Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  As he rode on, Jed thought some about the new deputy, hired to replace a slacker Grant had had to fire.

  He didn’t know her well yet, but just hiring Erin Brown had stirred things up around here. She was the first woman ever to work law enforcement in Hayes County, sheriff’s department or Fort Halleck P.D. Jed was bemused by the attitude. Rural Georgia leaned to the conservative side, but he’d left his boyhood behind a long time ago. Plenty of women served in the army these days. Even the army Rangers, although not while he was still in.

  He glanced up. The day was pleasant, with this being May. Not hot yet, but the broad arch of sky was a rich blue softened by a few thin white clouds. He kept catching aromatic whiffs of sagebrush, and noxious ones when the horse brushed rabbitbrush. To the west lay the low, crumbling remnants of an ancient basalt rimrock, a feature that reappeared across the county. This one might disappear altogether in the next century or so. Not long past it, he got a first, distant glimpse of a straight, two lane country road with a yellow line painted down the middle.

  Sure enough, that’s where the tracks led him, disappearing when they met the pavement. With the weather having been dry, he couldn’t tell which way that truck pulling a stock trailer full of stolen cattle had turned.

  He had seen enough tracks during his ride to feel sure that the same pickup had come and gone through this back country several times. All last night? Or would several other ranchers in the same vicinity be reporting missing stock in the next few days? Knocking on doors would be his next task. He made a mental note, too, to contact sheriff’s departments in surrounding counties, find out if the same trouble was cropping up elsewhere.

  Following the road would make for a shorter trip back, but Jed decided against it. He had no idea how the gelding would react to traffic bearing down fast on them. Besides, with the sun getting higher in the sky, the light would have changed once he turned around. He might see something he’d missed.

  Cattle rustling. He shook his head in disbelief, and urged the gelding into a ground-eating lope.

  One blessing: the rancher he’d been avoiding since the day he arrived in Hayes County didn’t run cattle, so he wouldn’t get called out there.

  *****

  Linette Broussard let herself lean against the warm, solid body of the stud who was making the reputation of her ranch. El Conde, more familiarly known as Rey, was one of the first Kiger Mustangs she’d adopted during an event held by the Bureau of Land Management, when they offered an opportunity to acquire one of the wild mustangs. The Kigers existed in the wild only in two herd management areas in southern Oregon, the same place they’d been discovered in the 1970s. The BLM still protected them and was careful to ensure they didn’t interbreed. Bringing El Conde as a far-from-tame yearling to this land she’d only bought months before had given her joy she’d almost forgotten was possible.

  Rey remained skittish with strangers, quiet and well-mannered with her single employee, and loving with her. The promise she’d seen in him then had borne out when he matured. A dark grullo, almost slate gray, he showed all the desirable qualities that defined the Kiger, descendants of horses brought to the Americas by the Spanish conquistadors. Compact and powerful, he had the classic dorsal stripe down his back, black bars marking his ears and shoulders and a black mask and legs. Faint “zebra” stripes showed on his legs. Just fifteen and a half hands, Rey had the long, lush mane and tail common with the Kiger mustangs. It took work to keep that tail, and a mane that hung nearly to his knees, free of tangles. Fortunately for her, he loved to be brushed and combed, usually half-closing his eyes like a contented cat as she worked on him.

  Bright lights in the barn kept the night at bay. With the closest house a mile away, she heard only the whuffle of another of her Kigers blowing out, the faint thud of a hoof hitting wood, the soft hoot of an owl. Rey shook his head, and his mane settled over her like a thick, warm cloak. Laughing, she blew wiry hairs away from her nose.

  “Yes, I love you, too,” she murmured, before giving him one last stroke and then backing away and letting herself out of the stall that stood open to pasture. Another horse called from a distance, and Rey ambled outside, his pale coat giving him a ghost-like appearance until he had gone far enough to be lost in the darkness.

  She didn’t let herself linger any longer. It had to be nine o’clock, and she hadn’t yet had dinner. She’d been self-indulgent to stay out here so long this evening. With her horses, she was never lonely. Once in the house, she became aware of how quiet it was, how few contacts she had with other human beings.

  That was smart for her, she reminded herself. Nothing good had ever come of relationships with men, that was for sure. They either abandoned you, or tried to turn you into a puppet with no remaining will to resist. Good reason to swear off men once and for all. She either had terrible taste, or an inability to make a partner happy. Horses were different. She had an eye for them, and a gift for connecting with them. They rarely let her down. Who needed men?

