by BJ Daniels
Most of the gravestones were too small and narrow to hide behind. But as he climbed higher, he saw several larger tombstones, these closer together and deeper in shadow.
“I’m here,” he called as he moved toward the larger moss-covered gravestones.
Something moved in the dark twenty yards in front of him. He could make out the man’s huge shape against the black sky and see the man’s arm locked around Dakota’s neck. As he moved closer, he caught the faint glint of a gun; the barrel was next to her head.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the man called out. “Did you bring the money?”
Zane held the bag out away from his body as he moved toward the man, keeping his gaze on Dakota. She had a strip of duct tape over her mouth and her hands were bound behind her.
As Zane approached slowly, the moon and a few stars broke free of the clouds, casting an eerie, ghostlike glow over the graveyard. He locked eyes on Dakota and saw the determined gleam burning there. The man hadn’t hurt her, but he had made her furious.
He smiled to himself in relief. Even after the years apart, he knew this woman. From the look on her face, she was ready for whatever he had in mind. With the relief came a surge of love. Dakota had always been strong. He needed her to be strong now as he prayed that he didn’t get her killed.
When he passed one of the taller headstones, he pretended to stumble on the uneven ground and surreptitiously dropped his gun behind the gravestone before taking a few more steps toward the kidnapper.
“That’s close enough,” the man said.
Stopping ten feet away from the man, Zane set down the duffel bag and took a step back from it. “Now let her go.”
The man shook his head. “Not until you hand over the money. Throw it to me.”
Zane took another step back, now within feet of the tombstone where he’d dropped his weapon. “We had a deal. I brought your money. Let her go.”
He could see the man’s indecision even in the dark. He wanted the money badly. He was nervous and afraid; clearly this wasn’t something he did every day.
Zane watched as the man took a step toward the bag, dragging Dakota with him. She was making it as difficult as possible for him to keep the gun on her and move her forward.
The man swore and released her, giving her a push that sent her sprawling between two old, bleached-white gravestones.
The moment she hit the ground, she disappeared into the darkness. Zane heard her scramble away from the man.
The kidnapper swore and hurried to the bag as Zane backed up to the gravestone where he’d dropped his pistol.
As the man reached for the bag, Zane reached for his gun. Slipping behind the tombstone, he raised it to aim at the kidnapper’s chest.
The man, intent on the money, didn’t seem to notice at first that Zane had suddenly dropped down behind a gravestone ten feet away.
But when he did, he brought his gun up and got off a shot. The bullet ricocheted off the crumbling stone inches from Zane’s head. The man started to dodge toward one of the headstones for cover. But even moving, he made a large target. The first bullet didn’t seem to faze him.
Zane fired again, dropping the man to his knees. He’d dropped the bag a few feet from him. He made a move for it. Zane fired into the dirt next to the duffel bag and the man jerked his hand back.
“Where is Courtney Baxter?” he called to the kidnapper. “What have you done with her?”
The kidnapper looked up, surprised by the question. “You’re asking the wrong person,” he called back as he made another lunge for the bag.
Zane’s next bullet caught the big man in the leg.
He let out a howl, stumbled awkwardly to his feet again and charged, getting off two shots that pelted the gravestone around Zane and sent rock chips into the air.
Zane fired once more, the man just feet from him. The final shot stopped the kidnapper cold. He stood like a lumbering pine swaying in the wind before toppling, coming down with a crash that stirred the dust around him.
Zane kicked the man’s gun away from him and then knelt down to check for a pulse. He found none. The air smelled of gunpowder, the night suddenly deathly quiet again.
“Dakota,” Zane called as he got to his feet.
She stumbled out of the deep shadows of the gravestones. She had managed to cut the tape around her wrists on something she’d found in the cemetery and was freeing her hands as she came out of the dark.
He took her in his arms. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, removed the tape from her mouth and pressed her face into his chest.
“Did you recognize him?” he asked.
“I’d never seen him before.”
With one arm holding Dakota, Zane pulled out his cell and was surprised to get service this far from a town. He punched in 911.
* * *
EMMA TALKED HOYT INTO GOING to bed after Zane called to say something had come up. “He said he would see us in the morning. Whatever is going on, apparently it is going to have to wait until morning.”
Hoyt tried Zane’s number. It went straight to voice mail. He finally went to bed and instantly fell to sleep.
Emma felt as if she’d just closed her eyes when she heard a vehicle. She checked the clock and was surprised to see that she’d slept for hours. It was almost three in the morning.
She went to the window, expecting to see Zane and whoever he’d wanted the guest room for.
“Mrs. Crowley?” What could the woman possibly be doing out this late on these nights?
Even as she told herself it was none of her business, she watched Mrs. Crowley slip into the house. For a long moment Emma eyed the pickup the woman used. Finally, knowing she wasn’t going to get any sleep if she didn’t, she pulled on Hoyt’s dark robe and sneaked downstairs.
At the bottom, she stopped to listen. Not a sound came from Mrs. Crowley’s wing of the house. Still, she waited. She would have a hard time pretending she’d merely come downstairs for a glass of water if Mrs. Crowley caught her.
