by Rita Karnopp
* * *
"How about more wine?" Wyatt poured before she had a chance to decline.
"Thank you," she said, hoping he continued with his own ample drinking. "Do you think Brett would be doing these things to himself?"
"What?"
"Well, think about it. I don't know anyone who would benefit from his misfortune. I wouldn't mind buying his ranch, but I certainly wouldn't stoop to force the issue. I doubt if you're in any position to buy his ranch, so who would do this?"
Wyatt fidgeted with his glass, then took another healthy swallow.
She smiled up at him, sipping her wine.
"See your point. I'd like to buy it, but until I get a good crop of wheat in, it ain't gonna happen. I've offered him a good price, won't say I haven't. Told him I'd pay him a nice price each year and add on interest. It was a good offer, but he turned me down."
"You offered to buy his ranch?” she asked. “But, why would you do that? I thought you were struggling with your own. I'm sure with a good crop this year, you'll be on top of things, but it wouldn't be enough to buy out Brett, too, would it?"
"My land needs a rest. If I add Brett's property to mine, I'd have the ability to rotate my planting from year-to-year. But, like you, I wouldn't give him grief just to get him to sell. He's a fool not to take my offer, though. Half-breed like him should clear out anyway."
"What kind of comment is that? I'm a full-blood, you want me to clear out, too?" She straightened her shoulders, and the tension in the room increased
The loud knocking on the door made her jump. Wyatt staggered slightly toward the door.
As soon as he moved into the other room, Willow emptied her wine and a good portion of the contents of the bottle into a planter, and then moved closer toward the conversation at the door.
"You fool!" Wyatt said.
"Don't get mouthy with me. How the hell was I to know? I'll take care of him, you can count on that. Just thought you should know."
Willow had no doubt they were discussing Brett. She wondered who spoke. Although muddled, the voice sounded familiar, yet she couldn't place it.
"I suppose you're right, but I don't like it one bit," Wyatt whined. “I don't even want to hear where or how. Things are getting out of hand. I wish we'd never started this.”
Wyatt closed the door behind him, making it impossible for her to hear their conversation. She rushed to the French doors and slipped outside. Edging against the side of the house, she glanced around the corner to see who Wyatt was talking to. She gasped, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. She shook, nearly choking. Gordon, her dead husband, moved away from the door. He looked her way. She held her breath, forcing herself to remain motionless.
"I'm sick of this whole thing," Wyatt said. "If we weren't so damn close to being rich, I'd say the hell with it, I've had enough. Make Brett's death look natural. I don't want the Sheriff's Department questioning me for days like when you died."
"Stop ordering me around," Gordon snapped. “Besides, it worked then and it'll work this time, too. I'm sick of laying low, and I'm not going to Canada. I've changed the plan."
"Like hell you're not. We got us a plan and an agreement. I've held up my part of the bargain and I'm close to―"
"Getting us caught. Don't get shit-faced on me now, Wyatt. I'm the brain behind this plan and don't you forget it. You think Sheriff Ferrell is stupid? He's been snooping around. He's come close to catching me at every turn. Now neighbor Brett will meet his end."
"You'd better get out of here before Willow sees you. She's inside," Wyatt whispered.
"You stupid shit! Why didn't you say so before? I'll take her boyfriend to Rattlesnake Cliff. By the time he comes to, if he does, he'll find his sleeping buddies not near as satisfying as Willow. Keep in mind, she likes it rough."
Willow gritted her teeth. Indecision gripped her. If she ran, they'd know she overheard them. She had no doubt what cliff Gordon had in mind. She hurried back inside, grabbed her drink and sat on the piano bench, pretending interest in his family portraits assembled on its dusty top. Her heart pounded hard and deafening when Wyatt came into the room.
"Sorry, love. Just my hired hand checking on our plans for tomorrow. I see you've finished your drink." He smiled as he moved toward her with the near empty bottle.
"I helped myself," she said, releasing an embarrassing hiccup. "Hope you don't mind."
"Glad you did." Wyatt filled her glass, emptying the bottle. "Where were we?"
"I believe we were discussing our neighbor." She smiled up at him while sipping on her drink.
