by B. J Daniels
“That’s all it is, you realize,” she said quickly.
He nodded. “The thing is, how did the killer know you were going to write the note or that I was going to get into a fight with Forrest that night?”
She’d thought about this for years. “Well, the way I figure it, once he had the gun, all he had to do was wait for an opportunity to present itself—if his true intention was to get rid of Forrest and put the blame on you.”
“My gun,” Rourke said, and swore under his breath.
“You kept a gun on a shelf in your bedroom,” she said, and hated her accusing tone.
“I know what you’re going to say.”
“Do you?”
“The gun was a…keepsake. I hadn’t fired it since I was a boy and my grandfather used to take me out….” He shook his head. “Never mind. The point is anyone could have taken it the night of my birthday party.”
She rolled her eyes. “What about in the weeks before the party? The truth is, you don’t have any idea when it was taken—or by whom.”
“Just for the sake of argument, let’s forget about Blaze.”
She raised a brow. “Is that wise?”
“I’m not having any trouble with it,” he said, meeting her gaze.
“I don’t care about your relationship with Blaze,” she said, telling herself it was true. “I just think it is foolish to overlook a suspect out of…” She waved a hand through the air as if unable to find the words.
He grinned at her. “Because I’m so besotted with Blaze that I can’t think rationally?”
“Yes.”
He laughed. “Let me worry about Blaze. I might surprise you.” He sobered. “As you were saying, my fight with Forrest that night gave the killer the opportunity he was looking for.”
She nodded. “All he had to do was get Forrest to some deserted spot and use your gun with your fingerprints on it.”
His eyes narrowed as if he was wondering how her note to him played into her theory.
“Or,” she continued, “the killer might have heard the same thing I did—Forrest on the phone setting up the meeting with Blaze.”
“You’re convinced it was Blaze, even though she denied it in court?”
Cassidy ticked off the reasons on her fingers. “Blaze left early. When was the last time she did that? Never. She used the fight, which she instigated, as her excuse not to see you later that night, right?” She nodded when he saw from his expression that she was right.
“Blaze liked to play hard to get sometimes,” he said.
Cassidy wasn’t about to touch that. “Also when I saw Blaze and Forrest together a week before the murder, I heard him call her honey bun—just like he called whoever he told to meet him up Wild Horse Gulch the night of the murder.”
Rourke’s jaw muscle jumped. “Maybe he called all women honey bun. The guy wasn’t very imaginative.”
She gave him a pitying look. “Didn’t it strike you as odd that Forrest stayed at the Mello Dee after the fight? After the beating you gave him, wouldn’t he want to get the heck out of there? So he finishes his drink, glances at his watch, then goes to the phone as if he was waiting to call someone. Waiting for her to get home?”
Rourke was frowning.
“He calls a woman—we do agree on that, right?”
Rourke nodded.
“He says meet me and let’s talk about it. What would you conclude from that?”
“Okay,” he agreed. “I can see how you came to the conclusion you did.”
“On top of that, Blaze has no alibi for the time of the murder.”
“She lived alone in an apartment. That’s not unusual,” he said.
She wanted to slug him and he must have seen the fire in her eyes because he raised both hands in surrender and said, “Let’s say you’re right. So where does your note fit into this?”
Yes, her note. “If the killer didn’t overhear Forrest on the phone like I did, then he or she had to either see me put the note on your truck or notice it under the windshield wiper—and read it,” she said. “But if I hadn’t written the note, the killer would have come up with some other way to get you to Wild Horse Gulch—or at least make sure you didn’t have an alibi.”
Rourke nodded slowly, but she couldn’t tell if he agreed with her or was just going along with her theory for the moment.
She didn’t point out that Blaze had purposely not given him an alibi by going home alone. “Remember, he already had your gun with your fingerprints on it and you had motive after the bar fight,” she said. “I went back inside to the rest room, so I don’t know what happened between the time I put the note under your pickup windshield wiper and came back out.”
