by R. C. Ryan
Before he could turn, the sound of a gunshot broke the stillness. Liquid fire seared his veins. His legs failed him and he dropped to the ground. Blood formed a dark, sticky pool around him.
While cattle and birds and insects continued their songs, the life of one man was slowly seeping away.
Willow MacKenzie stopped her pacing when she spotted headlights through the rain-spattered window.
“Finally. Bear had better have a good excuse for being this late for supper.” She patted her father-in-law’s arm as she hurried past his wheelchair and through the mudroom to throw open the back door of the ranch house.
Instead of her husband, the man striding up the porch steps was Chief Ira Pettigrew, the tall, muscled head of the Copper Creek police force. A force that consisted of three men.
Ira’s great-grandfather, Ingram Pettigrew, had been a legendary hunter and trapper in Montana, and he had been a bridge between the Blackfoot tribe of Native Americans and the homesteaders who’d settled the wilderness. Keeping the peace had become a way of life for the men who followed, including Ira’s father, Inness, and now, Ira. The father of four, Ira had worked for the state police as a trained marksman before accepting the position of police chief in his hometown. Ira knew every square mile of land in his jurisdiction, and he zealously guarded the people who lived there.
Willow managed a smile, despite the tiny shiver of apprehension that threaded along her spine. “Ira. What brings you out here on a night like this?”
Instead of replying, he whipped his hat from his head and took a moment to hang it on a hook by the door, watching it drip a stream of water on the floor, before laying a hand on hers. “I’ve got some news, Willow.”
He shut the door and led her past the rows of cowboy hats, parkas, and sturdy boots, and into the kitchen. With a nod toward Maddock MacKenzie, he indicated the high-backed kitchen chair beside Mad’s wheelchair. “Sit down, please, Willow.”
She was about to protest, until she caught a glimpse of the tight, angry look on the police chief’s face. Woodenly she sat, stiff-backed, suddenly afraid.
The door was shoved open, and Whit MacKenzie and Brady Storm blew in, shaking rain from their wide-brimmed hats and hanging them on hooks before prying off their mud-caked boots and jackets.
When they spotted the police chief, both men paused.
“Hey, Ira.” Whit stepped into the kitchen ahead of Brady.
“Where’re you coming from so late?” Ira words were not so much a question as a sharp demand.
Whit frowned at the impertinence of it. “Checking the herd like always.”
“And you, Brady?”
The foreman nodded toward Whit. “With him.”
“Which pasture?”
Catching the note of tension in the chief’s voice, Whit bristled slightly. “North pasture, Ira. What’s this about?”
“It’s about my reason for this visit.” Chief Pettigrew turned his full attention on Willow.
At fifty-one she was still the tall, graceful model she’d been at Montana State, when she’d turned the head of every boy and man on campus, until Bear MacKenzie, ten years her senior and already a seasoned rancher, had claimed her for his own. From the moment he’d set eyes on her, Bear had been head-over-heels smitten, and determined to make her his wife. And who could blame him? Thirty years later she was reed-slender, with a dancer’s legs and muscles toned from years of ranch work. With that mane of fine blonde hair and green eyes, even in faded denims and a soiled cotton shirt, and without a lick of makeup, she was still the prettiest woman in town.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Willow, but Bear’s been shot.”
“Shot. My God.” She was up and darting past him when his hand whipped out, stopping her in midstride.
“Hold on, Willow.”
“No. I have to go to him. Where is he, Ira? Did you send for an ambulance?”
“No need.” He put his hands on her shoulders and very firmly pressed her back down to the chair. “Willow, honey, you have to listen to me now. There’s no easy way to tell you this. Bear’s dead.”
Time stopped. The utter silence in the room was shattering. No one spoke. No one even seemed to be breathing.
The four faces looking at the police chief revealed a range of intense emotions. Shock. Fury. Denial. And in Maddock MacKenzie’s eyes, a grief over the loss of his only son that was too deep for tears.
Except for Willow’s hiss of breath, nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They seemed frozen in disbelief.
“How?” This from Bear’s son, Whit.
“A bullet to the back.”
“Where?” Brady Storm’s hand clenched and unclenched, itching to lash out in retaliation.
“On the banks of Copper Creek. North ridge.”
“How long ago?” Maddock demanded.
“Couple of hours at least.” Ira didn’t bother to go into detail about the temperature of the body, or the tests that would be run in the medical examiner’s lab in Great Falls, or the amount of days or weeks that would be needed to determine the exact time of death. Copper Creek was too far away from the facilities afforded by big cities. Ira and his three deputies had learned to take care of their own needs. When they couldn’t, they knew how to wait. And wait. Small-town crimes in the middle of cattle country were low priority for big-city authorities.
“You said he was shot in the back.” Willow’s voice nearly broke. She swallowed and tried again. “Do you think Bear would have known the one who shot him if he’d been able to face him?”
“I won’t know anything until all the tests are concluded. My guess is that the shooter was a good distance away when the shot was fired. Probably relied on a long-range sight.”
Willow’s lips quivered and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “So this could have been done by anybody? An enemy? Even a friend?”