"He has been acting rather strangely lately, hasn't he?"
"His son, Sean, told me Brett had proof Ferrell is the one doing all the . . . um―"
"Sabotaging?" Wyatt offered.
"Yeah, sabotaging."
"What kind of proof?" Wyatt drained his glass and poured himself another four fingers.
"I can't remember. I know it had something to do with evidence he'd found at Gordon's murder site, at his well, and I think someplace else."
"Try to remember, Willow. It could be important."
She smiled up at him and crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to slide up on her thigh. She read his lust and continued her line of conversation. "Drink up your bottle of Scotch, Wyatt; I'm way ahead of you." She motioned toward the empty wine bottle. "I've finished mine, and when you finish yours maybe we can get to know each other even better." She crossed her boots at the ankle, allowing bare legs to extend an even stronger invitation.
"Forget the drinks." He slammed his glass on the table.
"Now, now, Wyatt. All good things are worth waiting for. Gordon and I always had one agreement, we finished our drinks, and then we got down to business. If you like what you see, you'll have to play by my rules." She opened the top three buttons of her blouse and smiled, encouraging him to chug down three stiff drinks in a row. He finished the bottle by tipping the remaining contents into his mouth and swallowing with gusto. His body swayed, and she released yet another button.
"Game time," Wyatt announced.
"I believe you're right. Where's your bedroom?"
"Thisss way, lovvve." He laughed, leading the way upstairs, apparently enjoying his drunken buzz. "I'll show youuuu my toy ifff you showw me yurrs."
Willow followed at a short distance, pretending to stumble several times, and giggling at her clumsiness. He entered a dark room. A small amount of light streamed from a night light from a distant bathroom. She followed him, recognizing the stale, sickening scent of an unclean Wyatt Anderson. She fought the urge to vomit.
"Why don't you take off your clothes and I'll use your bathroom to freshen up. Be ready for me," she said, heading for the dimly lit bathroom. With trembling hands, she closed the door behind her and grasped closed her gaping blouse. Glancing around for a weapon, she rested her gaze on the wooden handle rising alongside the stool. If the situation hadn't been so serious, she'd have laughed. How many women could say they defended themselves with a lean, mean, death-defying toilet plunger?
Gripping the wooden handle behind her back, Willow eased the door open. She placed one shaky foot in front of the other, inching her way toward the bed, and Wyatt. It seemed impossible for him not to hear the pounding of her heart. She swallowed and raised her weapon. His loud snore caused her to pause.
Chapter Eleven
Brett felt a bump, then his aching jaw. He kept his eyes closed, aware his hands were tied excruciatingly tight behind his back. His shoulder muscles felt the strain, as did his legs. The bastard had him hog-tied, making it impossible to work it loose.
The driver was hell-bent on his destination. Brett had no doubt his life depended on escaping. Willow! The thought froze in his brain. Damn, he could only imagine what Wyatt had in mind. Anger and sinking anguish assailed him.
The metal truck bed offered no protection against the jolting ride. He couldn't help wondering if Mike Ferrell drove the vehicle. Brett hated thinking Mike could
be capable of anything this unlawful. They were life-long friends. But, who else could be working with Wyatt?
The truck suddenly stopped. A chilling black silence surrounded Brett. The driver opened and slammed his door shut. Brett held his breath, struggling to ease his racing heart.
"You awake, stud?" a deep voice asked.
Brett immediately knew the man couldn't be Mike. In spite of the situation, Brett felt a certain gratification in the knowledge.
Concentrating on keeping his breathing shallow, Brett struggled to appear unconscious.
"Well, if you ain't awake now, them rattler bites should open your eyes, if only for a few minutes," he stated, chuckling as he lowered the tailgate.
Through barely opened lashes, Brett peeked at the man planning to . . . "Gordon? My God, you're dead," he stammered before he realized he spoke aloud.
"Well, now ain't that the shits! Kinda caught you by surprise, didn't I?"
"The body on the bluff wasn't you, obviously. Who the hell did you kill?" Brett struggled against the ropes, grimacing at the pain it caused.
"Don't really know, and don't rightly care. A vagrant hitchhiker is what I was told. That's what you get when you trust strangers." Gordon spoke without a trace of regret or remorse.
