How To Catch A Cowboy: A Small Town Montana Romance

by Joanna Bell

  I leaned back in my chair, not satisfied. So Jack McMurtry's siblings didn't want to help. Or Jack McMurtry himself was just too proud to ask. He seemed like to type to put pride before practicality, based on what little I could glean from our brief time together. What about others, though? Jack's parents, aunts and uncles? From the very basic research I did at the beginning of the case it appeared to be a very large family. And what about the grandmother, the one he was so close to? Did she leave anything for her favorite grandson?

  It took only a couple of minutes to compose another e-mail to David and send it off. No harm in asking, right? Then I got down to work on the actual case I was handling at the time, stopping every fifteen minutes or so to check my e-mails for a response from David. It was almost the end of the work day before one showed up, and if I wasn't mistaken, the tone was slightly curt. He repeated that he hadn't tried to contact any of those other people because Jack had reassured him that the living McMurtrys weren't interested in helping, and the dead ones couldn't. He ended the message with the following sentence:

  "I thought you requested to be transferred off this case?"

  That was irritating. He was basically telling me to mind my own business, and my own cases. But I wasn't convinced it was my problem if David McMillan was being less than thorough in his investigation. And even as I told myself that was the sole reason for my annoyance, I somehow still managed not to go to Melissa with my concerns about my colleague. No, it was too early for that. She would just do what Pender had done and assume it was some weird personal thing. Which it definitely wasn't.

  That night, on the laptop I only use at home, I Googled Jack McMurtry. Not my Jack, but the grandfather. There didn't appear to be much information about him online, but there was a Wikipedia entry for Little Falls, which included a short paragraph on Sweetgrass Ranch and the McMurtrys as the town founders. That led me to a piece in the Little Falls Gazette, published shortly after the grandfather's death. He was predeceased by a wife, Dorothy McMurtry. Dorothy McMurtry, Jack's grandmother. Hmm. I Googled her but there was nothing beyond that story in the gazette and a record of her death in the online records for the county Sweetgrass Ranch was located in.

  It wasn't enough information. Damnit, why did I let myself get talked into transferring the case? Now I didn't have access to any of the resources that would allow me to check out members of Jack's extended family, to verify that they really couldn't do anything to help save the ranch – and help their brother or nephew avoid falling into massive debt before he'd even hit 30.

  I traipsed into the kitchen, followed closely by Lulu, and grabbed an apple for myself and a dried liver treat for her.

  "You know who would know all this?" I asked my pup as she collapsed happily to the floor to chew on her treat. "Jack would know."

  That was correct. Jack would know. A man like that, loathe to take help from anyone else – what were the odds that he'd been honest with David McMillan about no one in his family being able to help? What were the odds David McMillan, who already seemed a little unpleasant just based on our very brief e-mail interactions so far, had managed to avoid being pushy and confrontational? I should call Jack. That was the solution.

  No. That was not the solution. That was crazy.

  Was it crazy? He saved my life. I was no longer investigating him – well, not in any official capacity, anyway. There were no rules preventing me from talking to the man. I could call him. It was all perfectly kosher.

  Except it wasn't, and I knew it. Official rules or no, calling Jack McMurtry would have been crossing a line. So I didn't call him. I took Lulu out for her bedtime pee break, had a shower and went to bed.

  In all, I managed three full days without calling him. It was that fourth day, after David McMillan e-mailed me and told me he didn't appreciate my nitpicking a case I was no longer involved with, and that if I kept it up he would have to involve my boss, that I gave in.

  I waited until I got home after work, after Lulu had been walked and was sleeping peacefully by my side on the couch. Jack McMurtry's number was still in my contacts list. It's work. It's just work. You're just trying to help a man who helped you. That's all.

  "Hello?"

  I squeezed my eyes closed at the sound of Jack's voice. Why was my stomach suddenly awash with butterflies? Get a grip, Blaze.

  "Is this Jack McMurtry?"