“Or someone who calls himself a friend.” Mad MacKenzie hadn’t just earned his nickname because it was an abbreviation of Maddock. In the blink of an eye, he morphed from grieving father to avenging angel.
Pounding his fist on the arm of his wheelchair in fury and frustration, he looked from Whit to Brady. “We’ll find the son of a bitch who did this, lads. And when we do…”
“You’ll do the right thing and let me handle it, Mad.” Ira’s voice was pure ice. “If any of you learn anything at all, you’re to call me immediately. Got that?”
He fixed his glare on Maddock, and the old man returned his look without a word.
Whit gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. “I hear you, Ira.”
Finally the chief turned to Brady, who mouthed the word yes grudgingly.
Satisfied, Ira turned his attention to the widow, closing a hand over hers. “Willow, I’m sorry that I can’t allow you to take possession of Bear’s body until the authorities have concluded their tests. I hope you understand.”
She blinked twice, the only sign that she was listening. She’d gone somewhere in her mind, locked in her pain and grief.
“Good. Good.” Fresh out of words, Ira started toward the door. Then, thinking better about it, he paused and turned. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You’ve lost a good husband, son, father, and friend. And the town of Copper Creek has lost a born leader. Bear will be mourned by a lot of people.”
He plucked his hat from a hook by the back door and let himself out.
In the kitchen, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.
The headline in the Copper Creek Gazette read:
BEAR MACKENZIE KILLED BY A SINGLE BULLET IN THE BACK
GUNMAN STILL AT LARGE
The news spread like a range fire through the tiny town of Copper Creek, Montana.
The headline and news article were read and discussed in every diner and saloon and ranch, where cowboys and their women speculated on the shooter and the motive for the killing.
And though everyone in the small town claimed to know everyone else, there was the nagging little thought that
one of them just might be the vicious gunman who’d ended Bear MacKenzie’s fabled life.
Willow’s mount was lathered by the time horse and rider topped a ridge and the house and barns came into view. The chestnut gelding had been running full-out across the meadows ever since its rider had left the stables and given him his head. Now, sensing food and shelter, the horse’s gait increased until they were fairly flying down the hill.
At the doorway to the barn Willow slid from the saddle and led her mount toward a stall. Snagging a towel from the rail, she removed the saddle and bridle and began wiping him down. After filling the trough with feed, she picked up a pitchfork and began forking dung, even though the stalls had been thoroughly cleaned earlier in the day.
She worked until her arms ached. When she could do no more, she hung the pitchfork on a hook along the wall and dropped down onto a bale of hay. Burying her face in her hands, she began sobbing. Great wrenching sobs were torn from her heart and soul.
“Hey now.” Brady Storm stepped out of a back room and crossed to her.
Without another word he wrapped his arms around her and gathered her close, allowing her to cry until there were no tears left.
When at last she lifted her head, he handed her a handkerchief. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes before saying, “Thanks. Sorry.” She ducked her head, avoiding his eyes. “I got your shirt all wet.”
“It’s okay, Willow.”
When she continued staring at her feet he caught her chin and lifted her face until she met his steady look.
Her voice was choked. “I thought I was alone. Don’t tell Mad or Whit. I never want them to see me like this.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve got a right to grieve. We’re all grieving.”
“I know.” She stepped back. “But I need…” Her lips trembled and she fretted that she might break down again. “I need to be strong while we sort things out.”
He kept his hand on her arm to steady her. “You’re the strongest woman I know, Willow.”
“I’m not feeling strong right now. I feel…” She looked up at him, and tears shimmered on her lashes. “I feel broken, Brady.” She turned away and hugged her arms about herself, as though trying to hold things together by the sheer strength of her will.
The foreman placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of tenderness, before quickly withdrawing it and lowering his hand to his side. His voice was gruff. “You stay strong, Willow. What’s happened has you down on your knees. I know what it feels like to be that low, when your whole world ends. But each day, you’ll find a little more of your strength. And one day, when this is behind you, you’ll realize that no matter what life throws at you, nobody and nothing is going to break you.”
She turned and pinned him with a look so desolate, it tore at his heart. “What if all my strength really came from Bear? What if I never find any of my own? How do you know it will get better, Brady?”
His words were laced with pain. “Because I’ve been where you are now. And know this—I’ll be here for you whenever you need to lean on someone until your own strength returns.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the barn in that loose, purposeful way he had.
Watching him, Willow thought about what he’d just said. It was the most he’d ever revealed about himself.
Though Brady had been in Bear’s employ since she first had come here as a bride, she knew little more about him now than she had in the beginning. Whenever she’d asked, Bear had insisted that Brady’s past was nobody’s business. When pressed, Bear had told her that he would trust his life, and the lives of his family, to Brady Storm, and that should be good enough for all of them. He’d explained that he’d found that one-in-a-million cowboy who he believed would put their interests above his own. When she’d asked how he knew, Bear had said only that Brady’d been through more of life’s trials than most men, and he had come out the other side stronger than steel forged in fire.
And now she had to face a fire of her own. She had her doubts that she would morph into a woman of steel. For now, she would settle for the courage to face one more day.
She took in a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and wiped her eyes before making her way to the house.