“Why did you go back inside?” he asked.
She looked out the window toward the street and saw that Blaze had returned from wherever she’d been. Cassidy watched her look at Rourke’s pickup then glance across Main Street in the direction of the café. There was a glare on the window so Cassidy was pretty sure Blaze couldn’t see them. Hoped that were true. There was something in Blaze’s expression that chilled her.
“I was upset,” Cassidy said, turning her attention back to him. “I’d been crying and I realized that I’d left my purse in the bathroom.”
“Maybe you stuck around because you wanted to see what I did when I found the note,” he said without rancor.
She dropped her eyes. “Maybe.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Did you notice anyone in the parking lot when you went out—other than me?”
She shook her head. “I was too upset….” Her gaze came up to meet his. “Forrest’s killer could have been waiting in the parking lot for him and saw me leave the note and read it. Or he could have followed him.”
Rourke was shaking his head. “It would have been impossible for anyone to follow Forrest up that road in a vehicle without him knowing it. From where he was parked, he could have seen the car coming.”
She nodded and saw the change in Rourke’s expression.
“No wonder the jury was so convinced I killed him. So I guess we start with who was there that night. Who witnessed the fight. Who had been waiting for just this opportunity.” He shook his head. “You and I, we really played right into the killer’s hands, didn’t we.”
THE BELL OVER THE DOOR JANGLED and Rourke looked up to see his little brother coming in the café. Brandon was scowling. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothing—but not nearly long enough. He needed a shave and he was wearing the same clothing he’d had on yesterday when he’d picked Rourke up in Deer Lodge at the prison.
Rourke knew the look a little too well. At least he had eleven years ago.
Brandon caught his eye and motioned that he needed to talk to him.
“If you will excuse me,” Rourke said to Cassidy who had seen Brandon as well. “I need to talk to my brother.” He reached into his wallet to pay his bill.
“Lunch is on me,” she said.
“Thanks, but at least let me tip the waitress.” He dropped more than enough for both their meals and a tip on the table. “No arguments,” he said when she started to protest. Then he hesitated. “Thanks for helping me with this. Can we talk later?”
She nodded.
He stared down into her face for a long moment. He really did like her face. Then he touched her arm, squeezing it as he passed.
“You look like something the cat’s dragged in,” Rourke said as he let Brandon lead him outside. “What’s up?”
Brandon smelled of alcohol and looked even worse up close. “I hate to ask you seeing as how you just got back to town—”
“You need money,” Rourke said, and pulled his brother aside. Several people walked by. Rourke waited until they were out of earshot. “I thought you had a job, and what about the money Grandpa left you?”
“I’m in between jobs right now and Dad has my trust set up where I only get a stipend every month,” Brandon said angrily. “I can’t touch the bulk of it until I’m
thirty-five.” Five more years.
“How much do you need?” Rourke asked.
Brandon looked down at the sidewalk. “A couple grand.”
Rourke let out a low whistle. “And this money is for what exactly?”
“Look, either lend me the money or forget it,” Brandon snapped, and started to walk away.
“You’re gambling,” Rourke said, his voice low.
His little brother stopped and turned. “I’m in trouble.”
Rourke swore. “Who is it you owe?”
Brandon shook his head.
“You tell me or I’m not going to help you.”
“Kelly.”
With an oath, Rourke raked a hand through his hair. “Burt Ace-up-his-sleeve friggin’ Kelly? What the hell is wrong with you? Kelly has been fleecing ranch hands for years. Is he still with the VanHorn spread?”
Brandon nodded. “Look, don’t go causing any trouble, all right? Just give me the money so I can pay him. You don’t know what he’s like. He’ll kill me.”
“Kill you?”
“He gets crazy sometimes. He told me last night that if I didn’t come up with the money today I’d end up like Forrest Danvers,” Brandon said.
Rourke froze. “You aren’t making this up?”