  She turned out lights, although a motion-activated one at the peak of the barn roof came on as soon as she stepped outside. She hadn’t thought to leave on any lights in the house, which meant finding her way through the darkness toward the darker bulk of the plain farmhouse. Like Rey, she imagined herself disappearing slowly as she left the too-bright circle cast by the floodlight.

  Long ago, someone had planted several oaks that had survived the cold winters on this land that lay between the Ochoco Mountains and the barren high desert, where sagebrush thrived. She liked the shade daytimes, helping keep the house cool during the hot summers. But tonight, under the broad limbs they blocked moonlight.

  Linette climbed the porch steps, her booted feet striking the boards much as Rey’s hooves had. Behind her, the floodlight went out. She was reaching for the doorknob when she heard a faint sound. Instinct had her going still, listening. Wildlife, she tried to convince herself. The owl wasn’t alone at being nocturnal. Rats, mice, snakes, coyotes. Perhaps something was hunting.

  But the fine hairs on her neck prickled. Most night sounds were familiar. Whatever she’d heard…wasn’t. It made her think of a foot carelessly scuffed against the ground or a rock. Perhaps something brushing the corner of the house.

  She couldn’t stop herself from whirling to face the threat, but saw nothing but the dark shapes of the oak trees, shadows. Then her heart jumped. What if the sound had come from inside the house? She hadn’t locked the door. She never did. Anyone could have walked in.

  Linette stayed frozen for an absurd length of time. Gradually, one by one, her muscles relaxed. Yes, she’d read about the recent cattle rustling. That must be responsible for her anxiety. The crime log in the Courier mentioned domestic violence, vandalism, small-time theft, too, but really there wasn’t much crime around here compared to where she’d come from. And it wasn’t as if she had anything worth stealing in the house, or anyone had seemed interested in her at all. Not even the man whose photo she’d seen in the Courier three months ago.

  He had to have come to Hayes County because of her, but whatever his reason, he’d changed his mind. Nine months he’d been here. Nine months, and he hadn’t so much as called her.

  No, not even the man she’d once loved so intensely was interested in her.

  She scanned the yard again, the long drive leading to the paved country road that fronted her property. Nothing.

  With a shrug, she opened the door and went inside.

  *****

  In the next few days, Jed found three other ranchers who’d lost cattle. The owner of the largest operation, Arrowhead Creek Ranch, sounded annoyed but philosophical. Jed would still be going out to talk to him.

  The owner of the smallest of the three, Austin Jackson, was distraught. “I can’t afford this,” he kept saying, his eyes wild.

  Looked like he didn’t have more than about thirty, forty acres. The house was small and shabby, but the barn had been rebuilt, the fences were in good repair, and he owned
a nice looking quarter horse cross that appeared well cared for. He’d had a small herd of black Angus, and lost a dozen cows and calves.

  “Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to get to this point?” Stocky, brown-haired and probably in his thirties, Jackson looked around.

  Jed had a feeling he was seeing the magnificent spread of his imagination, not what was in front of him.

  “My neighbors promised to sell me some land when I was ready,” he said softly. “I was going to expand. Someday quit my job.”

  “Your job?”

  “I work at the lumberyard.” He fixed his eyes on Jed in a way that made it hard to look away. “You’ve got to get my cattle back. Find these bastards. It’s almost got to be someone local. Most times, it turns out to be neighbors, you know. Damn, I’m tempted to go looking myself.”

  “I’ll do my best, but I’m asking you to stick to your own land. You trespass, I might have to arrest you. I’d be sorry, but I’d do it.”

  Jed didn’t know what else to say. From what he’d read, Jackson was right. Cattle rustling on a small scale was often suspected to be done by neighbors who could make some calves disappear and later believably express surprise if a cow that carried someone else’s brand appeared in their herd. Sometimes the cows reappeared a year or two later, having been used as breeding machines in the meantime.

  Jed wouldn’t call this small-scale anymore, though. Over a hundred cows and calves were gone in his county so far. That added up to enough profit to justify a professional operation sweeping in. By this time, the animals could be out of Oregon, hauled to Nevada, Idaho, Montana. If that were the case, tracing them would be a challenge, if not impossible, unless a stockyard somewhere called because they’d found a cow with the wrong brand mixed in with a herd. Even then, the individual selling the animals could deny having any idea where the one that wasn’t his had come from. He could blame the stockyard.

  Walt Whitney was right. Damn few cattle rustlers were ever arrested.

