COWBOY WITH A BADGE

by Margaret Watson

  Carly shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but she watched June carefully. "I'm not sure. There was a small story about a boy killed on one of the local ranches, and I thought it was something our readers would find interesting. You know, like something from the Old West." Silently she apologized to her brother for trivializing his death.

  She expected June to nod and agree, but instead she tightened her lips. "You're trying to make Cameron look bad."

  "Not at all, Mrs. Hanson. I know nothing about the story. It just caught my eye." She watched the other woman carefully. "Do you know anything about it?"

  "The Whitmore boy had no business out there on the McAllister ranch," she said. "If he wasn't doing something wrong, why was he shot?"

  Carly tightened her grip on her backpack and schooled her face to show no expression. "I'm surprised you remembered his name after all these years."

  June flushed a dark red. "Things like that don't happen in Cameron. Of course I remembered it."

  Carly took a deep breath and moved around the older woman. "Thank you for your help. I'll probably see you again soon."

  She hurried to the door before June could stop her. Once out on the street, she took a deep breath of the fresh air. The scent of dust and mold still clung to her, and even in the heat she shivered. The dampness from the basement must have crept into her bones.

  Adjusting the backpack on her shoulders, she headed down the street. She needed to sit for a while and think about the newspaper articles she'd found, and what they meant. It was hard to believe that the shooting of a teenage boy hadn't elicited more of an investigation, especially in a small town like Cameron.

  She was so lost in thought that she almost bumped into Gladys Jones as she came out of one of the stores. "I'm sorry, Gladys," Carly said, holding onto the older woman's arm to steady her.

  "That's all right, dear." The other woman studied her with shrewd eyes. "It looks as if there's something on your mind."

  Carly made a quick decision. The sooner she began asking people about Edmund's death, the sooner she would begin to gather information. And she knew Gladys had lived in Cameron for more than twenty years.

  "There is, actually, Gladys. I found a story in one of the old Weekly Sentinels about a young man who was shot out on the McAllister ranch. It struck me as odd, because the young man died, but apparently there wasn't much of an investigation. There was very little information in the paper about it."

  Distress filled the older woman's eyes. "I remember when that happened," she said in a soft voice. "His mother was beside herself. She accused the McAllisters of murdering her boy, and the sheriff of covering it up. She was distraught, of course, but several of us wondered. We thought it was odd that everything was hushed up so fast. The sheriff said he was satisfied that the drifter they found dead had killed the boy, and that was the end of it. Mafia Whitmore insisted he do something more, but old Bert Pickens just dug in his heels and refused."

  "What happened to the family?" Carly asked, although she knew very well. She simply wanted to keep Gladys talking.

  Gladys's eyes clouded. "They sold the newspaper to Ralph Hanson and moved away shortly after it happened. No one in Cameron heard from them again. I've always hoped that Marla and her little girl ended up on their feet somewhere."

  Carly's heart warmed to Gladys. Their move away from Cameron when she was eight hadn't been completely forgotten. "Thanks for telling me about it," she said, trying to keep her voice casual. "If you remember any of the details, let me know."

  "Are you going to write about that incident?" Gladys looked troubled. "That's not the way I'd like to see Cameron represented in the national press."

  Shame swept over Carly for deceiving Gladys. She didn't want to hurt this woman who had been so pleasant and friendly to her. So she forced a smile onto her face. "I'm not sure, Gladys. It sounded like something from the Old West that would appeal to readers. But I think I need more information before I make a decision about whether to use it in my article."

  Gladys studied her for a moment, then nodded. "I trust you'll make the right decision, Carly. I can see that you're an honorable person."

  As Gladys hurried away, Carly stared after her. Was she an honorable person? Did honor include lying to people to get what you needed?

  In this case, it did, she told herself firmly. And if it didn't, she was willing to sacrifice some of her honor to get justice for her brother. Apparently no one else in Cameron besides her mother had ever tried to do that.