“Do you think I’d lie about something like that?”
He hoped not as he studied his brother. Brandon had been nineteen when Forrest was murdered. “What do you know about Forrest’s murder?”
“Nothing. Just what I told you,” Brandon said.
“I’m going to pay your gambling debts,” Rourke said carefully. “You’re going to go back to the ranch and start helping the old man until you get a job.”
Brandon started to argue but Rourke grabbed him by the collar.
“You are never going to gamble with Kelly again,” Rourke continued, tightening his hold. “If I hear different, I’m going to kick your hide. Is that clear?”
“You sound like the old man,” Brandon wheezed.
Rourke smiled. “Yeah, don’t I. Too bad the old man didn’t do the same to me. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone to prison. But you and I, we’re not having this discussion again.” He let go of his brother. “We understand each other?”
Brandon rubbed his throat and nodded. “Let me pay Kelly. If you go out there—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Brandon started to argue but wisely changed his mind.
“Go to the ranch, get cleaned up,” Rourke said. “I won’t mention this to J.T. when I call him to tell him you’ll be working out there for a while.”
“Look, can’t I start tomorrow? I’m so hungover—”
“It will do you good,” Rourke said. “I’ll tell J.T. to put you on mending fence. You’d be amazed what the hot sun does to a hangover.”
Brandon swore as he walked away. Rourke watched him drive out of town toward the ranch, thinking, damn if he hadn’t become his father. The thought did nothing to improve his mood as he headed for his pickup.
ASA SPOTTED Rourke’s pickup in front of the Longhorn just as Rourke started to climb behind the wheel. He should have bought his son a new truck, done something to let Rourke know he was glad he was out of prison, that he believed in his innocence, that he hadn’t disinherited him and was sorry he’d ever threatened to.
But he’d done nothing, said nothing. He silently cursed himself for his stubborn pride or whatever it was that often made him act like an ass. Worse, that he couldn’t even admit to acting like an ass to his own son.
“Rourke,” Dusty called out the window, and motioned for him to wait.
Asa parked down the block from the café. “I’d just as soon do this on my own,” he said as Dusty opened her door.
“I’m sure you would,” she said, ignoring him as she got out and started toward her brother.
Her mother’s genes again, Asa thought as he followed her. He hadn’t gone far when he saw a familiar figure come out of a building down the street. He stumbled, nearly fell.
“Dad,” Dusty said, grabbing his arm to steady him. “Are you all right?”
He didn’t answer, his attention still on the woman getting into the dark sports car.
“What is it?” Dusty said. “Dad?”
A truck pulled out, blocking his view of the woman, of the car and the license plate. The car sped away, giving him only a glimpse of blond hair.
“Who was that?” Dusty asked.
“What? No one. It’s nothing.”
“You look as if you just saw a ghost,” Rourke said joining them.
Asa shook his head. “I’m okay.” His voice broke. “I just need to watch where I’m going, that’s all.”
Dusty was eyeing him suspiciously. She glanced down the street toward where he’d been staring and looked as if she were about to say something when Rourke asked, “Do you need to sit down?”
Asa felt light-headed and realized he was shaking like a leaf.
“Dad hasn’t been feeling so hot,” Dusty said, always covering for him.
“I’m fine,” Asa snapped. “I want you to come stay at the ranch, Rourke, where you belong.”
Rourke lifted a brow and Asa immediately regretted his tone. Even Dusty groaned beside him.
“Son…” Asa tried again.
“Thanks for the…invitation, if that’s what it was, but I’m staying at the cabin right now,” Rourke said.
“Well, if you change your mind…” Asa said, feeling helpless. He could see that he’d disappointed Dusty and angered Rourke.
But as much as that distressed him, he was more upset over the woman he’d seen down the street. Or thought he’d seen.
“See you later,” Rourke said to his sister before heading to his pickup.
Dusty went after him and Asa overheard her say, “Dad’s been under a lot of stress lately but he really does want you to come home.”
