by B. J Daniels
“Mr. Sanderson’s death is under investigation,” the sheriff said. “That’s all I can tell you at this time.”
When his phone rang yet again, he’d snatched it up, expecting it would be another reporter.
“You knew about JJ’s accident last night,” Jett Atkins said the moment Buford picked up.
He recognized his voice but said, “I’m sorry, who is this?”
“Jett Atkins. You knew JJ was dead when you called me last night.”
“The accident was under investigation.”
“It’s splashed all over the papers, television and internet. You could have told me last night. Instead I have to see it on TV.”
“Well, you know now.” Buford didn’t have the time for the rock star’s tantrum.
“They killed her. JJ was too good a driver. You’d better check the brakes on that car. I already warned them that I was going to tell you.”
Buford loved nothing better than being told what he needed to do. But he was reminded of the lack of skid marks on the highway. It had appeared that the driver of the car hadn’t braked.
“Who are they?” he asked, even though he suspected he knew.
“Her former band members. The more I’ve thought of it, the more I think one of them killed Martin and then sabotaged JJ’s car and killed her, as well.”
“I thought you were convinced JJ killed Martin,” he reminded him.
“Well, she could have after what he did to her. But if anyone is murderous, it’s the members of her former band. They hated her enough as it was. Once they found out that JJ wasn’t doing any reunion tour—”
“They knew that for sure?”
“I don’t know. But if Martin told them and they figured out that he’d used them—”
“Mr. Atkins—”
“Check the brakes on her car. I’m telling you one of them or all three of them killed her. You should have seen their faces this morning at breakfast when I asked them which one of them did JJ in.”
Buford groaned. “Please let me do the investigating.”
“Let me know what you find out about the brake line.”
“YOU MUST BE STARVED,” LOGAN said after he and Blythe returned from their horseback ride. They’d eaten elk steak sandwiches late the night before, but that had been hours ago now. “I’ll make us something to eat.”
“Can I help?” She had picked up the newspapers he’d brought home earlier.
“No, you’ve had a strenuous enough day. Anyway, it’s a one-man kitchen. I’m thinking bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.” He liked breakfast any time of the day, especially at night.
“Yum.” She sounded distracted.
He left her sorting through the newspapers on the couch and went into the kitchen. The sun had long set, the prairie silver in the twilight. Blythe must be exhausted. He hadn’t meant to take her on such a long ride. But she’d been a trooper, really seeming to enjoy being on horseback.
It wasn’t until the meal was almost ready that he realized he hadn’t heard a peep out of her. She must have fallen asleep on the couch.
He put everything into the oven to keep it warm and was about to go check on her when he smelled smoke. Hurriedly, he stuck his head into the living room to find her feeding the fire she’d started in the fireplace.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said quickly, no doubt seeing his surprise. “I felt a little cool.”
“Sure,” he said, but noticed she’d used one of the recent newspapers he hadn’t had a chance to read instead of the old ones stacked up next to the kindling box by the fireplace. Also she’d made a pitiful fire. “Here, let me help you.”
She’d wadded up the front pages of the most recent Great Falls Tribune and set the paper on fire, then thrown a large log on top. The paper was burning so quickly there was no way it would ignite the log.
He pulled the log off. The newspaper had burned to black ash.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You probably wanted to read that,” she said behind him.
“Probably wasn’t any good news anyway,” he said not wanting to make her feel bad.
“Don’t bother to make a fire,” she said. “I’m fine now. What is that wonderful smell coming from the kitchen?”
He studied her a moment. “You’re sure?”
She nodded.
He told himself it was his imagination that she looked pale. Earlier she’d gotten some sun from their long ride and her cheeks had been pink. Now all the color seemed to have been bleached out of her. She seemed upset.
“Maybe I’ll teach you how to build a fire while you’re here, too.”
Her smile wasn’t her usual one. “That’s probably a good idea.”
As they went into the kitchen, he couldn’t shake the feeling that her purpose in burning the newspaper had nothing to do with a chill. It seemed more likely that it had been something she’d read in the paper.
Logan tried to remember the headlines he’d scanned before riding back to the house. Scientists were predicting a possible drought after low snowfall levels. A late-season avalanche had killed a snowmobiler up by Cooke City. Some singer named JJ had been killed in a car wreck in the Flathead Valley.