"You're the bastard who’s been doing all those things to me.” Brett jerked his wrists and pulled on the unmoving bonds. “What are you and Wyatt up to? Murder? What could be worth killing a stranger and me?"
"Suppose you've got a right to know, since you won't be around to tell anyone. Oil. Richest oil test in Montana, and it's going to be mine."
"How you going to manage that when you're dead?" Brett asked. "Besides, why the faked death?"
"Damn Ferrell had his nose in too deep. My murder sent him looking on a false trail. We'd planned an accident for Willow, but had to postpone it when we decided I would have to die instead. A simple case of amnesia cured, and I'll return. Willow will buy your land and put it in her name. I'm sure your mother will quickly sell once you're dead. After their wedding, Wyatt will add Willow's name to his ranch. When I return from my illness, poor old Wyatt will shoot Willow in a fit of jealousy, if he can't have her, no one can. Of course Willow will have gotten off a fatal shot in self-defense, and there you have it. I'll own all three ranches and all that oil."
"Doesn't sound that good of a plan to me. Too many things could go wrong. Too many people are dying, and your sudden return doesn't convince me. Think about it for a minute. You supposedly die and come back after amnesia, it's a shallow excuse. I'll have met with an accident here, and if Mike catches on, and I'm sure he already has, he'll have to meet with an accident. Then of course there's Wyatt and Willow. Don't you see how unbelievable it's all sounding, especially when it comes out there's rich oil on our ranches?"
"It isn't on all three ranches. For some damn reason it's on your land, which I'll soon own, mind you."
"You saying only my land has this oil? How do you know that, unless . . . you've run tests on my property?" Brett asked, surprised, then angry Gordon had violated his land.
"No, Wyatt did. Well, that's not exactly right either. A surveyor came out and took samples of Wyatt’s land, but made a mistake about the boundaries and he ended up taking samples from your land too. The test results on Wyatt’s land were negative, but barely a half-mile from his property line the tests were richly positive on your land. Kinda comical when you think about it."
"Why do you need Wyatt if it's my land that has the oil?" Brett hated Gordon more than he thought possible. Thoughts of him slapping Willow around, taking her without sensitivity or love made him loathe the man.
"You forget that I'm dead. When Willow buys your property, no one will suspect a thing. Then, when she marries Wyatt, it all becomes one ranch, the kind of place I've always dreamed of having. With Willow's horses, and the wheat I'll produce with both yours and Wyatt's ranch; hell, that alone will make me rich. I'll hire hands to do the work and a foreman to make sure everyone is getting the job done. The oil rigs will supply me with enough money to be a millionaire several times over, and life won't get better than that."
"Think you’ve got it all figured out, don't you? Aren't you afraid Mike Ferrell’s putting one and one together? Won't be long, and he'll realize the answer is two; you and Wyatt."
"Mike's not a threat to Wyatt and me. We actually own the poor bastard.
"How are you blackmailing him and why?"
"We rigged a little hit and run for poor old Mike. He chased after Wyatt's speeding truck. Wyatt swerved in time to miss me hiking down the middle of the road, but Mike hit me head on, smashing my face beyond recognition. But they knew it was me by my clothes, boots and of course wallet. I wasn't dead, yet, so Wyatt shot me three times. He suggested they disguise the death with wolves tearing my body apart. Pretty gruesome, but effective."
"Think you've got it all figured out? You're deluding yourself if you believe people will swallow all this. Especially your convenient amnesia," Brett stated with a heavy dose of sarcasm in his voice. "Why would this stranger have your clothes on and have your wallet?"
"Maybe he jumped me, took all those things, and that's how I got my amnesia." Gordon pulled his knife from the sheath at his waist. With a quick gesture, he sliced the rope tying Brett's hands and feet together, sending Brett’s muscles into a knotted revolt.
"Do you honestly believe Mike will be able to live with himself? I don't. It won't take him long to confess. There'll be questions and believe me, there will be some answers. You won't get away with it."
"Hell if I won't. I'm gonna send Lance and his Indian grandparents packing. I'm burning down your homestead and if your mother insists on staying, she can burn with it for all I care."
