COWBOY WITH A BADGE

by Margaret Watson

  * * *

  He felt like hell in the morning. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, and when sleep had finally come, someone had turned up the heat in his room so that his dreams were hot and restless. Now his eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper during the night, and the coffee he'd gulped made his nerves jump and twitch.

  The only thing that made him feel better was that Carly didn't look as if she'd slept any better than he had. She was subdued at breakfast, although she made an effort to talk to Shea.

  His sister was quiet, watching both of them. Finally, when they were finished with the stacks of pancakes that Maria had made, Shea pushed away from the table.

  "Are you coming with me, Carly?" she asked, her voice too casual. "Or do you and Dev have plans for the morning?"

  Dev scowled. "I'm going to take her to pick up her Jeep," he said. "Then I have to get back to town."

  "Fine." Shea looked down at her plate, trying to hide a small smile. "I'll see you later this morning, then, or maybe this afternoon." She gave both of them an innocent grin as she strolled out of the room.

  He and Carly were the only two people left in the dining room, and silence hung thick and heavy in the air. "You don't have to take me to get the Jeep," Carly finally said. "I know you have things to do in town. If you tell Shea where the Jeep is, someone else can take me to get it."

  "I said I'd take you, and I will." He pushed away from the table. "Ben can run the office for a while by himself."

  "Fine. I just didn't want to take you away from your work."

  "This is my work. Whoever tried to hurt you yesterday is connected with this case."

  "I see. In that case, I won't apologize." Her cool voice couldn't completely disguise the hurt beneath it, and he felt like a total jerk. "I'll get my keys and be ready to go in a minute."

  He listened to her footsteps retreat up the stairs and told himself this was the way he wanted it.

  "Smooth, Dev. Real smooth."

  He spun around to find Shea leaning against the door frame. She rolled her eyes at him. "It doesn't sound like you have the sense that God gave to a sheep. And we both know that sheep were out of town when God was passing out brains."

  "Stay out of this, Shea," he warned.

  She raised her hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to give you a little sisterly help here. What good does it do for me to talk you up to Carly if you're going to make a complete ass of yourself when you're with her?"

  "Carly and I don't need any help from you."

  "You need someone to knock some sense into you, that's what you need."

  "And I suppose you're such an expert at relationships?" She stuck her chin out at him. "I know a good thing when I see it. And you and Carly are a good thing."

  "Carly is a city girl," he said quietly. "Her job and her life are a million miles away from Cameron. And on top of that, she's not telling me the truth about why she's here. Now do you see why it won't work?"

  "I see what you think you know." She shifted away from the door frame and walked over to him, giving him a hug. "Don't give up, bro. Give her a chance. She might surprise you."

  "I doubt it." He forced a smile onto his face. "But thanks for trying, Shea."

  She smiled at him, but a shadow of sadness passed over her face. "Don't hold Carly responsible for what Judy did to you, Dev. Carly isn't anything like Judy."

  "We'll see, won't we?"

  He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, so he waved Shea out of the house and turned to wait for Carly. When she stepped into the room, her face was tight and closed. She'd slung her backpack over one shoulder, and she held her car keys in her hand.

  "Ready to go?" she said brightly. Her voice was completely impersonal, and for a moment he ached inside. He wanted to see her eyes soften and glow when she looked at him.

  But it was better this way, he told himself. "All set."

  When they'd started to climb the road that led into the mountains, he looked over at her. "Where did you plan to go this morning?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me where they found Edmund Whitmore's body. I'd like to take a look at the spot for my story." She stared out the windshield.

  "I'll take you there."

  Her gaze flew over to him. "That's not necessary. If you give me directions, I can find it myself."

  "It's not easy to find. And besides, I'd like to take another look at it myself."

  "You don't need to watch over me like I was a child," she said in a low voice. "I'm sure I'll be fine here on your ranch."

  "First of all, I'm not going with you because I think you need a keeper. I want to get a look at the place myself. And second, you seem to have forgotten that you were on my ranch yesterday. That didn't stop someone from trying to kill you."

  "Yesterday I ignored the signs that someone was following me. You can be sure I won't make that mistake again."

  "I'll take you to the spot," he said, swinging his truck around a corner. "It doesn't make sense for both of us to drive there separately."

  "I suppose not."

  She sounded reluctant to spend time with him, and he told himself that he was happy. He'd accomplished just what he'd set out to do yesterday evening. Swinging onto the track that led back into the mountains, to the place where the Whitmore boy was found, he glanced over at her. But all he saw was her cloud of dark red hair. She was staring out the window, her back toward him.

  "I was looking over the police reports from the year the Whitmore boy was killed," he said. He was just sharing information with her, he told himself. He wasn't trying to get her attention focused on him again.

  She swung around to face him, and he felt a momentary flush of victory. "Did you find anything interesting?"

  "Just that Phil Hilbert was desperate to get water, and my father was just as determined to keep it from him. Apparently there were a number of confrontations before Phil took my father to court."

  "What kind of confrontations?"

