On Common Ground

by Jansen Schmidt

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jansen Schmidt.

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover design by Book Baby

  ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54394-321-4

  ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54394-322-1

  Library of Congress CIP data applied for

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  The road to publication is long, narrow, and hazardous and it takes a village to navigate around the potholes, hairpin turns, and detours. I’d like to thank all my early beta readers, critique partners, and proofreaders for their input and patience as I schlepped along with this story when I probably should have ditched it and gone on to other projects.

  I’d like to especially thank Kelle Barfield for offering professional editing advice just because she’s a nice person. I’m forever thankful for all the rejection letters, negative criticism, and silence from pitch after pitch and query after query because if not for that, this book would never have improved and become the story it is today. And no journey is ever complete without my wonderful husband by my side. Although he doesn’t really understand what I do, or the whole idea-to-book process, he supports me anyway.

  For Mom

  Chapter One

  There are always consequences when you kill a man—no matter the circumstances—no matter who the man. From day one on the job, Trevor Donaldson knew this.

  Temporary exile is often part of the payment, especially if the man you kill is a cop. He squeezed his shoulders up beneath his ear lobes then let them fall back down. He’d re-visited that day over and over in his mind and swore, with unequivocal certainty that, if given the chance to re-live it, he’d do exactly the same thing. No one took a shot at his partner and escaped unscathed. He hadn’t meant to kill the bastard though. That had been a fortunate mistake. A mistake for which he was now paying the price. Exile.

  After an hour on the road, he began to see familiar landmarks, welcoming him toward the ranch he remembered with fondness. His eyes widened in an effort to take it all in at once. The pristine white bunk houses, cedar-sided barns, miles of barbed wire stretched tight between dark green “t” posts. Acre after acre of high desert scrub grass. Comforting warmth spread outward from the vicinity where his heart used to dwell. What an odd sensation. While a smile tugged at his lips, his reflection in the rearview mirror confirmed that it hadn’t quite materialized on his face.

  “It won’t be forever,” Trevor’s boss, Denny Holliwell’s voice resounded through the ear piece of his cell phone. “This is for your own good, Trev. You have a right to be upset and you have a right to be mad, but you can’t let it affect your judgment. No one blames you.”

  “Everyone blames me,” Trevor snapped as he turned on to the gravel road leading to the sprawling ranch that had been in the Dillinger family for generations.

  Except for a few more outbuildings and improved black pipe fencing enclosing several large horse pastures, the Diamond D looked the same as it had fifteen years ago when, as a kid, his dad had brought him here for father-son weekends to fish and hunt. Over the past several years, Rocky Dillinger had purchased neighboring ranches as they came up for sale, making this the largest privately-owned spread in Northern Arizona, comprising nearly 150,000 acres. If a man wanted to disappear in Arizona, this was the best place to do it. Maybe exile wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  Denny prattled on. “We’ll get to the bottom of this mess. Just go somewhere—outside the media’s radar—and hang out for a while. Get your head right. I know the . . . situation with Heather threw you for a loop. But you’ve got to move past it, Trev.”

  Denny paused, and Trevor pinched his lips together to keep from swearing a blue streak at his boss for bringing up his ex-wife—again. How much longer must I endure the humiliation?

  “This whole thing is my fault,” Denny continued. “Against my better judgment, I didn’t impose administrative leave when Heather left you, even though—”

  “Damn it, Denny.” Trevor slammed his palm into the steering wheel. “You know I was—”

  “I didn’t take you off duty then, and I should’ve. You probably wouldn’t be in this mess now if I’d insisted that you take some time off. You weren’t thinking straight. You were too angry then and you’re too angry now, even if you could be involved in this investigation and you know it.”

  Trevor clenched his cell phone so hard he thought it might snap in two.

  Denny’s voice softened. “Hang out with the guys for a while or get laid. Get drunk. Get whatever this thing is, out of your system.”

  “This thing?” Trevor seethed. His boss had demoted his complete and utter humiliation to a thing? “She made me a god-damned laughingstock!”

  Denny cleared his throat. “Now that you mention it, you should stay away from the ladies for a while, too.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’m done with ladies.” He slurred the last word with disgust.

  Voicing the resolution out loud reaffirmed it, driving it deep, like the tender roots of a sapling pushing ever downward in the earth, searching for something solid to anchor to. Only there wasn’t anything solid inside him. Not anymore.

  “I take it from that little outburst, that you’ve yet to discuss with the psychologist the real reason for all the animosity burning a hole in you.”

  “I saw the shrink because you insisted. We talked about how intentionally shooting another cop made me feel. There’s nothing else to talk about.”