"Another murder?" Brett rubbed some life into his arms and hands. "Adding up, aren't they? You see, that's what's wrong with you, Gordon. You don't think things through. Let's go over it one more time, shall we? It starts with your murder, my rattlesnake accident, Willow and Wyatt shooting each other, and don't forget possibly Mike's, shall we say, accident. Then you suddenly return from the dead and you immediately take possession of, and burn my place down, not that I'm all that attached to it. We can't forget you'll then send your son and in-laws packing back to the Indian reservation. You suddenly have all this new found oil and are incredibly wealthy. Have I missed anything?"
"Sounds like a plan to me," Gordon snapped.
"Sounds like a God-damned miracle! I'm winded just trying to explain it all. What I'd really like to know is why not keep your son?" Brett slid off the tailgate to his feet. "Do you realize how crazy this whole plan sounds?"
"We've talked enough." Gordon ripped out the words impatiently. “I shouldn't have told you anything. It's going to work; too bad you won't be around to see it all.”
Brett shook his legs, hoping for more feeling than the tingling numbness that he felt. Running wasn't an option. "Why do this to Willow?" Brett couldn't help asking.
"She never meant a thing to me, nor does her Indian kid. I loved Lorraine and still do. But you saw to it that her life was miserable, and she left me. When I have all that money she'll come back. We'll get married and raise our son."
"You expect me to be shocked? I'm not. I knew from the start there was a good possibility that Sean wasn't mine. Don't be so sure he's yours. Lorraine wasn't choosy whom she slept with, as long as she got her booze and had a good time. It doesn't matter who gave Sean life, what does matter is that I've been a damn good father to him and we love each other. I won't let you destroy that or my son!" Brett shouted, diving into Gordon.
The knife point penetrated the skin on Brett’s shoulder, and he knew Gordon wouldn't hesitate driving the knife into his heart. "Knife wounds won't be consistent with snake bites," he said between clenched teeth. He dived at Gordon, pinning him down.
A deep growl gurgled up Gordon’s throat. "By the time they find your body, it won't matter much."
It suddenly occurred to Brett that G
ordon Jenkins had crossed the line of sanity. Reasoning and logic weren't going to work. Brett sent a right fist into Gordon's jaw, snapping his head hard against the gravel. "I'm going to stop you from ever hurting Willow again. I won't allow you to treat Lance like nothing, and I refuse to let you anywhere near my son." Brett hit him in the ribs with such force that Gordon doubled over with a groan.
Brett jumped to his feet and backed away. "Get up and fight, you bastard!" In the moonlight, he saw the fear in Gordon's eyes.
"You're the bastard, everyone knows that." Gordon’s tone rose close to hysterics. He slipped a punch and smashed a vicious right hand into Brett's stomach.
Brett moaned, and then responded by swinging both of his hands together and ramming into Gordon's head.
Gordon staggered back several steps, and before he could recover, Brett swung a powerful right that sent him reeling backward.
Brett pursued, waiting for Gordon to gather his feet under him before charging head on. Brett slammed his shoulder into Gordon's body like a defensive linebacker.
Gordon teetered on the edge of the cliff. The horrified look in the man's eyes caused Brett to reach out and pull him back to safety.
With a crazed man's smile, Gordon jumped out at Brett, jabbing a foot into his knee, snapping a bone and sending him flying over the ledge.
Instinctively, Brett grasped wildly at the pitch-black air until he felt the scraping and poking branches of an overhanging tree beneath him. He clung to it, knowing his life depended on it.
"Hey, Brett, you nearly had me. Difference between you and me is I can get the job done, and you're a fool."
Brett hoped Gordon would leave before he realized the fall hadn't done the job. Brett fought the sharp pain in his leg. No doubt it was broken.
Brett wanted to adjust his weight on the extended branch, but fear of falling or snapping it off held him fast. His thoughts drifted to Willow. She had trusted him to be there for her. He'd let her down. All hopes of having her at his side for the rest of his life dwindled to a nightmare of hopelessness. He couldn't begin to imagine what she'd think or feel when she found out Gordon wasn't dead.