  But the rustling had all been local so far; not a single neighboring sheriff’s department had heard from a rancher. In Jed’s book, that meant Walt Whitney was right: these rustlers were preying on their own neighbors.

  As his department SUV bumped over holes and ruts in Austin Jackson’s driveway, he set his jaw. The western way of life was already on the line here, ranchers teetering on the brink of failure. Now this.

  He wasn’t capable of shrugging and saying, “I did my best.” Once he’d gone out to the two remaining spreads that had reported missing cattle, he’d contact every rancher he hadn’t yet spoken to, and urge them all to brand their calves now.

  Next thing, he’d put in a call to the Malheur County Sheriff’s Department for advice. They’d gained cooperation from federal and state agencies, he knew, started patrols. No reason the same thing couldn’t be done here…before the rustlers struck yet another ranch.

  Right now, he reluctantly made the turn toward Arrowhead Creek Ranch, which lay on the northern boundary of the county. They ran a good-size herd, in part because they bred and trained world-class cutting horses and needed cattle for the horses to work. The route out there would take him right past Linette Broussard’s place. The last time he’d been out this way, he’d still been trying to work himself up to knocking on her door. After all, she was the reason he’d come out to Oregon, taken this job.

  But things had changed. He should have quit the job and moved away before they came face to face someday at the gas station or in the grocery store parking lot. But he’d felt an obligation to Grant Holcomb for hiring him, and he hadn’t run into her in the nine months he’d been on the job. From what he’d heard she was something of a recluse. Jed didn’t know if that was all his fault or not. These days, his regret was buried deep, though. Sometimes he thought he didn’t feel it at all anymore. Maybe today he wouldn’t have any trouble keeping his head from turning when he passed the burned wood sign that said, The LB Kiger Ranch.

  Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson

  Cape Trouble, a tiny Oregon Coast town, was named for the dangerous off-shore reefs. But some of its citizens seek refuge from their own troubles…which have a way of following them.

  SHROUD OF FOG (Cape Trouble, Book 1)

  The secrets of the past haunt the present…

  Sophie Thomsen’s life had a Before and an After – marked by the terrifying morning when she found her mother dead in the foggy sand dunes, an apparent suicide. Now, twenty years later, Sophie returns to Cape Trouble, only to find her aunt brutally murdered. Although she swore never to set foot again on Misty Beach, Sophie takes over her aunt’s crusade to save the falling-down Misty Beach Resort and its wild sand dunes and beach from development. But Sophie’s memories threaten a killer…who doesn’t dare let her remember too much.

  Having come to Cape Trouble to heal his own wounds, Police Chief Daniel Colburn investigates the present day murder, but begins to suspect Sophie’s mother was another murder victim, not a suicide. Everything he learns increases his fear for the woman he is coming to love.

  Sophie’s fate may be to die in a shroud of fog, just like her mother before her, unless she can trust Daniel to help her uncover her past in time.

  Also in the series:

  SEE HOW SHE RUNS (Cape Trouble, Book 2)

  TWISTED THREADS (Cape Trouble, Book 3)

  WHISPER OF REVENGE (Cape Trouble, Book 4)

  TRIGGER WORDS (Cape Trouble, Book 5)

  What people are saying about the romantic suspense novels of Janice Kay Johnson:

  •“If you are in the mood for a wonderful romantic suspense story that will have you so engrossed in it that you lose track of the time, than look no further.”

  -Night Owl Reviews (on Shroud of Fog)

  •“SHROUD OF FOG will immerse the reader in a world of suspense and intrigue. Elements of romance throughout this captivating read will capture your heart. I kept guessing as to whom the killer was up until the very end. Janice Kay Johnson has penned a deeply satisfying story that is appealing to mystery lovers as well as romance aficionados. If you are looking for a tale that has plenty of plot twists and amazing characters that will remain with you, then you should rush out and get a copy of SHROUD OF FOG!”

  -Romance Junkies

  •"[G]uaranteed to have you looking over your shoulder more than once in this explosive, fast-paced thriller."

  -Linda Silverstein, ROMANTIC TIMES (on Dangerous Waters)

  •"Studded with tension and skillfully riveting, [it] will capture you from the first page and won't let go until the end."

  -Kay Gragg, AFFAIRE DE COEUR (on Dangerous Waters)

  •“I’ve never read Ms. Johnson’s work before and all I can say is I will be finding everything else she’s ever written. This story is so masterful it takes you inside this small town and really makes you think you are there.”

  -Sara HJ, HARLEQUIN JUNKIES (on Everywhere She Goes)