  Carly walked slowly down the sidewalk, trying to decide what to do next. Ahead of her she saw Gladys stop to talk to someone in a dusty blue truck. Gladys smiled and walked away, and a second later the door of the truck opened and Devlin stepped out.

  She hadn't been paying attention to his clothing in the Hansons' basement, but here in the sunlight she realized he wasn't wearing his khaki uniform shirt today. Instead he wore a faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jeans were old and worn colorless at the stress points, and his boots showed the scuff marks and scratches of hard use. And overlaying everything was a coat of fine red dust. When he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt, he left a smear of ochre behind.

  Carly slowed her steps, but Devlin turned around and looked at her. Almost, she thought uneasily, as if he had some kind of radar that was tuned to her. Just as she had recognized him before he was completely out of the truck.

  She was too far away to read his expression, but he waited for her. When she was close enough to see the dust in the creases in his face, he nodded at her. "Hello again, Carly."

  "Hello, Devlin. I'm surprised you're still in town. I thought this was your day off."

  "It is." His eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, then he nodded toward the store on her left. "This is my last stop. I have to pick something up for Shea."

  "You've been busy this morning."

  He shrugged. "There's always something to do on a ranch." His eyes hardened as he watched her. "Gladys tells me you've been busy, too. It sounds like you found something more interesting than the story about the steer."

  Her chin tilted. "I'm here to do a job, and that's what I was doing."

  "Asking questions about something that happened twenty years ago is part of writing an article on Cameron as a tourist destination?"

  "I was looking for some history of the town, something that would define Cameron. Do you have a problem with that?"

  He rubbed his hand across his face, smearing the dust more. "Yeah, I have a problem with that. One isolated incident from twenty years ago doesn't define any town."

  "Could the fact that your father was involved have anything to do with your feelings?" she asked.

  A spark of admiration, quickly hidden, flashed in his eyes. "You know how to get to the heart of a situation, don't you?"

  "That's what I'm paid to do." She hoped the smile she gave him was cool. "What's your take on the story?"

  His eyes hardened, but not before she saw something deep in their gray depths. Something that looked like guilt. It disappeared as he stared at her, replaced by hard resolve. "I was twelve years old when the Whitmore boy was shot. I don't have any take on the story."

  "Your father never talked about it?"

  "He wasn't a murderer, if that's what you're asking."

  "According to the stories in the newspapers, a gun disappeared from your house. And the murder weapon was never found."

  This time there was no mistaking the guilt. Or the anger. "The sheriff realized right away that anyone could have taken that gun. There wasn't any other evidence. In this country, a man is innocent until proven guilty."

  "You're right." Her voice was cool as she watched Devlin. His face didn't give anything away, but she wouldn't forget the reaction he'd had to her questions she asked, "Did you know the boy?"

  "Only enough to know who he was. Seventeen-year-olds don't usually spend much time with twelve-year-old kids."

  Carly gave him a
tight smile. "Thanks, Devlin. I appreciate your answers."

  "I couldn't tell you much." He studied her, then straightened. "Are you really going to pursue this story? You won't be able to find much out after twenty years."

  "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

  He moved a step closer, close enough that she could reach out and touch him. In spite of the anger that poured out of him, her fingers ached to feel the strength of his muscles again, to bury themselves in the coarse silk of his hair. His eyes flashed at her, but she didn't think it was the same light she'd seen in them the night before.

  "Gladys Jones is upset. I don't like to see my citizens upset, Carly. She thinks you're going to write an article slamming Cameron." She gave him a scornful look. "That should make you happy. Then no one would come here and disturb your peace and quiet."

  To her surprise, the anger vanished from his eyes and he grinned at her. "You're a piece of work, Slick. I told Gladys I was sure you wouldn't do any such thing. I was right, wasn't I?"