  A pause. "I think you know damn well who it is, Blaze Wilson."

  I smiled. I couldn't help it. There was a note of playfully stern teasing in his voice that made me feel like I was fifteen, talking to the boy I was crushing on. Looking back on that phone call it makes me want to laugh out loud that I ever thought I was calling Jack for professional reasons. Our powers of self-delusion are epic.

  "Er, yeah," I stammered. "I was just – I was being polite."

  "Oh that's what you were doing. OK. What's going on, Blaze? Why are you calling me at almost 8 p.m.?"

  "It's about, uh, Jack, it's about the case. Your case, I mean. I've been looking into it and –"

  "Looking into it? I thought you'd been off it for weeks now?"

  "Well, yes. Technically, I have been. Off the case, I mean. It's just that – please don't pass this on to David McMillan – but I have my doubts about how he's handling it. I'm not sure he's being as thorough as he could be."

  "Really?" Jack laughed bitterly. "Because I get the distinct impression that Mr. McMillan is about as thorough as they come. I'm pretty sure the IRS is going to squeeze every last drop of blood out of this stone, Blaze."

  "Has he – or have you – contacted your living relatives? That can often be a surprisingly fruitful path to –"

  "Yes," Jack replied, before I could finish my sentence. "Yes, I've contacted them. No one wants to help – not the ones I could locate, anyway. I can't even say I blame them – it's just my bad luck I got stuck with this place."

  "Not the ones you could locate?" I asked, as a strange feeling of something like desperation crept over me. "What about the other ones? Could they help?"

  "Well," Jack said, speaking slowly like he thought I might not understand, "I couldn't locate them. That's what I'm saying. So how would I know whether they could help or not?"

  "Oh," I laughed nervously. "Of course. I was just, uh – I was just. Um. Well, never mind. So I was also wondering about any of your family members that have passed. Did anyone leave anything – to you or to your parents or grandparents? That you know of?"

  Jack sighed impatiently. "Do you really think the IRS wouldn't have found it by now if I was somehow hiding money someone had left me? I don't have it, Blaze. I don't know what else to say to –"

  "No, I don't mean that you're hiding it. I mean maybe you don't even know about it? Maybe someone left you something – or, as I said, left your dad or your grandfather something? Or your grandmother? Your mother? It could have been anyone, really."

  "Why are you calling me?" Jack asked suddenly, as I prepared to continue listing relatives who may or may not have left him enough money to cover a debt of two million dollars and failed to tell him about it.

  "I told you why," I answered, my skin beginning to tingle in anticipation the way it used to do when I was a kid and I knew my mom or dad was about to bust me for stealing cookies or saying I'd finished my homework when I'd just been chatting online with my friends. "Because I'm not sure David McMillan is doing everything he can to get to the bottom of your financial situation. And –"

  "That's not why you're calling. Don't treat me like an imbecile, Blaze. This isn't a professional call. I don't know what this is about, but it isn't about my case with the IRS. Is it guilt?"

  "Guilt?!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in pitch even in the space of that one word. I consciously lowered it again, breathing slowly so my words didn't come rushing out. "Guilt about what? What are you talking about, Jack?"

  "Jack?" I repeated, when he didn't respond. "I asked you if –"

  "I heard you. I haven't responded yet beca
use I'm wondering if you think I'm buying any part of this."

  "Any part of what?"

  "Oh, Blaze, come on. Guilt about what? The worst part of this is I feel like if anyone's getting fooled here it's you. You're fooling yourself - but let me assure you, you're not fooling me. Guilt about the fact that I saved your life and you didn't do anything to help me out of my situation."

  A sensation of sudden, awful heat rose in my chest and moved up to my cheeks. He was right. Of course he was right. And I couldn't accept it.

  "No," I whispered. "No, Jack, it's not that –"

  "Yes it is. It couldn't be more obvious. That's why you're calling me in the evening, trying to strong-arm me into making you feel better. What a joke! You know I'm not even going to be able to keep a little piece of Sweetgrass Ranch for myself, don't you? I presume you do know that, since you seem to have been snooping on the case."