Asa leaned against the side of the building next to the Longhorn and tried to calm his racing heart. Stress? Hell, isn’t that what everyone blamed nowadays? But could stress make you imagine a face that you’d spent years trying to forget?
“You could have been nicer,” Dusty said not unkindly as she returned to take Asa’s arm. Rourke looked their way as he drove off, headed south out of town. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She sounded worried about him.
“I’m fine. You’re right, I didn’t eat yesterday. Let’s get a burger on the way to pick up the grain. I’ll let you drive.”
That seemed to satisfy her. At least for the moment. But as she drove the truck down the street, like him, she appeared to be looking for the black sports car the blond woman had gotten into just before she disappeared from view.
ROURKE STOPPED at the bank, then drove south out of town. He couldn’t believe that Kelly had the nerve to gamble with a McCall. Rourke’s blood boiled at just the thought.
But it was the comment that Kelly had allegedly made about Forrest that had cooled Rourke down. Getting mad was one thing, but it took a cool head to get even. A lesson well learned at prison.
Just miles from the Wyoming border, he turned back up into the open country to the east through a huge log arch with the words VanHorn Ranch on a sign hanging from it.
Tacked on the post was a reward poster, the newer cardboard sign already weathered and worn but the lettering still readable: Reward For Any Information About The Vandalizing Of VanHorn Property.
VanHorn had been the first to allow coal-bed methane gas wells to be drilled on his property. The whole idea hadn’t gone over well. In fact, someone had vandalized VanHorn’s wells and drilling equipment. That had been before Rourke went to prison. Brandon had told him that VanHorn was still gunning for the culprit.
VanHorn had a long memory, never forgot a slight or a wrong. Mason was like Asa that way, Rourke thought, reminded of his own father.
The first VanHorn, Houston, had come to Montana with Rourke’s great-grandfather, Jed McCall. Both men had been cattlemen, born and bred. T
hen the families had a falling out, with the feud continuing each generation.
Rourke wondered what Houston VanHorn would think of his descendants allowing coal-bed methane drilling to be done on his land. Maybe Houston’s ghost had vandalized the gas wells. At the very least the old man must be rolling in his grave to see the drilling rigs on VanHorn land. In that regard, Houston VanHorn had been like Asa.
Dust churned up behind the pickup as Rourke raced up the road. There were drilling units all along the road to the ranch house. In the distance, Rourke spotted a new well going in.
“There is money in methane,” Brandon had written him in prison. “Dad’s a fool to let it go to waste underground. It isn’t like the wells hurt the land.”
Good thing his brother wasn’t here with him, Rourke thought. He’d have slugged him.
At the main ranch house, Rourke turned and drove down a short road to where a group of men were breaking a horse.
From the looks of the horse in question, it was a wild mustang from down in Wyoming. VanHorn had been rounding up the mustangs for years.
Rourke got out of his pickup. He didn’t see Kelly in the group of men. He headed for the ranch office, cool and calm. At least on the surface.
He opened the door rather than knock. Burt Kelly looked up from behind a huge oak desk. The ranch foreman was tall and slim with a face like a ferret, eyes small and dark, his face pocked, his lips a thin mean line. He seemed surprised to see Rourke. It took something pretty big to get a McCall onto the VanHorn spread, given the long-running feud between the McCalls and VanHorns.
“Rourke McCall,” Kelly said, and Rourke caught a flicker of worry in the older man’s eyes. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face around here again.”
Rourke smiled. Kelly liked to goad people, make them angry, make them do something stupid. “You know why I’m here.”
Kelly raised a brow. “I do?”
“I heard you’re still a gambling man,” Rourke said, his voice soft and deadly. “Want to make a wager as to why I’m here?”
Kelly laughed. “I’d win that one. Let me guess. Your little brother came whining to you. He’s just like you, Rourke. A lousy poker player. Hotheaded and a poor loser.”