  She wished he'd stayed angry at her. Angry she could deal with. When he gave her that teasing grin, she melted like an ice cream cone on a hot Utah day. Trying to maintain her cool, unaffected facade, she shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what I'm going to write about yet. I saw the article and it caught my eye. But since you and Gladys have both come after me about it, I may have to look into it more carefully. It looks like someone is trying to hide something."

  His grin faded. "Be careful, Carly. You can pick at me about it all you want, but someone else might not take it so well. Other people may not like you writing negative things about Cameron."

  "Is that a warning?" she asked, disbelief in her voice.

  "Take it any way you want. Just think about what you're doing."

  "I've done a lot of that already." He had no idea how much she'd thought about this trip to Cameron.

  Before he could answer, a heavy-set man emerged from the store in front of them. "Hey, Dev, Shea called and said you'd be coming."

  "Hey yourself, Marv. Do you have that wire she needs?" Dev answered.

  "You're all set. Just pull around back and I'll help you get it loaded."

  Marv disappeared back into his store, and Devlin turned to Carly. "I have to pick up some barbed wire for Shea. She's waiting for it, or I'd stay and talk to you." He hesitated, then said, "Do you want to have dinner tomorrow? I'll be back at work then."

  Her heart began to pound as she remembered how their last dinner together had ended. She knew she should say no, maintain some distance from him, but she smiled and said, "I'd love to."

  He nodded. "I'll pick you up at Melba's tomorrow at six."

  She watched as he swung up into the truck, his muscles rippling beneath the worn jeans that fit him like a second skin. After he slammed the door, he leaned out the open window to give her another grin. "Give 'em hell, Slick."

  The engine gunned once, then he pulled away. She stood staring at the truck until it disappeared around a corner.

  She had to accept his dinner invitation, she told herself. After all, it was Devlin's father who had killed her brother. And the guilt in his eyes told her that he knew more than he was telling her. It was her job to find out what it was.

  But it didn't feel like she was having dinner with Devlin in order to do her job. The real reason she had agreed to dinner, she knew, was the smile he'd tossed her, the smile that reminded her of how he'd made her feel on Melba's porch the night before.

  That was dangerous. That was playing with fire. But she could afford to fly a little close to the flames, she thought as she headed back down to the restaurant. She wouldn't be in town long enough to get singed.

  * * *

  Several hours later, she walked back down the dimly lit streets toward Melba's boarding house. She'd lingered over her dinner at Heaven on Seventh. A number of people had heard she was asking about the Whitmore boy's death, and they all had opinions. Carly had listened to every one of them, taking surreptitious notes.

  She had stayed at the restaurant so long that it was completely dark, she realized. She would never have been able to walk alone down a street like this in New York, but here in Cameron, she felt no sense of unease. There were some benefits to small-town life.

  Melba had left the porch lights on, as usual. Carly suppressed a grin as she remembered Melba's reaction to her proposal to take her meals elsewhere. She'd seen the older woman's relieved expression, and realized that Melba didn't like to cook. Melba had even grudgingly offered to give back some of her deposit. Carly had declined, knowing that the other woman needed the money, but there had been a marked lessening of the older woman's stiffness. Melba had even smiled at her a time or two.

  The front door was unlocked. As she pushed the door shut behind her and locked it instinctively, Carly wondered if anyone in town ever locked their door. She suspected not. Her lips curled up in a smile. Another thing to like about small towns.

  The house was quiet and the living room dark. Usually Melba watched television until she went to bed. "Melba?" she called, but there was no answer.

  Carly frowned. In the few nights she'd been in Cameron, Melba had never varied from her routine. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, she called up, "Melba? Are you up there?"

  The house remained silent. Carly switched on the hall light, then noticed the note propped up on the hall table. Grabbing it, she let out a sigh of relief. Melba had gone to her weekly bingo game.

  Smiling softly, Carly climbed the stairs. She didn't realize that there were still people left in the world who were so trusting. It took a lot of faith in the people in your town to leave your house and not bother to lock it. She hoped nothing ever happened to change Melba's trust.

