by Gayle Wilson
One he refused to ask. She seemed to want to tell this in her own way. He had plenty of time to listen.
“You probably don’t remember Dad’s friend, Mitch Forbes.”
“From Texas?”
Colleen nodded and leaned forward to refill his glass. When she had, she held it out to him across the table. As he reached for it, she said, “He asked me to organize a branch of the investigative arm of the Department of Public Safety here in Colorado, just as he’s done in Texas. Something called Colorado Confidential.”
“I’m not sure I follow. To investigate what?”
“Threats to the public safety,” she said, as if that explained everything. “On a local level, of course.”
“And the Langworthy baby’s kidnapping qualifies as a threat to public safety?” He didn’t bother to mask his skepticism.
“Someone in DPS thinks so.”
“And that’s good enough for you?”
“Did you question Jack Waigner when he sent you to San Parrano?”
“I should have.”
She smiled, recognizing the gallows humor for what it was.
“I don’t question my orders either. I try to carry them out to the best of my ability. And frankly, you’d be a real asset right now in helping me accomplish that.”
“I think that would be a matter of opinion.”
“Yes, it is. Mine. All I’m asking is that you sit in on a meeting. Offer suggestions. Criticisms. Maybe undertake a little legwork.” Again her eyes touched on his knee. “Whatever you feel up to.”
If there was anything more likely to get him to agree than that note of unctuous concern in his sister’s voice, he couldn’t imagine what it would be.
“Anybody ever tell you that you don’t play fair?” he said, letting her know that he recognized what she was doing.
“I play to win,” she said. “And I make no apologies for it.”
“EVERYONE, this is my brother, Michael. I’ve asked him to join us today to offer suggestions and observations.” As she talked, Colleen’s eyes touched on the face of each of the three people gathered around the table.
During last night’s tour, she had shown Michael the renovations she’d made that allowed Colorado Confidential to function efficiently from the ranch. The room where they were meeting today, its entrance cleverly hidden behind a wine rack, had once been the basement storage area. Beyond this room, behind another disguised entrance, a second room contained state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, which, he admitted, nearly rivaled that of the CIA.
“And in case you’re wondering,” she went on, “his security clearances are higher than mine.”
There was a nearly imperceptible change in the atmosphere. A relaxation, perhaps, now that his presence had been explained. And a curiosity that was expressed to varying degrees in the three pairs of eyes, all of which had settled on him. Evaluating.
He was more than willing to play the role of consultant, but he had no interest in getting involved in any fieldwork. As slow as he was right now, he’d be a hazard to the rest of the team.
“I didn’t know you had a brother.” The comment sounded vaguely sympathetic, perhaps because it came from the only female member of the group.
“Fiona Clark,” Colleen said, introducing the woman who’d spoken. “Ex-FBI. From Chicago.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” Small, blond and delicate, Clark didn’t look or sound like anyone’s idea of an FBI agent, which had undoubtedly been to her advantage.
“Shawn Jameson. Arson investigator, currently employed at the Royal Flush. From…?”
“Around,” Jameson said. His blue eyes mocked the relevance of Colleen’s question.
Without seeming the least bit embarrassed by his lack of response, she turned to the last of the three operatives at the table.
“And this is Night Walker. Former bounty hunter and private security specialist. Night works with the horse-breeding operation here on the ranch. Among other things.”
Both the name and the long, raven’s-wing black hair indicated Walker’s heritage. As far as Michael was concerned, the fact that Colleen had hired him to handle her beloved horses said all he needed to know about the man’s character.
“I’m sure most of you know about the Langworthy kidnapping. With the media coverage, it would be pretty hard not to. Colorado Confidential has been asked to conduct its own investigation, since the official one seems to be going nowhere. And, more importantly, since there are some aspects of the case that set off alarm bells in Washington.”
“Can you tell us what those are?” Shawn asked.
“They haven’t told me,” Colleen admitted. “Just that, like other things we’ve handled for the Department of Public Safety in the last six months, there’s more to this abduction than meets the eye. We’ll be working closely with the head of the Colorado DPS, Wiley Longbottom, on a need-to-know basis. We’ve been told enough to determine some initial avenues of investigation. That’s our first order of business. To decide who does what.”
A little more democratic than what Michael was accustomed to, but no one seemed to find it strange that they were being let in on the decision making.
“As you know, Schyler Langworthy, three months old, was taken from his crib in the Langworthy’s home in Denver on the night of the Fourth of July. It happened while the family was attending a campaign rally for Josh Langworthy, who is currently a candidate for governor.”
“I think we all know the history on this,” Fiona Clark offered, obviously in an attempt to cut short the background.
“I wasn’t sure that Michael did,” Colleen explained.
Again, three pairs of eyes focused on him. Since his sister had covered most of this with him last night, Michael believed she had some other agenda for this rehash of things they all knew. He was willing to serve as her excuse.
