by Lisa Jackson
Less than a week ago, she’d been at the McKee ranch, living with her mother and grandmother, feeling restless because her life seemed to be at a standstill. Both of her brothers were busy planning their futures. Max, her older brother, and his fiancée, Skye Donahue, were busy planning a Christmas wedding. And Jenner, once the self-proclaimed bachelor, would probably wait until around Valentine’s Day to marry Beth Crandall, the woman who had borne him a son he hadn’t known about until just a few weeks ago. Max was running the company, McKee Enterprises, Skye had her medical practice at the clinic, where Beth had started working as a nurse, and Jenner had been helping out around the ranch. Once he was on his feet again, he planned to open up the old hunting lodge and make it into some kind of dude ranch, where he, his new wife and two-year-old son, Cody, would live.
Her heart was suddenly heavy. Max had his daughter, Hillary, from a previous marriage, and Jenner’s son was an adorable scamp who had captured his aunt’s heart immediately the first time she’d met him.
But Casey had no plans for the future, no man in her life, no children. She probably would have left Rimrock and started a life of her own somewhere, but her father had recently died—been murdered, it seemed—and there had been a fire in the stables, which had been started by an unknown arsonist. As she stared at her kidnapper, though, Casey knew that Barry had been involved in Jonah’s death as well as the fire. But he wasn’t the man who had planned the crimes; she was certain of it. He just didn’t have the mental capability. He was only a flunky.
He tricked you, didn’t he?
She bit her lip at her own stupidity. She should never have trusted him, even though she’d felt she had no other choice. She should have declined his ride and tried to walk through the snow back to Rimrock in hopes that someone else would come along and help her.
For a split second, she wondered if Clarisse was in on the plot to kidnap her, but couldn’t believe her friend would turn on her or lure her into such a vile trap. No, Clarisse’s phone call hadn’t been a setup—just a coincidence.
Casey had taken the call in her room, and Clarisse’s voice on the other end of the phone line had sounded too broken, too desperate for her to have made up her story. “Casey...I didn’t know who else to call. I’m...I’m in trouble,” Clarisse had admitted, and her voice had sounded strangled, as if she was on the verge of tears.
“What kind of trouble?” Casey had asked. Clarisse was one of her best friends. They’d known each other since college, but had drifted apart after Clarisse’s marriage a few years back.
“I—I left Ray.”
“You did?” Casey couldn’t believe her ears. Though she’d never much liked Raymond James, Clarisse had adored him. They’d met in college, and Ray hadn’t only been handsome, he’d also had money and charm. Casey was wary of men who seemed too slick and polished. Men like Ray James. Clarisse had been married in a lavish ceremony and Casey had been her maid of honor. Since that time, however, Clarisse and Ray had moved back to his hometown of Spokane, Washington. Clarisse’s phone calls had all but stopped and the monthly letters had dribbled down to a Christmas card with the name of the family embossed in gold letters and a brief note that really revealed nothing. Casey had assumed Clarisse was too busy with her two sons and successful husband to have much time to keep up old friendships. “What happened?” she’d asked Clarisse as she stared out the window of the bedroom, watching the black clouds and dreading Clarisse’s answer.
“Oh, God, Casey...”
“You can tell me.” Casey’s heart was thrumming and a sour taste rose up the back of her throat. She sensed what was coming, before the words were out of Clarisse’s mouth.
“He, uh, he hit me.”
“Clarisse, no...”
Sniffles. “It’s... well, it’s not the first time, but he never took it out on the kids before. This time he was in such a rage he hit Charlie, slapped him so hard he left a red mark that turned into a bruise.”
Casey’s stomach seemed to drop to the floor and she thought she might get sick. Charlie was barely five. “Oh, God, Clarisse, where are you?”
“In a women’s shelter in Seattle, but I’m broke and... I need someone to talk to and I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She was struggling not to sob, but her voice cracked, and Casey imagined her face bruised, tears raining from her eyes.