He couldn’t imagine why any of those stories might have upset her and told himself he was just imagining things. Who got upset about an article and burned the newspaper?
“Are you sure I can’t help?”
He started at the sound of her voice directly behind him and checked his suspicious expression before he turned. “Nope, everything is ready.” When he studied her face, he was relieved that her color had come back. She looked more like that laid-back, adventurous woman who’d climbed onto his motorcycle yesterday.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said as he handed her a plateful of food.
But something had definitely ruined her appetite.
“Blythe,” Logan said after they’d eaten and gotten up to put their dishes in the sink. He touched her arm, turning her to face him. She was inches from him. She met his gaze and held it. “Tell me what’s going on with you.” He saw her consider it.
But then her expression changed and even before she closed the distance between them, he knew what she was up to. Her lips brushed over his cheek, the look in her eyes challenging. She put her palm flat against his chest as she leaned in again, lips parted and started to kiss him on the mouth.
He grasped her shoulders and held her away from him. “What was that?” he demanded.
“I just thought…”
“If you don’t want to tell me what’s really going on with you, fine. If you want to make love with me, I’m all for it. But let’s be clear. When you come to my bed, I want it to be because you want me. No other reason.”
Disbelief flickered across her expression. He knew he was a damned fool not to take what she was offering—no matter her reasons. The woman was beautiful and just the thought of taking her to bed made his blood run hotter than a wildfire through his veins.
He wanted her. What man wouldn’t? But he wouldn’t let her use sex to keep him at a distance. Even as he thought it, he couldn’t believe it himself. Why did he have to feel this way about this woman?
Her eyes burned with tears. “I appreciate everything you—”
“Don’t,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. Let’s leave it at that. I’m going to check the horses.”
BLYTHE COULDN’T ESCAPE upstairs fast enough. Just his touch set something off in her, while the kindness in his eyes made her want to confess everything. She had wanted to bare her soul to him.
Instead, she’d fallen back on what she’d always done when anyone got too close. She had tried to use the same weapon her mother had: sex. To her shock and surprise, Logan wasn’t having any of it. He’d shoved her away and what she’d seen in his gaze was anything but desire. Anger burned in all that blue. Anger and disappointment. The disappointment was like an arrow through her heart.
He’d gone out to check the horses and she’d hurried upstair
s to run a bath before she did something crazy like confess all. How would he feel about having a murderess under his roof? Worse, a coward? She’d gotten at least one person killed, maybe two, if she counted Martin.
Even the hot lilac-scented water of the clawfoot tub couldn’t calm her. She was still shaken and upset about the almost kiss. Logan had seen right through her. Another man, she thought, would have taken what she was offering and not cared what was going on with her. But not Logan.
He saw through her. No doubt he’d also figured out why she’d burned the newspaper. She couldn’t believe what she’d read in the paper. A young woman had apparently stolen her rental car, lost control and crashed, the poor woman, and now everyone thought it had been her and that she was dead?
Not her. JJ. The fantasy performer that Martin Sanderson had created. Now they were both dead.
She’d seen the way Logan had looked at her when she’d attempted to destroy the news articles in the fireplace. But she couldn’t let him see either story—not the one about JJ’s sports car convertible ending up down a rocky embankment, catching fire and killing its driver or about Martin Sanderson’s murder.
When the bath water cooled to the point where she was shivering, she got out and, wearing Logan’s robe, went to his bedroom. On the way, she listened for any sound of him on the couch below. Nothing. Maybe he was still out with the horses.
Still embarrassed, she was glad she didn’t have to face him again tonight. Once in his bedroom, she moved to the window of the two-story farmhouse and looked out at the night. She still felt numb. What had she thought would happen when she left everything in the car beside the lake?
Nothing. She hadn’t thought. If she had, she would have realized that someone could have come along, found the car, the keys, her purse and thought she’d killed herself in the lake. Instead, someone had taken the car and died in it.
How could she have ever suspected something like that was going to happen? Still she felt to blame. Someone else was dead because of her.
She remembered what it had said in the article. The police had speculated that the woman had been driving too fast and had missed the curve. Officers were investigating whether drugs and alcohol might have been involved.