  “Well, according to him, there is. And it might behoove you to see him a few more times when this whole mess blows over. Could make a difference as to how soon you can return to the force without being considered a risk.”

  “I thought you said no one blames me.”

  “I’m suggesting that you use this time off to adjust your
frame of mind. And not just about this Internal Affairs investigation either, you need to let go of the past. Including Heather.”

  Trevor ground his teeth. As he neared the main house he slowed to avoid creating excess dust. The two-story main home sported a fresh coat of white paint with glossy black trim. The scalloped edges of white lace curtains showed through the windows, an unspoken reminder that a loving woman once occupied the home. Baskets of flowers hung from the eaves of the wrap-around porch, their colorful blossoms a sign that fall was taking its time settling in.

  “I mean it, Donaldson,” Denny said with authority earned by working his way up through the ranks of the Sheriff’s Department. “You need to move on. This funk, or whatever it is, is taking a toll on your job and I can’t afford to lose you.”

  How is he supposed to get over what happened when he remained as hollow as a broken shell, abandoned on the sand, waiting for the next high tide to carry him haphazardly onward like unwanted flotsam?

  With a mental snap of fingers, he forced his mind away from his ugly emotional turmoil. Focus on the physical beauty around you. Nestled beneath the San Francisco Peaks, the highest mountains in Arizona, the ranch was as picturesque and welcoming as he remembered. To his left, behind the house, a dense pine forest hid the base of the purple-tinged summit of Humphrey’s Peak. Opposite the house, late summer wildflowers bloomed in a meadow, disappearing into a vast mixed conifer forest blanketing the slopes of Mount Eldon.

  “I’ll call you after I talk to Hawkins,” Denny said before disconnecting.

  Trevor parked his shiny-black, jacked-up, chromed-out, pickup truck between the largest barn and two smaller cabins and switched off the engine. A mixture of hay, horse sweat, and manure filled his nostrils the moment he opened the door. He eased his tired body out of the cab and wandered toward a corral attached to one entire end of the elongated barn. Rodeo barrels formed a triangle in the middle of the arena. What the hell? When did Rocky start training barrel horses? The ranch from his youth had been strictly a working cattle ranch.

  He’d only taken a few steps when voices from inside the barn captured his attention. He changed direction but stopped inches shy of the doorway. He recognized Rocky’s baritone, but the other voice was softer and higher pitched. Prickles snaked along his arms. No, no, no! There’re not supposed to be any women here!

  “I’ll talk to him, Ket. I promise.” Rocky’s gentle tone surely meant to reassure whoever he was talking to. “He’s a decent fellow. You’ll be a lot safer with him here than you were before.”

  The air grew heavy. Too heavy to pull into his lungs. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, especially if they were talking about him, but the unexpected presence of a woman left him semi-paralyzed. The conversation became almost inaudible over the pulse thundering in his ears. He sucked in a mouthful of dry hot air and strained to hear over his pounding heart.

  “You don’t have to like him, Honey, just try to get along with him. I told you I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’re not going to tell him, are you?” Trevor noted panic in the woman’s voice.

  “Of course not, Sweetheart. Your secret is safe with me.”

  Secret? Sweetheart? Is Rocky involved with this woman? When they were silent for a moment, Trevor turned to leave but froze when Rocky asked, “Have you heard from the parole officer yet?”

  Parole Officer? What the fuck is going on here?

  Chapter Two

  A million thoughts collided in Trevor’s brain. He backtracked toward the adjoining corral. He’d no sooner cleared the end of the barn and propped a booted foot on the lowest rail of the fence when gravel crunched behind him. He turned and produced a smile he hoped masked his confusion and guilt at eavesdropping. Rocky Dillinger, at fifty-eight, was an imposing figure whom Trevor suspected would still be a force to be reckoned with should the occasion arise. Grasping Trevor’s outstretched hand, Rocky pulled him in for a quick masculine embrace and slapped him on the shoulder.

  Judging from the intensity of Rocky’s gaze, Trevor guessed that Rocky knew he’d overheard the exchange in the barn.

  “You got here sooner than you expected, huh?”

  Trevor nodded. He should fess up to hearing the conversation between Rocky and the woman.

  “It’s good to see you again, Trev.” Creases etched the older man’s sun-leathered face and warmth emanated from his alert blue eyes.

  “It’s good to be here. Been a long time.” Trevor’s response wasn’t an automatic answer either, but rather a sincere reflection of the joy he felt at seeing his Dad’s best friend again. It had been too long since his last visit.

  “I guess you noticed the added housing.” Rocky inclined his head toward the new bunkhouses lined up next to the older ones in the distance.