“Samuel Langworthy thinks Governor Houghton and Senator Gettys are somehow involved, maybe in hopes that the kidnapping will distract Josh from the campaign. I’m not sure that belief is based on anything other than the political bad blood that exists between the three. Considering the seriousness of the accusation, however, Houghton and Gettys have been questioned. Discretely questioned, given their positions. The governor suggested that the kidnapping is a desperate move on the part of the Langworthy clan to gain a sympathy vote for Josh’s flagging campaign.”
“I thought he was ahead in the polls,” Shawn said.
“Not according to the opposition’s private polls. Who knows where the race really stands? However, according to our sources, Langworthy—that’s Samuel, not Josh—also hasn’t been completely forthcoming with the authorities. The agents who questioned him felt he might know more about his grandson’s disappearance than he told them. Given who he is, they couldn’t act on their feelings, of course.”
“Meaning no bright lights and rubber hoses for the head of the Colorado’s Centennial Family,” Fiona suggested lightly.
“Meaning Langworthy is still a very powerful and respected name in this state. Whatever investigation of the family we undertake must also be discreet. Very discreet.”
Michael’s gaze had been drawn to Night Walker, maybe because he was the only one who hadn’t offered an opinion or a suggestion. However, there seemed to be some spark of animation in those dark eyes now that hadn’t been there when the former bounty hunter had been introduced.
“That’s why I thought Night might be the ideal candidate to conduct that part of the operation.”
There was no reaction to Colleen’s words in Walker’s impassive features.
“You once worked at the house,” Colleen continued, as if his lack of response had been expected. “I think the baby’s mother, Holly Langworthy, bears watching. If the Langworthys are involved, it’s possible she may lead us to the baby. After all, her stake in this is higher than anyone else’s. Except for the baby’s father, of course. And no one seems to know who he is.”
There was some nuance
of inflection in the last that Michael couldn’t decode. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect. Night Walker nodded his agreement, a single up and down motion of his head.
“Good,” Colleen said, glancing down at the sheet of paper on the desk in front of her. “Fiona, that leaves Houghton and Gettys for you. Gettys’s ex-wife might be a way to hone in on whatever shady dealings the senator’s involved in.”
“You think there are some?” Fiona asked. “Shady dealings, I mean.”
“They’ve been rumored for years.”
“Nobody at that level of politics is ever completely clean,” Shawn Jameson said. “So where does that leave me? There doesn’t seem to be another side in this nasty little war.”
“Well, I do need someone to check out a sheep farm that Gettys owns part of, but actually, I was hoping—”
“A sheep farm?” Fiona broke in. “You just lost me, Colleen. How does a sheep farm play into this?”
“Maybe you should have let me finish the intro,” Colleen said, smiling to indicate her comment wasn’t intended as a rebuke. “One of the strangest aspects of the kidnapping was the trace evidence recovered from the baby’s room.”
“Don’t tell me,” Shawn said, controlling an upward quirk at the corners of his mouth.
Colleen ignored him, again referring to her notes. “Fibers identified as Merino wool were found on the bedding, along with particles of eggshell and dirt.” She looked up, eyes again scanning the faces of the people at the table. “The dirt, by the way, came from the southern part of the state.”
“Egg shells and wool?” Fiona’s question probably expressed what they were all feeling.
Colleen lifted her hands, palms upward. “All I can tell you is what the technicians found. And that Senator Gettys does own part of a sheep ranch somewhere in the mountains around Granby. It’s a stretch, but enough of a coincidence that it seems worth checking out. Maybe just by having someone work there for a few weeks to see if there’s anything remotely suspicious going on. The problem is…I have a couple of other leads DPS is working up. I had hoped to keep you here,” she said to Shawn, “until something comes through on those.”
No one said anything, although it must be obvious to them, as it was to him, what Colleen was hinting for. And she could hint until the cows came home, Michael decided. He wasn’t getting back into covert operations. Especially not on some damn sheep farm. The assignment was obviously make-work, designed to give him something useful to do—something not too challenging, of course—and they both knew it.
The strained silence built until Jameson broke it, his eyes considering Michael. “If you want someone to hire on as a hand, maybe I should do it.”
Michael knew exactly what had prompted that offer. The son of a bitch thought he wasn’t up to working on a ranch. After all, Colleen’s three hotshots had already been seated at the table when he’d limped into the room.
“You know a cowboy worth his keep who hasn’t had a couple of broken bones?” he asked.
It was the first time he’d spoken, and no one seemed particularly eager to answer his question. Fiona’s eyes fell to examine her hands, which were clasped together on top of the table.
Michael Wellesley couldn’t remember the last time anyone had doubted his competence. With more than a dozen years of combined special ops and intel experience, some of it in places these three probably couldn’t find on a map even if they’d heard of them, he wasn’t about to let someone start now.
He might be beat up and battered, both mentally and physically, but the day he couldn’t ride a horse or mend fence or herd some frigging sheep well enough to earn his keep, he’d quit. Not until. And that decision, when it came, sure as hell wasn’t going to be made by someone else.