Not her fault.
She sighed, close to tears, knowing better. Just like Martin Sanderson being dead wasn’t her fault. Now she wished she’d been able to keep the newspaper article, to read it again more closely, but she’d panicked. If Logan saw it he might connect the car she’d been driving with this woman’s death—and her. She wasn’t ready to tell him everything. If she ever was.
Maybe the best thing she could do was clear out. He didn’t need her problems, and eventually those problems were going to find her here. She didn’t kid herself. All burning the articles had done was buy her a little time. Logan was too smart. He was going to figure it out. Eventually the police would figure it out, as well.
Isn’t it possible Fate is giving you a second chance?
JJ was dead and she was alive.
She had wanted out of her life and she’d been given a chance to start over. A clean slate. With everyone thinking she was dead, she could start life fresh. Did it matter that she didn’t deserve it?
As she turned away from the bedroom window, she recalled her conversation with Martin. “I would give anything to do it differently.”
He’d laughed. “You’re what? Barely thirty and you’re talking as if your life is over? Save the drama for when you get paid for it. I’m not letting you out of your contract. Period. If you keep fighting me, I’ll make you do a reunion tour with your former Tough as Nails band.”
She’d been shocked he would even threaten such a thing. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“You can’t make me,” she’d said, knowing that Martin Sanderson could destroy her and he knew it.
“I’ll sue you, and take every penny I made for you.”
“Take it. I’m done,” she’d said and meant it.
He’d studied her for a moment. “Okay, you’re not happy. I get it. So let’s do this. Take some time tonight to unwind. Go into town. Have some fun. Then sleep on it. If you feel the same way in the morning, then…well, we’ll work something out that we can both live with.”
She remembered her relief. She’d actually thought things might be all right after all. Isn’t that why she’d gone to that country-western bar that night? And luck had been with her. She’d met Logan Chisholm.
But by the next morning everything had changed. Martin was dead and she’d realized that she had worse problems than getting out of her contract and a tour with her former band members.
She didn’t know what she would have done if Logan hadn’t shown up when he did at the Grizzly Club. It had been desperation and something just as strong—survival—that had made her abandon her car and get on the back of his motorcycle. She had wanted to run away with him. Just ride off into the sunset with the cowboy from her girlhood dreams.
Now another swift change of luck. Everyone thought JJ was dead.
Especially her former band members.
Even if they suspected she was still alive, they wouldn’t think to look for her in this remote part of Montana.
A bubble of laughter rose in her chest as hot tears burned her eyes. She was too exhausted to even think, let alone decide what to do tonight. She would decide what to do tomorrow. She moved to the bed. She was a survivor. Somehow she would survive this, as well. Or die trying.
As she climbed between the sheets, she didn’t fight the exhaustion that pulled her under. The last thing she wanted to think about was what a mess she’d made of that old life. Or the look on Logan’s face when she’d tried to kiss him.
SHERIFF BUFORD OLSON WAS IN his office when he got the call from the coroner’s office.
“I’ve just spoken with the state crime investigators. Martin Sanderson’s death has been ruled a suicide,” the coroner said without preamble. “He was dying. Cancer. His personal physician confirmed my findings. He’d known he had only a few weeks to live.”
Buford ran a hand over his thinning hair. All the evidence had been there indicating a suicide—except for the note. Because someone had taken it.
The moment he’d seen the safety pin with the tiny piece of yellow sticky note stuck to it, he’d thought suicide. But again, without the note…
Martin Sanderson had been shot in the heart—and not through the robe. For some unknown reason suicide victims rarely shot themselves through clothing.
The gun found at the scene was registered to Sanderson. Its close proximity to the body, the lack of evidence of a struggle, the powder burns around the wound, the gun powder residue on the victim’s hands and the sleeves of his robe all pointed toward suicide.
Even the angle of the shot appeared to be slightly upward, like most suicides. Another sign of a possible suicide was the single shot to the heart. All the scene had needed was a reason for the suicide, and now the coroner had provided it. Sanderson was dying. If only they had that damned note, this case could have been tied up a lot sooner.
“Good work,” the mayor said when Buford gave him the news. “Case closed. I’ll alert the media.”