  "I wasn't snoop –"

  "I'm moving in with a friend from high school next week, did you know that? Into his unfinished basement, until I can get myself a shitty minimum wage job at one of Little Falls' many thriving businesses."

  "Jack, I –" I started, my whole body burning with the shame I still couldn't allow myself to face. "I didn't mean for any of this to –"

  "Yeah but it doesn't matter what you meant, does it Blaze? It matters what you did. And what you did is choose a career path that mostly involves ruining people lives. And now you're calling me – one of those people whose lives are getting ruined – and asking me to help you feel better about it?!"

  I physically flinched at that comment, at the bitterness and anger in Jack's voice. It was like being slapped in the face.

  "No," I started to protest again, but my words were weak and quiet. "That's not –"

  "YES IT FUCKING IS!"

  He was so angry. I don't say that to condemn him but to condemn myself. How could I not have guessed he would be angry? Especially since he was pretty much entirely right about why I was calling. I did feel guilty. Worse than that, I'd managed to develop and nurture a stupid little crush or high school type obsession over a man I barely knew. No wonder he was angry. I truly was the biggest jerk who had ever lived.

  "OK," I said, unable to keep the wobble out of my voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't – Jack, this isn't how I intended this to go. I – can you please keep this to yourself? This call, I mean? I'm sorry, I'm so –"

  I dissolved into silent, raging tears before I could get out another incoherent semi-sentence. How could I have been so damned stupid as to call him? You just risked your career over this, Blaze. Over someone who hates you. Nicely done.

  An excruciating few moments passed as I gulped and sniffled, struggling to contain my emotions while Jack listened. It was too late, there was going to be no fixing the situation. I just had to end it as soon as possible, and spare myself any further humiliation.

  "I'm sorry for calling," I gasped, still trying – and failing – to keep the obvious fact that I was crying out of my voice. "I've been having a difficult – a difficult time. It's not your fault. I know that. I want you to know that I know that. I won't call you again."

  "Wait, Blaze –"

  I hung up, put my hands over my face and finally broke into the loud, ugly sobs that had been trying to burst out of me for the past five minutes. Lulu immediately woke up and pushed her snout under my hands, licking the tears off my cheeks in a frantic effort to comfort me.

  "What would I do without you?" I cried, my voice as halting and uneven as an upset child's. Whatever was happening to me – and something was happening – it wasn't minor. I wasn't going to be able to get over it through sheer force of will. In trying to, I'd just managed to make it worse. Less than two minutes after hanging up with Jack I was already cringing with embarrassment. Now I wasn't just the heartless IRS agent who had thrown him to the wolves after he saved my life. No. Now I was the crazy heartless IRS agent who had thrown him to the wolves after he saved my life.

  The utter humiliation was going to have to be lived with. I couldn't take back the call. All I could do now was hope that Jack McMurtry didn't phone the office or tell David McMillan – who was already pissed off at me for interfering in his case – about what I'd just done.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack

  It was a shock to hear from Blaze Wilson, especially in the state she was in. After she hung up on me I felt guilty for being so hard on her. And then I felt angry at myself for feeling guilty. I didn't owe her anything. She just sounded so damned sad, though.

  That tone I heard in Blaze's voice reminded me of Grandma Dottie and the way she would blink away her tears and pretend there was something in her eye or that her allergies were acting up when Blackjack would have too much to drink and start in on her, raging and screaming for hours while she took it – and while the rest of the family pretended it wasn't happening. Afterwards, when Blackjack had made it to the bottom of the whiskey bottle and passed out, I would creep into Grandma Dottie's room and lay my head on her bosom, weeping with the helplessness any small child feels when he can't save someone he loves from their tormentor. And every time, Grandma Dottie would tell me it was fine, nothing to worry about, she could handle Blackjack etc. And we would both act like I was the only one crying.