  More bunkhouses meant more cowboys, and more cowboys meant greater risk of being recognized. Though his picture had only been aired once on TV, there was no telling who had seen it or who might remember his face. “I did,” he nodded. “Business is good then?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  Turning his full attention to Trevor, Rocky cocked his head to one side and laid a work-roughened hand on his shoulder. “How’ve you been, Trevor? Your dad said these past few months have been rough.”

  Despite the genuine concern Trevor noted in the older man’s question, he couldn’t stop the angry retort from escaping his lips. “You mean since the little woman made me feel like a pathetic excuse for a man?”

  He sighed, wishing he could retract the outburst. Denny was right, he needed to get over Heather’s duplicity.

  Rocky grimaced. “I remember that feeling. But, it’s true what they say, time heals all wounds.”

  Trevor focused on the purple peaks rising in the distance and worked his lower jaw back and forth. Tamping down the spark of anger threatening to ignite in his gut, he expelled a breath, determined to follow Denny’s instructions and change his attitude. “It was a shock, that’s for sure.” He returned his gaze to the older man. “I’m taking it one day at a time, trying to put it behind me. But, now there’s this new mess and I’m sure Internal Affairs will drag it out forever.”

  “It’ll all work out, son. You’re a good cop, with good instincts. It’s none of my business, but if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen. And I’ll keep it to myself.” He patted Trevor’s shoulder then stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  Rocky’s heartfelt confidence in his moral character and professional abilities touched a still raw nerve in Trevor’s chest. He cleared his throat and rested his forearms on top of the highest fence rail. “Thanks, but lately I’ve been thinking I should’ve listened to my dad and stuck with ranching.”

  A sorrel gelding burst out of the barn and sped toward the barrel closest to the fence where they stood. Trevor took an involuntary step backward. His lips parted in astonishment as a girl with a riot of long blond curls flowing beneath a dusty black hat sat atop the horse. Until it misjudged the pocket, sliced into the barrel and pitched her sideways. Trevor winced when she landed with a thud in a cloud of dust. The horse trotted to the other side of the arena, reins dangling from its mouth.

  “You son-of-a—” Realizing she had an audience, she clamped her mouth shut.

  Trevor staggered away from the fence. A jolt of some unexplained, supercharged emotion ripped through his gut. Is this beautiful young woman the same girl who hasn’t heard from her parole officer? Flies and other pests buzzed around his face.

  He froze. The girl raised her eyes from his size twelve and a half boots upward, lingering—he couldn’t help but notice—at specific places along the journey, until they settled on his face.

  Resisting the urge to smile, he crouched, thumbed the brim of his hat higher on his forehead and squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

  She gasped and scrambled backward, crablike in the dirt, cobalt eyes wide with fright. She
stumbled over her own feet as she tried to rise. Stunned by her alarmed reaction, Trevor twisted his head toward Rocky for a hint of what caused her panic. Rocky seemed equally baffled.

  When she’d gained her footing, she repositioned her battered Resistol hat and crept backward to where the horse stood at the opposite side of the arena. Trevor rose. What the hell? She limped toward the horse. Leaning his forearms on the fence, he raised questioning brows at Rocky.

  “Is she okay?”

  Rocky’s eyes volleyed between him and the girl. He didn’t speak.

  “Is she thrown often?”

  “She’s taken her fair share of tumbles.” Rocky alternated his focus between Trevor and the girl in the arena.

  Trevor folded his arms across his chest and contemplated the woman through narrowed eyes. Great! He’d probably spend half his time babysitting her or picking her up off the ground.

  “You won’t have to worry about her,” Rocky said as if reading his thoughts. “That kid’s been riding since before she could walk. She just happens to be working with one stubborn Cayuse today.”

  “Why is she looking at me like she’s seen a ghost?” He hoped Rocky hadn’t noticed the tinge of disgust in his voice.

  The older man looked at him with parted lips and caution in his eyes. “I’m afraid she might have.”

  The girl examined the gelding’s chest and front legs before leading him toward the barn.

  “Who is she?”

  “Ketra Weston.”

  “What’s her problem with me?”

  Rocky seemed to choose his words with care. “You’re . . . new here. She’s . . . a little timid around strangers. She can be a spitfire though. She comes across a little brassy sometimes, but you’ll get used to her.” Rocky grinned and slapped him on the back.

  Ain’t getting used to no woman. Never again. Not even an exceptionally pretty one. “There’s not supposed to be any women here.” And why the hell was he noticing that she’s exceptionally pretty? Those thoughts’ll get him in trouble for sure.