  Switching on the light in her room, she slung her backpack onto the floor. That's when she noticed that the rag rug had been kicked to one side. She stared at it, frowning. Melba was too particular a housekeeper to leave the rug like that. And her room had been in order when she'd left that morning.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw something glint off the mirror. She spun around, a gasp caught in her throat.

  An ugly red message covered the mirror. The letters looked like they'd been scrawled in blood.

  Get out of Cameron.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  «^»

  Devlin had just finished dinner when the phone next to the dining room table rang. Gulping one more sip of coffee, he reached for the receiver, waving Shea back to her seat.

  "McAllister."

  "Dev. Thank goodness."

  He recognized Ben's voice immediately. And his deputy's tight voice had him taking another gulp of coffee and looking around for the keys to his truck.

  "What's up, Ben?"

  "I think you might want to come in for this," Ben said. "It's that reporter, Carly Fitzpatrick."

  Devlin's hand tightened on the phone as dread snaked into his stomach. "What happened?"

  "Someone broke into Melba's place and got into her room."

  "Is she all right?" Dev asked sharply.

  "She's okay. A little shaken up, I'd guess, although she insists she's fine. She didn't even call me. Melba had to do that. Apparently she got home from her bingo game right after Carly saw the mess."

  "Is Carly hurt?"

  "No. The intruder was gone by the time she got there."

  "What's missing from her room?"

  "That's the thing. It doesn't look like anything's gone. Someone just left a message for her, written on the minor. Get out of Cameron, it said. In red."

  Devlin let out a string of curses. "Hang on, Ben. I'll be right there. And don't let anyone else into that room, including Ms. Fitzpatrick."

  "I know the drill, Dev. We'll he waiting."

  Devlin hung up the phone and headed for the door. His sister had pushed away from the table, and his mother had come in from the kitchen. "What's wrong?" Shea asked.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "I tol
d you there was another reporter in town. Someone just left her a nasty message on the mirror in her room at Melba Corboy's." He gave his sister a brief hug. "It looks like I won't be able to help you finish stringing that fence tomorrow morning after all. I'll find some time in the next few days, though. Don't you try to do it yourself."

  "You've got a job to do." Shea pushed him toward the door. "Don't worry about the fence. It'll get taken care of. Go catch some bad guys."

  "I'm serious, Shea. Don't try to handle that fence yourself. I'll have some free time in the next day or two, and we'll do it then."

  "Fine." She tossed him his hat, then held the door open for him. "Now get going."

  He'd bet a million bucks she'd be out there tomorrow morning stringing that fence. Dev's mouth tightened as he climbed into his truck, then he gave an involuntary smile. Shea had always done just as she pleased. Why did he think she was going to stop now? They needed to hire someone to help out at the Red Rock Ranch, he told himself as he accelerated toward Cameron, and they needed to do it soon.

  But he couldn't worry about that now. Tonight he was the sheriff again, not the part owner of the Red Rock Ranch. As he sped through the darkness toward the town, he banished all thoughts of the ranch and allowed himself to think about Carly again.

  He hadn't been pleased to run into her in town earlier in the day. The memory of the kiss they'd shared had lingered with him all night, disturbing his sleep and making him restless and distracted the following morning. And he'd been so besotted that he'd actually asked her to have dinner with him.

  He was a damn fool, he told himself grimly. And now, if his obsession with her wasn't bad enough, she'd gone and gotten herself into trouble.

  He could handle trouble. He could switch off his emotions and solve the problem. After all, he was an expert in switching off his emotions. He did it every time he was tempted to get involved.

  He thought about Carly again, coming home to an empty room and a scrawled message on the mirror, and he pressed the accelerator to the floor of the truck.

  When he pulled up in front of Melba Corboy's place, Ben's truck was sitting next to the curb. The police vehicle was a grim reminder that a crime had occurred. Dev's truck had barely come to a stop when he jumped out and headed up Melba's walk, practically running.