Chapter Two
Willow. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Mason McMillan, long-time lawyer for the MacKenzie family, paused in the doorway to give the woman an awkward hug while juggling his briefcase in one hand and his wide-brimmed hat in the other.
“Thank you, Mason.” She took his dripping hat and draped it on a hook before looking past him to the tall, handsome man standing behind him.
“Oh, sorry.” He turned. “Willow, this is my son, Lance. I’ve been easing him into my law practice, and now I’m comfortable leaving all my clients in his capable hands.”
“Lance. If you’re half as good as your father, I know you’ll make him proud.” She shook his hand before leading both men into the kitchen.
“The roads are practically washed out by all this rain.” Mason stepped around her and set down the briefcase on the kitchen table before offering his handshake first to Brady Storm, then to Maddock, and then to Whit, murmuring words of sympathy as he did. His son smoothly followed suit.
“Thanks, Mason. Lance.” Mad pointed to the kitchen counter. “Would you prefer coffee or something stronger?”
Lance smiled his gratitude. “After a hundred miles in this weather, I wouldn’t mind a splash of your fine Irish whiskey in my coffee.” He turned to Mason. “You could probably use some, too, Dad. And all of you.”
Mad turned to his daughter-in-law, his grandson, and the ranch foreman. “Care to join us?”
Willow glanced at her son, then at their foreman, and when both nodded, she did the same.
“Done.” Mad wheeled his chair across the room and filled six cups with steaming coffee, then added the bottle of whiskey to the tray that fit perfectly over the arms of his chair.
Seeing it, Lance remarked, “My father told me you invent things, Mad. That tray one of your inventions?”
“Yeah.” Mad looked pleased that the younger lawyer had noticed. “I’m always looking for things that can make my life a bit easier.”
Minutes later, as they gathered around the big oak table, Mason lifted his cup in a salute. “Here’s to Bear.”
The others followed suit and sipped while he shook his head. “Sorry. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He looked around the table, seeing the lingering shock in all their eyes. “I know I’m preaching to the choir, but of all the people in this world, Bear MacKenzie seemed the least likely to ever die before me.”
Taking a deep breath, he opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers. “Willow, you asked me to try to locate Ash, to alert him of his father’s death.”
She looked up hopefully. “You found him?”
“It took some digging, but Lance located him on a ranch in Wyoming.”
Whit’s head came up. “Are you telling me that all the time we’ve needed help here, my brother’s been working for someone else?”
Lance shook his head. “He works for himself. It’s Ash’s ranch. It was small when he bought it, but he acquired the land on either side until it’s grown into quite a spread.”
While his son spoke, Mason handed Willow a document, which she scanned quickly before handing it over to Maddock.
The old man looked it over. “So much land. The lad took quite a gamble buying that much.”
Mason nodded. “Seems to me gambling runs in the family.”
That had Maddock smiling. “Yeah. But a gambler’s got to be prepared to lose as often as he wins.”
“That could be in Ash’s not-too-distant future.” Mason pointed to the upper portion of the document before turning to his son to let him explain.
Lance said matter-of-factly, “If Ash can’t come up with enough to pay some heavy-duty debts, he could lose everything, including the original ranch. Right now, with family holdi
ngs being auctioned off every week, I wouldn’t put my money on Ash beating the odds.”
Willow interrupted. “Has he been notified about his father’s death?”
Lance shook his head. “I have an associate driving out there now. Dad didn’t think it was something you’d want him to hear over the phone.”
“No.” She turned to the old lawyer. “Thank you for thinking of that, Mason.”
He patted her shoulder.
She folded her hands atop the table. “Do you have a phone number for Ash?”
Lance spoke for his father. “There’s no landline. I figure he has only a cell. But I’ll have that information for you by tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you. I need to hear his voice. To know that he’ll be here for his family.”
She started to shove away from the table, but Mason and Lance exchanged a look before Mason stopped her. “There’s something else.”
At the tone of his voice she sat back down and arched a brow. “This sounds like bad news, Mason.”
The older lawyer cleared his throat. “Do you remember a woman named Melinda Warren?”
“Sorry. No.” Willow shook her head. “Should I?”
“She was a teacher in Copper Creek until she left town about thirty years ago.”
Willow shrugged. “Then she wouldn’t have taught either Ash or Whit. What’s this about, Mason?”
The lawyer frowned and tapped a pen on the stack of papers in front of him. “Maybe you’d prefer the privacy of Bear’s office, where we could talk alone.”
Willow sat up straighter. “Now you’ve got me worried, Mason. Why don’t you just say whatever it is you have to say and get it over with?”
He took in a breath. “After leaving Copper Creek, Melinda Warren settled in Billings and taught school there for the past twenty-nine years. When she was recently diagnosed with a terminal illness, and learned that she had only a short time to live, she wanted to set the record straight for the sake of her only son and heir. Bear got a letter documenting the birth of a boy, Griff Warren, to Melinda Warren, formerly of Copper Creek, Montana, and listing Bear as the biological father. He was stunned and brought the documents to me to have all the facts verified. From time to time,” he added softly, “I employ some very discreet investigators.”