“If you’re worried about Michael being able—”
“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice overriding his sister’s attempted defense of his abilities.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know he’d been played. Or didn’t understand that this was exactly what she’d been hoping for. And he did see the irony in his leaping into something he’d sworn he would never be involved in again.
Hell, he needed a success. Something to go right so that the long years of service to his country wouldn’t end with that fiasco in San Parrano.
Besides, how hard could checking out a sheep farm be? It would do him good to work a few weeks in the open. He could use the time to get back into shape. To work on getting his head screwed back on straight. After all, it wasn’t as if something really dangerous was likely to come up during Colleen’s “therapy” assignment. Not likely at all.
Chapter Three
“This way each of the hands gets his own place,” Charlie Quarrels said, as he unlocked the door of the small trailer to which he’d driven Michael. “Privacy. Folks these days seem to prefer that rather than all bedding down in a bunkhouse.”
Despite the fact that he had the skills required for this job, Michael had been surprised at how quickly he’d been hired. The questions Quarrels had asked during his interview had been cursory. Michael’s answers had been accepted at face value.
Now officially an employee, he was being given the grand tour of the Half Spur. Not that there was anything remotely grand about what he’d seen so far.
Employees lived in trailers that were scattered around the outer perimeter of the central compound. Judging by the interior of this one, he decided after he followed the foreman up the high step and then inside, none of them were living in luxury. Heated by propane and lighted by an outside generator, the small metal caravans would be freezing in winter and like ovens in a summer like this.
He’d been given the trailer farthest from the complex where the offices and shearing pens were located because, Quarrels had explained, Michael had his own transportation. Not the SUV, of course. He’d left that at the Royal Flush and purchased the most disreputable looking pickup he could find to make the journey north.
“Meals are down at the main cabin,” the foreman went on. “Six, noon and six.”
He assumed the main cabin referred to the building where his interview had been conducted. Michael had gotten the impression that some of the workers, including the foreman, lived on the premises. Everybody else got one of the trailers.
“I’ll introduce you to the rest of ’em during supper. We’re shorthanded right now, so there ain’t all that many names to remember.”
“Thanks,” Michael said, swinging his duffel bag onto the narrow bed.
Little more than a cot, it didn’t look as if it would be long enough to accommodate his height. Ever since he’d entered the trailer, he’d felt as if he needed to duck his head to avoid bumping the low ceiling. When this was over, Colleen was going to owe him big time.
“You can ride back down with me,” Quarrels offered. “Ain’t no need to start ’til morning. We’ll be taking blood samples then.”
“Blood samples?”
“This ain’t just a sheep ranch. It’s a government research facility.”
Each syllable in the last two words had been enunciated separately, as if Quarrels had had to practice until he got the phrase right. Michael didn’t ask what they were researching. He doubted the normal hired hand would give a damn, so that was the attitude he needed to adopt.
He’d had a lot of experience adapting to whatever role he was playing. Someone who couldn’t bury himself completely in a situation wasn’t going to survive undercover work.
To him, that had always been one of its biggest draws—the tension created by the dichotomy of disappearing into a persona while maintaining the necessary vigilance about who you really were and why you were there. It created a constant adrenaline rush. Or as near to one as he had believed he could get.
“You ready?”
Michael turned to nod, but Quarrels hadn’t waited for his answer. He was already going down the steps that led to the ground. Michael followed to find him standing at the bottom of them, watching his descent wi
th interest.
“Horse or a bull?” Quarrels asked, obviously referring to his knee.
“Something like that,” Michael said shortly, limping around the dusty pickup to climb in on the passenger side.
“The cold up here in the winter plays hell with broke bones.” Quarrels started the truck, again seeming to expect no answer.
“How many hands on the place?” Michael asked.
“Two permanent. Bunk in the cabin.”
“Permanent?” Michael asked, wondering how the foreman made the classification.
“Been here more ’an a couple of years. Don’t many stay that long. Too isolated. No bright lights.”
No lights at all, Michael thought, remembering Quarrels’ explanation about the generator’s limited hours of operation.
As they talked, the pickup rattled over the dirt road that led back down to the main cabin, which appeared to be the center of the ranching operation. The speed at which it was driven made no concession to the potholed roughness of the track.
“Five temps, including you,” Quarrels continued after a contemplative silence. “Ain’t but a couple of them been here more ’an six months. Pays all right for what little you gotta do, but the place itself gets to people.”
Yet it would have been difficult to find a more beautiful location. The magnificent Rockies loomed in the background. Abundant water from the spring runoff guaranteed the lush richness of the pastures. So far, Michael realized, he hadn’t seen a single sheep.
Quarrels roared around the last curve with a shower of gravel, pulling the truck into the yard outside the main cabin. A man stood in its open doorway. His eyes, narrowed against the smoke wafting upward from the cigarette he held cupped in his hand, followed the two of them as they got out of the pickup and walked across the expanse of worn, patchy grass.
“Sal Johnson,” Quarrels said, indicating the man in the door with a forward motion of his head. “This here’s McAdams. What’d you say your first name was?”
“Mac’ll do,” Michael said, nodding to the cowboy with the cigarette.