“Give me the address and I’ll be there tomorrow,” Casey promised. “I’ll wire you some money—”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“But I can’t pay you back. Ray has all the money in his name—his and his mother’s—and—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Casey said quickly, rage roaring through her blood. She couldn’t understand how a man could hit the woman he loved, or his child, though she’d seen her father backhand his own two boys more times than she could count.
“But—”
“Really, Clarisse, don’t worry. Just take care of yourself and your boys. Stay at the shelter—don’t let him or his mother know where you are. When you get back on your feet, you’ll get a job. It’s not a big deal. Haven’t you heard, I’m a rich heiress these days?” Casey joked, though that was stretching the truth a little. Her portion of her father’s estate was still tied up in land and company holdings and the like, but she had a savings account that she didn’t really need. As far as she was concerned, Clarisse and her boys could have it all. “I’ll be there by morning.”
After scribbling down the address of the shelter and Clarisse’s new bank in Seattle, Casey had driven into town, transferred some money to Clarisse and returned to the house, where she’d begun packing.
“Where are you going?” her mother had asked as she’d walked into Casey’s room and found her folding some jeans and sweaters before tossing them into an open suitcase on the bed.
“To Seattle. Clarisse is in trouble.”
“I thought Clarisse lived in Spokane.”
“She does, but she’s moved.”
“Why? What kind of trouble?” Virginia sat on the corner of the bed, holding firmly to the post.
Casey bit her lip. She didn’t really want to discuss her friend’s private life with anyone. “Look, it’s kind of personal. She’s splitting up with her husband—”
Virginia’s frown deepened into a grave, disapproving scowl.
“—and she needs some support.”
“Money?”
“Yeah, some.”
Virginia clucked her tongue. “That’s the problem with your generation—ready to throw in the towel at the littlest bump in a marriage.”
Casey couldn’t stand the condemnation in her mother’s eyes. “Mom, he hit her, okay? Hard. And he didn’t stop there. He slapped Charlie, too. Left a welt on his face.”
“Oh.”
“So she needs a friend and I’m going to be it.”
Virginia’s fingers twisted together. Virginia had suffered an abusive marriage in her own way, Casey had thought, though she’d never spoken her mind on the subject. Jonah McKee had never struck his wife, but he’d often belittled her, and his string of mistresses had been legendary in the town. Casey had heard the snickering behind her mother’s back, seen Virginia’s friends cover their mouths and smile at the knowledge that their husbands had been faithful, while Jonah McKee had strayed. Virginia, ever the loyal wife, had turned a blind eye to her husband’s marital lapses and raised her children without ever saying a word against her philandering husband. But they’d all known.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked as she plucked at a piece of lint on the quilt her mother-in-law, Mavis, had pieced together.
“I’m not sure,” Casey replied. “I’ve been thinking it’s time that I—”
“That you what?”
“I wish I knew. But I really can’t stay here and tread water. I need to do something. I need a purpose, Mom.”
“Don’t tell me this is some kind of mission to find yourself—your real identity—or someth
ing as trite as that.”
Casey snapped the suitcase closed. “Right now this is a mission to help Clarisse. After that, who knows? I’ll call,” she promised as she swung her bag off the bed.
“Be careful.”
“Always am, Mom,” Casey had said with a wave. She’d driven away from the ranch feeling free, not even really paying attention to her mother’s warning, the same one Virginia repeated every time any of her children left the ranch.
Just a few miles out of Dawson City, Casey’s car had given out. Cursing the miserable piece of junk, she’d started walking through the snow. Barry, in his beat-up old pickup had stopped and offered her a lift, and she’d been grateful that she wouldn’t have to battle the wind and snow and a potential case of frostbite. What she hadn’t known was that he had a gun in the truck, and as soon as she was settled in, he’d grabbed her, forced a pair of handcuffs on her and cuffed her to a handhold in the armrest. Then he’d tromped on the accelerator, kept the pistol pointed squarely at her chest and warned her to stay put. She’d screamed, yelled and cursed him, all to no avail. He’d seemed delighted to have captured her and she’d prayed it was all just a prank.
Now, of course, she knew differently.