Of course, there was always sleepwalking. Emma shoved that thought away with a snort. Mrs. Crowley would see right through that. The woman had an uncanny ability when it came to reading people.
Still not a sound.
In the kitchen, she slid open the utility drawer and felt around until her fingers closed on the small flashlight Hoyt kept there.
She ran the beam over the extra keys on the peg by the door until she found the spare key for the pickup Mrs. Crowley had been given to use.
Then she quickly turned off the flashlight and stood, gripping the key and listening.
She hated sneaking around her own house. But she knew that thought had more to do with her own guilty conscience, given what she was planning to do.
Snugging Hoyt’s robe around her small frame, she tiptoed through the living room to the front door. The house was never locked—until Aggie Wells had come into their lives with stories about Hoyt’s first wife coming back from the dead.
Emma eased the door open slowly. It creaked and her heart stopped. She listened, then slipped out onto the porch. The night air felt good. She breathed it in, studying the horizon.
She never got tired of the view of rolling grasslands, the Little Rockies in the distance, a dark purple smudge in the starlight. Emma loved the smell of fresh earth and new, green grasses. She loved Montana and Hoyt, she thought as her heart gave a small kick.
What was she doing spying on their housekeeper?
She almost changed her mind and went back inside. But then she noticed the muddy tires of the pickup they’d given Mrs. Crowley to drive.
There hadn’t been any rain this far north, but she’d heard a storm had blown through down in the Missouri Breaks.
Maybe Mrs. Crowley had gone sightseeing.
Until three in the morning?
The air suddenly felt cold. She pulled the robe tighter and made her way quietly to the pickup, keeping to the shadows of the house.
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Mrs. Crowley’s room was on the far side of the wing, but she had access to every room in the house.
Emma glanced up. All the curtains on this side were open, the glass dark behind them. Fortunately Mrs. Crowley always parked the truck at the end of the wing in the darkest part of the yard.
Emma quickly slipped around the side of the pickup farthest from the house and eased open the passenger side door.
The dome light came on. She quickly turned it off. Then, leaving the door open, she slid across the seat and behind the wheel.
She didn’t want to turn on the flashlight, so she felt around until she found the ignition. She slipped the key in after a few awkward attempts and turned it.
When she heard it click, she pulled the tiny flashlight from the robe pocket and, shielding it with her hand, shone the light on the dashboard.
After quickly memorizing the mileage, she turned off the light, removed the key and slipped back out of the pickup.
As she started to ease the passenger side door shut, she caught a smell that made her stomach roil. It smelled like something had died in the cab of the truck. She thought about the shovel caked with fresh soil and the dirt under Mrs. Crowley’s fingernails after the last trip to town and shuddered.
The pickup door clicked shut. She pushed to make sure it had latched and then sneaked back along the house. When she reached the porch, she took one of the chairs and sat for a moment, her heart pounding.
I’m too old for this.
The thought made her chuckle to herself. She would never be too old for this. A sense of satisfaction filled her. She was going to find out what Mrs. Crowley was up to at night, if for no other reason than her own curiosity.
The woman had way too many secrets.
Chapter Ten
“Oh dear, what happened to the two of you?” Emma cried as she ushered Zane and Dakota into the house.
Dakota knew they both looked a mess after what they’d been through last night. They were both dirty and exhausted, Zane’s scratches still prominent.
They’d spent the rest of the night at the sheriff’s department answering questions and being grilled about the dead man. Zane had been anxious to get to the ranch, so they hadn’t even eaten since yesterday at noon.
Hoyt stepped up to his son, reached for his hand and then pulled him into a quick hug. Dakota saw the fear in the older man’s face and knew how relieved he must be. Her own father would have felt the same way. She thought of him and felt her eyes blur with tears.
“What you must have been through,” Emma said to Dakota. Dakota shuddered as she remembered being taken captive last night. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s all right.”
Zane put an arm around her and pulled her close.
“The sheriff called and told us some of it,” Hoyt said. “But I’d like to hear it from you.”
Zane nodded. “This is Dakota Lansing.”
Hoyt Chisholm’s eyes widened in surprise. “Clay’s girl. I was sorry to hear about your father.”
She nodded numbly, and Emma ushered them into the kitchen where she served them hot coffee and cranberry coffee cake. Dakota ate two pieces; the cake was the best she’d ever eaten.
“Can I fix you breakfast?” Emma asked, no doubt seeing how Dakota had scarfed down the coffee cake.
“Not now,” Hoyt said, and waved a hand at her. Then he quickly smiled over at her. “I’m sorry. This is all so upsetting. First Zane is arrested and now this?”
Dakota listened as Zane filled them in on everything, from the woman he’d never seen before showing up at his door for the bogus date, to the shooting last night at the old mission graveyard.
“This woman is your sister?” Hoyt asked, frowning. “I guess I never knew Clay had another daughter.”
“Neither did I,” Dakota said. She explained how she hadn’t found out until her father’s funeral.
“How old is this sister?” Emma asked, sounding as shocked as Dakota had felt.
“Not quite two years younger than me.”
Hoyt got up and went to the cupboard over the sink. He pulled down a fresh bottle of bourbon and poured himself a drink, took a swig, then turned to ask if anyone else would like some.