  "My father accused Phil of illegally diverting water onto his property. Phil denied it, of course, and the sheriff never found any evidence. But my father was apparently convinced that Phil was stealing water. He just couldn't prove it."

  "What did the sheriff say?"

  "How did you know I asked Bert Pickens about it?"

  She gave him a tight smile. "I think I know you well enough to have an idea how you work. You're thorough. I figure that's the first thing you would have done."

  "You're right." He glanced over at her with approval. "I did ask him." He shrugged. "Bert said that Phil and my dad were always fighting. And neither he nor my father ever found proof that Phil was stealing water. Bert just assumed it was one of those neighborhood fights that got out of hand, with my dad making wild accusations."

  "Didn't he think it might have been connected when the Whitmore boy was killed, then found on your property?"

  "He claims not. He didn't see any connection."

  "The Whitmore boy was writing articles in the town newspaper about the court fight. Didn't he think that was enough of a connection?"

  "No. There's no evidence that the kid was doing anything more than reporting on the court case. There was never an article in the Sentinel that implied more."

  "I still think it was connected," she said stubbornly.

  "Maybe it was. But we're going to have to find more proof."

  "I'll find something," she vowed.

  "Haven't you looked through all the old copies of the Weekly Sentinel already?"

  "Yes, but I haven't started looking at the courthouse. Maybe there's some information there."

  "You'll have to go to Garfield, then. That's the county seat."

  "I'll keep that in mind." She was silent for a moment, then she shifted so she was facing him. "Why are you doing this, Devlin? Why did you reopen this case? Aren't you afraid of what you'll find?"

  "You mean that my father was involved?" His voice was blunt.

  She nodded. "Don't you think there's a
possibility? The gun that's missing was from your collection. The body was found on your property. And you said yourself that your father and Phil Hilbert had been fighting a lot. What if the Whitmore boy found something that incriminated your father, and he shot the boy in a moment of passion?"

  "First of all, I don't think that's what happened. I might not always have gotten along with my father, but he wasn't a murderer." He looked over at her. "But even if he was, it's my job to find out. And since whatever happened twenty years ago seems to be a part of what's been happening to you, I can't ignore it. Even if my family is involved."

  She was silent for a long time. Then she said, "You're an honorable man, Devlin."

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. "I'm just doing my job."

  "Even at the risk of your family."

  "I told you, I don't think there's any risk to my family. But even if there was, even if my father did kill that boy, Shea and my mother and I would survive."

  "I feel like I've put you into an impossible position," she said, and her voice was so low he could barely hear her. "I'm forcing you to choose between your job and your family."

  "I'm not making a choice. I'm doing my job, but my family will survive, no matter what. I know that. It makes doing my job a whole lot easier."

  Carly looked out the window again, seemingly concentrating on the scenery. "I never knew families could be like that. Supportive of one another. Always there for each other. I always thought your family was what held you back, what kept you from doing what you wanted to do. You have a special family, Devlin."

  He couldn't miss the wistfulness in her voice, the longing that he wasn't sure she was even aware of. "My family is very special. But there are a lot of others like mine around Cameron. People have to rely on their families out here. It builds strong bonds."

  "Maybe I should leave the Red Rock. I don't want to disrupt your family."

  "You couldn't do that. Believe me, Carly, the McAllisters have handled tougher things than this. I want you to stay here. This is the safest place for you to be right now."

  "I'll stay for a while," she finally said.

  He wasn't sure why her words brought him so much satisfaction. He wanted her gone. He wanted her to leave Cameron and never look back. But his heart soared with the knowledge that she would be staying.

  Wrestling with his heart, it took him a moment to realize they'd arrived. Braking the Blazer, he said, "We're here."

  Carly looked around, forcing herself to ignore Devlin and concentrate on the place where her brother was found. They were high in the mountains, and the vegetation was sparse. The rocks thrust up from the earth in eerie shapes, and boulders littered the base of the cliffs. It felt like a place that had been untouched for years.

  She said the first thing that came to mind. "What would the Whitmore boy have been doing up here? It's miles away from anything."

  "Nobody knows." He shifted in his seat so he was facing her, but she didn't look over at him. She was memorizing the landscape. "That was one of the things that puzzled Bert." He paused, then added, "I'm still not sure whether the boy was killed here or whether his body was just dumped here after the fact."

  At that she looked over at him. "Wouldn't that have been in the police and autopsy reports?"

  He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. "Bert Pickens wasn't the most sophisticated law enforcement officer around. That wasn't the kind of thing he'd have thought to ask. So we'll never know."

  "You mean no one ever thought it was important to know that?" She heard the incredulity in her voice, but couldn't restrain herself.

  "Carly, there had never been a murder in Cameron before the Whitmore boy was killed. Bert's strength was breaking up bar fights out at May's and placating neighbors who were squabbling. He wasn't equipped to handle a murder."

  "So why didn't he call in someone who was?"

  "After they found the body of the drifter, he figured the case was solved. No need to involve anyone else."

  Carly stepped out of the truck and looked around. The only sound was the eerie whistle of the wind as it blew relentlessly through the rock formations. It swirled around her in gusts, tearing at her hair and peppering her with gritty dust. Although the sun was shining, the air was cold this high in the mountains.

