction before returning his attention to her. “How ’bout I crack that open for you?” he offered. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”
“I—I’ve got it. Thank you, Mr. Kingston.” Though she broke another blister doing it, she unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, emptying most of the bottle before coming up for air.
“It’s Beau, and there’s plenty more back at my truck.” He hooked a thumb toward a deep-blue-and-chrome pickup bearing a license plate that read KINGSTN. “Come on over. You can wash your face and cool down.”
“I don’t think I should...” Though his offer seemed kindly meant, she had more than the sheriff’s hurt pride to worry about in standing so close to this handsome man—and she’d have to be blind, not just traumatized, not to register the masculine appeal of the rancher’s hard, clean-shaven jaw, the proud, straight nose and intelligent, dark eyes of a man in his prime. What if her ex was still somewhere nearby, watching her next move? After the horrific lengths he’d gone to in order to punish poor Russell for his harmless crush, would Jeremy lash out at this stranger for his thoughtfulness? Or kill her, too, for yielding to it, now that he’d crossed the irrevocable line between threats and homicide?
Emma’s stomach swooped, and her abraded fingers dropped to cup the flesh below her navel. The confidence she’d spent the past ten months so carefully rebuilding crumbled into dust.
“C’mon, Miss...” the rancher began, his dark eyebrows rising in a query.
She pulled herself together to respond to Beau Kingston’s unspoken question. To behave like a normal person instead of breaking down. “It’s Emma. Emma Copley.”
“At least come over in the shade while I get your dog some water.” Beau nodded down toward River, whose panting continued unabated. “You don’t want her getting heat exhaustion, do you?”
Responding to his reasonable tone, she took a steadying breath. As oxygen seeped past her panic, she assured herself that Jeremy was smart enough to leave the immediate area. Surely he’d realize that law enforcement would soon be climbing up the turbine, giving them a commanding view of the vicinity.
When Beau started walking, she found herself drawn in his wake. For River’s sake, she told herself.
“I can’t believe Wallace, keeping you out here baking in the hot sun,” the rancher said as they approached his vehicle. “But then, nobody’s ever accused my cousin of getting dealt a full hand when it comes to human kindness.”
Or the animal type, either, she thought, shivering at the memory of Fleming drawing his weapon on poor River.
A pair of strapping firefighters arrived and lifted a large cooler from the pickup’s bed. “Thanks for the drinks, Mr. Kingston,” said a square-jawed man in his midthirties with curly golden-brown hair.
“Sure thing, fellas, and I’m still Beau to you, Patrick, same as back in high school. And we at the ranch appreciate all of you fellas, especially after that range fire you put out last month.”
“Your donation was very much appreciated,” said Patrick before nodding toward his younger comrade, a kid of no more than twenty whose flashing smile, smooth, golden-tan complexion and raven-haired good looks undoubtedly had young women from here to El Paso taking note. “And that barbecue you had the rookie here bring over. That was some serious brisket, man.”
“I’d never send my ranch manager’s son with anything but the best.” Beau exchanged a quick grin with the younger man. “And anyway, it’s the least I could do after all the head of cattle your crew’s quick thinking and hard work saved me.”
The two firefighters exchanged a look before setting down the cooler. Only then did they shake Beau’s hand and offer their condolences to Emma, who had apparently become visible now that she had the blessing of a man who was clearly Kingston County royalty.
Once the firefighters left, Beau said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty more water in here.” He reached inside a second, smaller cooler in the pickup bed.
“So, you and the sheriff,” Emma asked, circling back to what Beau had said about his cousin, “you really are related?”
“Every family’s got its black sheep.” Beau shrugged, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll leave it to you to figure out which of us is which.”
On another day, she might’ve returned his smile. Even now, she felt the tug of it, the way the shifting seasons called vast flocks to warmer climes. But at the t
hought of Russell still up on that turbine, nausea quickly followed, with horror, disbelief and guilt close on its heels. Shaking her head, she said, “I should—I should go to my Jeep. I have a bowl for River in there.”
“I’m sure I’ve got one in here,” he said, then looked down at River. “C’mon, pup. How about that drink now?”
River fanned her fringed tail and went to him. Standing in the shade of the truck’s cab, Emma hung back, watching as the dog lapped her way through his offering before slobbering all over his jeans as she accepted an ear scratch.
“We mongrels have to stick together, don’t we?” he told her, an effort at good humor edged with what sounded very much like bitterness.
It made Emma wonder about his real reasons for stepping in after Fleming drew his gun. But whatever Beau’s agenda, she didn’t have the strength to refuse when he offered her a second bottle, already cracked open. Next came a neatly folded, dampened bandanna he’d retrieved from the truck’s cab.
After wringing it out, he passed it to her. “This’ll make you feel better. Take my word for it.”
Numbly, Emma nodded and then washed her face, neck and hands. After she had finished, he produced a second, dry cloth.
“This one’s clean, too,” he said, “in case you want to dry off. And I’ve got a little first aid kit here. How about some antiseptic for those palms?”
“Thanks,” she said, rubbing the salve on the broken skin as he’d suggested. And feeling the relief of the warm wind blowing against her cool, still slightly damp skin.
“Why are you—why are you doing all this?” As she crumpled up the dry cloth, suspicion filtered through her pain and grief. “This isn’t about some childhood beef you have with Sheriff Fleming?”