She had to escape, but she couldn’t, not with her hands tied. For the most part, she was allowed to be unbound, unless Barry was sleeping or whenever he left to drive into town for supplies or to call his partner. Otherwise he seemed to think he could stop her if she tried to bolt. He wasn’t in the best of shape, but he was heavy and strong, and though she was certain she could outrun him if all things were equal, she couldn’t slog through eighteen inches of snow and leave him in her dust. Besides, where would she go?
Today, as if he sensed she was plotting a way to get out, he’d tied her up again, using rope instead of the handcuffs, which he’d rendered useless when he’d clumsily dropped the key down a hole in the floor the last time he’d released her.
She mentally kicked herself for the thousandth time for getting into his truck, then decided she’d had no choice as she couldn’t have argued with the barrel of a gun. She just had to make the best of it and find some way to escape. “Just what is it you want?” she asked as Barry took a long tug on his bottle, then belched. They’d been over this before, but she hoped each time she asked, she’d get to the bottom of her abduction and learn the identity of Barry’s silent partner.
“A million big ones.”
“I know that, but why?”
He yawned and stretched an arm over his head. “’Cause you McKees are all too big fer your britches, that’s why.” He slanted her an evil smile. “It’s time you got yours.”
Sloan scanned the two pieces of paper he’d received four days before, searching for some clue that had escaped him. The letter and ransom note revealed nothing new, nor did the silver-and-turquoise ring or lock of dark hair—proof that the kidnappers did indeed have Casey. He clenched his fingers over the ring and turned his attention to the glossy eight-by-ten color photograph of Jenner’s sister.
She was a looker, he’d give her that much. Spoiled, but beautiful. Straight, coffee brown hair framed a face that would make a man look twice. High cheekbones, stubborn McKee chin, arched eyebrows and hazel eyes. It was her eyes that got to him. Greenish brown shot with silver, they stared past curling black lashes and seemed to look straight into his soul. Jenner’s old snapshot had hinted at her looks, but Sloan wouldn’t have guessed she would turn out to be so intensely beautiful.
Disgusted with himself, he shoved the letters, lock of hair and picture into a manila envelope and locked the package in the glove compartment of his battle-scarred pickup, then slipped the ring into the front pocket of his faded jeans.
As he climbed out of his rig, he was pleased that his old truck seemed to fit into the landscape of Rimrock. A small town in a rural Oregon where most of the townspeople worked on ranches, in the woods, in sawmills or in the copper mine just outside of town. Dusty pickups and four-wheel-drive rigs in all shapes and sizes were parked along the streets.
After arriving in Rimrock, he’d had one meeting with the McKee men and then pretended to be an out-of-town drifter looking for work and hanging out at the Black Anvil Saloon. There were several watering holes in town, but the Black Anvil seemed to be where all the action was. Besides, it was the last place Jonah McKee had frequented before he’d been killed.
Inside the Black Anvil, the smoke was thick, the conversation loud, the click of billiard balls ever present. Talk of Casey McKee’s kidnapping was still floating around. Sloan ordered a beer and settled at a table in the middle of the room where he could appear to be watching a hockey game on television while he nursed his drink and listened to the gossip.
Casey’s name peppered several conversations, less now than a few days ago, but people were still interested. “Can’t believe it,” one woman was saying. “In a town the size of Rimrock?”
“Has nothin’ to do with Rimrock. It’s those uppity McKees. Someone finally decided to take them down a peg,” her companion, a buxom redhead, said as she poured beer into a frosty glass.
“But murder? And kidnapping? And arson?”
“Someone’s real ticked off, let me tell you. You heard that Beth Crandall, the girl who’s snagged Jenner McKee, she was nearly run off the road. Had her mother with her. You know who she is...” She snapped her fingers. “Her name was Jones. Now she’s married to Zeke Forrester. That’s it—Forrester! Anyway, nearly scared the devil out of Harriet because her grandson was with her.”
“Makes you wonder what the world’s coming to,” the first woman said, scanning the room with nervous eyes. “Seems as if you can’t trust anyone these days.”