  That's probably why I felt such a sudden softening of my heart when it became apparent that Blaze was upset. She was exactly the type to repress her emotions, too. I reckon that incident with the flood probably messed her up pretty good, and she didn't know how to handle it. I didn't know her life, of course, but she definitely gave off a certain vibe. There was that air of certainty about her, that aura people who have never really suffered give off. A lot of those people – the ones from good, stable homes with loving parents – go through life without ever truly encountering difficulty. Sure, bad things happen to everyone, but they have a support system and it never occurs to them to question it, or to accept that not everyone has that system. Some of them, though, they get attached to their own idea of themselves as particularly competent. Particularly good at handling life. They don't look back and see all the people who supported them and loved them and patted them on the back. They look at the present and think they're entirely responsible for where they are. And those ones, when something terrible happens, are prone to completely falling apart. They can't handle it when the truth dawns on them that they're not actually better than all the fuck-ups and losers – they just had a lot of help.

  That's what I thought, anyway, that night. It was uncharitable, I know that. But I was in the middle of packing up my things in preparation for the move into Brandon Schneider's basement, and I wasn't feeling particularly well disposed to the IRS or to anyone even distantly related to the IRS. DeeDee's older brother had agreed to take me in on a short-term basis, on the understanding that it wouldn't be longer than a few weeks and that I would help out around the house. It was humiliating. All the more so because I knew Brandon Schneider had always resented me for being better looking and more popular than him in high school. Now he finally had something to lord over me. It may have been the only reason he agreed to the arrangement in the first place.

  The day after that phone call from Blaze, I ran into Sheriff Randall at the grocery store. He nodded at me in the cereal aisle as I tried to figure out if I could afford the brand name oat cereal or not.

  "Jack McMurtry – how you holdin' up, kid?"

  'Kid.' I was always going to be a kid to the Sheriff, who must have been pushing 80 by that time. Everyone in town knew Sheriff Randall – and most of us knew he could be sweet-talked, too. Not in a really crooked kind of way, but he was a wise man, he knew how to balance the law with a more humane sense of fairness and community. I know I'd benefitted a few times as an idiotic underage boy with a penchant for drinking whiskey and making out with girls on the vacant lot behind the old abandoned sawmill.

  "As good as can be expected," I replied, deciding I did not have enough for the name brand cereal.


  "It'll work itself out. Not that I'm trying to downplay what's happening – the loss of Sweetgrass Ranch is a huge blow. Not just to you but to this town. But a lot of folks here respect your family, and no one wants to see the last McMurtry leave Little Falls for good. You got people here you can count on. You hear me?"

  The Sheriff was trying to help, trying to provide some comfort. I knew it and I appreciated it. But as willing as people were to help, I knew that accepting what was basically charity was no kind of long-term solution.

  "I know that, sir." I said respectfully, because there was a part me that was always going to be an awed five year old around the Sheriff. "I know people care."

  "That IRS agent came sniffing around my office, you know," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, so no one who happened to be passing by could overhear. "Wanted to know if I had any of Blackjack's papers – or yours. Any records, anything like that. He was on a fishing trip."

  "Well," I shrugged, "I guess they've got to do their jobs, too. And it's not like any of Blackjack's paperwork was in any kind of order, that's for damn sure."

  Sheriff Randall eyed me, like he was trying to figure me out. "You know, Jack..."

  I looked into his rheumy blue eyes. "What?"

  "There is one thing. I didn't mention it to that IRS jackass – damn near totally forgot about it, if I'm honest. But this whole thing with Sweetgrass Ranch reminded me. Blackjack had a safety deposit box at the Little Falls bank. Told me about it way back, said Dottie made him set it up."

  I was on the very verge of dismissing Blackjack's safety deposit box, which as far as I knew might not have even existed anymore, when Blaze's voice popped into my head again, urging me to track down every possible lead, to contact everyone, to take every step necessary.

  "Oh yeah?" I asked. "So – what, this thing still exists? You think there might be something important in there?"