  She barely heard Devlin move to stand next to her. "It's a lonely place to die," he said, and she heard genuine sadness in his voice.

  "Yes." She didn't want to think about her brother, seventeen-years-old, dying up here by himself, alone and in pain.

  "You look like you're taking it personally."

  She was taking it very personally. Swallowing hard, she said, "I don't like to think of anyone dying that way."

  "Neither do I. I'm going to do my best to figure out what happened."

  And she knew he would. In spite of his reluctance to let anyone close to him, in spite of the fact that he was a McAllister, Devlin was a decent, honorable man. He would do his best to provide justice for her brother, and suddenly she was ashamed of herself. She owed it to him to tell him the truth. It might not make any difference to his investigation, but she didn't want to have any lies and half-truths between them.

  Before she could speak, he spun around. "Get in the truck, Carly," he said, his voice clipped.

  "I'd like to look around a little more," she started to say, but he interrupted her.

  "Get in the truck now. And lock the doors."

  When he pulled his gun out of his holster, she scrambled into the Blazer and locked the doors. He headed toward the base of a cliff at a dead run, and she watched as he disappeared around a pile of debris.

  Minutes ticked away, and her anxiety ratcheted higher and higher. She found herself holding her breath, listening for any sounds at all. But the keening of the wind was the only thing she heard.

  Should she radio into his office, ask Marge to send some of the deputies up here? Her hand hovered over the radio, until she realized she had no idea where they were or how to get here.

  She stared at the piles of rocks, watching the place where he'd disappeared. What was going on? What had he thought he'd heard? Her eyes flickered over the shotgun that stood ready next to the dashboard. Would she have to use the huge gun to protect herself or save Dev? Would she be able to?

  Suddenly Devlin appeared next to the truck, seemingly out of nowhere. Almost sobbing in relief, she reached over to unlock the door. "What happened?" she asked, almost before he was in the truck.

  "I heard something behind us. It sounded like someone slipped on some rocks."

  "Did you find anything?"

  "Not a damn thing." He scowled at her. "But I think someone was there. Ben would have been able to follow his tracks, but I'm not anywhere as good as Ben when it comes to tracking. Whoever was here could have gone anywhere."

  "No one followed us up here, did they?" she asked.

  "No. But someone might have been up here before we got here."

  "Why?" she whispered.

  "It's no secret in town that I've reopened the investigation into the Whitmore boy's murder. Anyone who was involved could have found out about it."

  "But why would anyone come back here, twenty years later?"

  What would you do if you'd committed a murder? The sheriff at the time closes the case, and you figure you're safe. Then, twenty years later, you find out that someone is looking into the murder again. You'd want to make sure you hadn't left anything behind."

  "What would there be to find after twenty years, though?"

  "You wanted to come up here," he countered. "What for? Didn't you think there might be something to find? If you were the murderer, wouldn't you have to make sure you hadn't left anything behind?"

  "I suppose so," she said. She scanned the area again, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. "It gives me the creeps to think someone was standing and watching us."

  "Me too." He started the engine with a grim twist of his hand. "I'll get Ben up here to look around. Whoever
was up here will be long gone, I'm sure, but if anyone can find traces of him, Ben can."

  "If you think it was the murderer up here, that means you don't suspect your father," she said quietly.

  "It would be kind of difficult for my father to push a bunch of rocks down on top of you, or poke holes in your tires. He's been dead for several years." There was no inflection in his voice.

  "Maybe there's another explanation for my accidents," she said.

  "Why are you so determined that my father was the murderer?" He glanced over at her, but she didn't meet his gaze.

  "I'm not determined that he's the murderer. He just seems like the most logical suspect."

  "Then how do you explain the things that have been happening to you?" he demanded.

  "I don't know." She looked down at her hands. "Who do you think is responsible?"

  "I'm not sure. But since you seem convinced the Whitmore boy's murder is connected with the water light between my father and Phil Hilbert, maybe it's Phil."

  "Maybe." She remembered the tired old man she'd talked to. "He doesn't seem like he'd have the … energy to try and hurt me or anyone else."

  She saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. "People can do amazing things when they're fighting for survival. Desperation is a powerful motivator."

  "I know," she said quietly.

  He glanced at her sharply, but when she didn't say anything more, he picked up the radio and asked Marge to have Ben Jackson meet him at the Red Rock. Neither of them said anything more as the truck bumped down the rocky track back to the ranch. He took her to her Jeep, then led her back to the house.

  Ben was waiting when Devlin parked the Blazer next to the barn. Carly watched the two men talking, then she climbed out of the Jeep and headed into the house. She hadn't had a chance to tell Devlin who she really was, and she didn't particularly want to make a public announcement. She'd wait until they had some time alone.

  But they weren't alone for the rest of the day. Devlin talked to Ben, then he headed back into Cameron. It was almost, she thought, like he was avoiding her. Almost as if the discussion of who could be trying to kill her had reminded him that they were on opposite sides. Or maybe the memories of the passion they had shared the night before had scared him away.