“Hoyt, it’s eight in the morning,” Emma said, glad she’d dismissed Mrs. Crowley for the rest of the day. She’d hoped the housekeeper would go into town but as far as she knew, the woman had only gone as far as her room.
“How is it you never knew about this sister?” Hoyt asked. His voice sounded strained as he ignored his wife’s scolding.
Dakota explained about her father’s affair. “It had to be about the time my mother was dying or right after.”
“Thirty years ago,” Hoyt said more to himself than to anyone in the kitchen. He finished his drink and poured himself another.
Emma got up and went to him, touching his arm. Dakota heard her whisper, “Are you okay, honey?”
He nodded and turned back to Dakota. “Did your sister say anything about her mother?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. Then when she disappeared…”
Zane took up the story, explaining about the trip to Great Falls, meeting Camilla Hughes and finding out about Courtney’s trip north.
“We think her birth mother contacted her because she was going by the last name of Baxter,” Dakota said. “The mother’s name was Lorraine Baxter.”
All the color drained from Hoyt Chisholm’s face. The glass in his hands slipped from his fingers. It hit the tile floor and shattered, glass shards skittering across the floor.
Emma let out a small startled cry as the glass broke at her husband’s feet.
“What’s wrong?” Emma cried as she grabbed his arm. He was visibly shaking, pale with beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Dakota feared he was having a heart attack.
“Did you know her?” Zane asked as he stared at his father.
Hoyt swallowed. “I was married to her.”
* * *
MCCALL HAD PUT OFF CALLING Courtney Hughes’s parents until she got the DNA test results from the blood found on the red dress she’d discovered under Zane Chisholm’s bed.
She was anxious after everything that had happened. Zane Chisholm was adamant that he was being framed and Courtney and her birth mother were in on it. McCall didn’t know what to believe. But she had a missing woman, an apparently abandoned car, evidence of possible foul play and two dead men.
The men had both been identified as escapees from a California prison. She had put a call in to the warden to see what she could find out about the men. Hopefully he might have some idea how they’d ended up in Montana, involved with Courtney Hughes aka Courtney Baxter.
When her phone rang, she jumped. The baby kicked as she reached for it. Just a few more days. In the meantime, she hoped to get some answers. She hated to leave this case for her undersheriff, who would be coming in cold on it.
She was relieved when she saw the call was from the state crime lab.
“The DNA found in the blond hair from the car matches the DNA found in the blood of the dress,” the tech told her. “Same woman.”
Time to call the young woman’s parents.
“What was unusual,” the tech continued, “was that the DNA search brought up a flagged comparison test from about thirty years ago.”
“Flagged comparison test?”
“Another missing woman. This one was believed to have been drowned, but her DNA was sent to us and flagged in case any DNA test should produce a match.”
Drowned, missing victim? McCall swallowed, her heart pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think. “Are you telling me that a relative of Courtney Hughes is in the system?”
“Courtney Hughes’s DNA results were a close enough match that the other one came up. Definitely related. I’d say mother and daughter. Interesting, huh?”
McCall thought about what Zane had told her. Courtney had been contacted by her birth mother. They suspected the Whitehorse Sewin
g Circle had been involved.
“You’re saying that this other missing woman was Courtney’s birth mother?”
“From the results, that is exactly what I’m saying. I pulled up the file. It’s from a missing person’s case from your area. A woman by the name of Laura Chisholm.”
* * *
EMMA STARED AT HER HUSBAND. “There is another wife I don’t know about?”
Hoyt shook his head and took her hands in his, his gaze filling with pain. “Lorraine Baxter was Laura Chisholm’s maiden name. She thought ‘Lorraine’ sounded too old so she went by Laura. She had it changed legally, I think, at some point.”
Everyone in the room fell silent as they let that sink in. Emma finally found her voice again.
“Courtney Hughes is Laura’s daughter?” She looked over at Dakota. “You said she is about thirty-one or thirty-two? That means Courtney had to be born after Laura allegedly drowned,” Emma said, even though she could see from everyone’s faces that they’d all figured that out themselves.
Zane nodded. “So Laura Chisholm didn’t drown, just as Aggie Wells said.”
Emma felt sick to her stomach as she shooed her husband out of the way and cleaned up the broken glass. She needed the diversion. Her mind was spinning. Aggie had tried to warn her and now she was dead, all because no one had believed her. She reached behind her husband for the bourbon and poured herself a glass.
“I don’t understand this,” Hoyt said as he moved to the table and sat down heavily in one of the chairs. Some of his color had returned.
“It’s pretty clear.” Emma took a sip of the bourbon. It burned all the way down. “This is a message from Laura. All of this, setting up Zane, using Courtney—she wants you to know she’s alive.”
“Not just alive,” Zane pointed out. “Capable of destroying our lives.”
Hoyt rubbed a hand over his face. “Laura was so insecure, so needy. I was trying to build a ranch so I wasn’t around enough. We were in the process of adopting the boys… .”
“We have no proof that Laura is Courtney’s mother,” Emma said, knowing she was clutching at straws.