“Not if your name is McKee.” The redhead barked out a short laugh and reached into her purse for a pack of cigarettes.
“I just hope Casey’s okay.”
“Oh, she will be. One thing about that gal, she always lands on her feet.”
Sloan hoped so. He didn’t know Casey and wasn’t sure that if he did he would have liked her, but he worried about her. No one should have to go through whatever it was she was enduring. He only hoped that he could save her. In time.
A cold fear cut through his soul. But you couldn’t save Jane, could you? Or Tony. Where were you when the ones you loved needed you most? He slammed his mind shut from those ugly thoughts and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
He caught the McKee name in several conversations, but heard nothing that really helped. He waved to a few of the locals. For the most part they were a friendly, hardworking lot who just needed a beer and a little downtime when they got off work.
One of the good old boys was Cyrus Kellogg, a rancher whose spread was just north of the McKees’. He’d given Sloan a day’s worth of work chopping wood. The physical labor had felt good and accepting the job had completed his cover. People had begun to trust him after Cyrus had spread the word that Sloan was a hard worker.
Near as Sloan could tell, Casey had been kidnapped as part of a revenge scheme against the McKee family. In the past few months the McKees had suffered more than their share of grief, presumably at the hands of someone holding a grudge against one or more members of the richest family in the county. First, Jonah’s Jeep had been forced off the road to land in the swift waters of Wildcat Creek at the bottom of Stardust Canyon. Then, the McKee stables had been set on fire, and Jenner McKee had been badly injured as he tried to save his niece and the livestock. Now Casey was missing.
It all added up, and Sloan was laying odds that the thug behind the kidnapping was in the crowd at the bar, or would be within the week. Even if the culprit decided to lie low and avoid frequenting the Black Anvil for a while, he was sure to turn up again—like the proverbial bad penny. Besides, most lowlifes were creatures of habit, and if one of the regulars began staying away, people would start asking questions. There was also the pride factor to consider; Sloan bet that whoever had killed Jonah would love to brag about it. B
ut right now, he was just running scared.
Sloan believed, as did the authorities, that whoever had kidnapped Casey was the one who had murdered Jonah and burned down the McKee stables.
He’d spent the past few nights chatting with the locals, keeping an ear tuned toward the gossip while he pretended interest in the television mounted over the bar, where complimentary sports programs were offered free of charge to the patrons, just like the salty pretzels and popcorn.
During the day—when he wasn’t doing odd jobs for some of the ranchers to gain their trust—Sloan sifted through her personal papers, interviewed the family and asked Jenner to check on places where Casey had gone to school and been employed so that his cover wasn’t blown. He probably knew more about Casey McKee than she did herself. He’d checked telephone records to the McKee ranch, then flown to Seattle, interviewed Clarisse James, the friend who’d called Casey the day she was kidnapped. Before meeting Clarisse, he’d thought that she was in on the abduction, but the distressed woman was worried sick about Casey, her fear evident in her eyes. A battered woman who was trying to get back on her feet and survive with her two children, Clarisse convinced him that she didn’t have a clue as to what had happened to her friend.
The FBI seemed to be concentrating on Clarisse James, thinking, her desperate, a young mother who’d run away from her rich husband, but Sloan’s gut instinct told him that she was clean. Clarisse had her own problems, and the money suddenly appearing in her account had been given to her by Casey, no strings attached. Virginia McKee had confirmed it.
So Jenner’s hothead of a sister had gotten herself into big-time trouble. Sloan Redhawk wasn’t surprised. It seemed to be a McKee trait. Sloan had known Jenner McKee for years. They’d spent a lot of time riding rodeo together, and Jenner was always getting himself into one scrape or another.
Jenner’s older brother, Max, tended to keep his nose clean, but most of the people he’d talked to agreed that Casey was a stubborn, spoiled, headstrong girl. Flirting with danger seemed to be a family tradition. Even Jenner’s old man, Jonah, had courted trouble, skirting the law with his business deals, but coming out of each scrape without a scratch because he had enough cash to buy off the judges, deputies, competition and local politicians.