Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel)

by Lyles, Rebecca Carey

  ***

  Dymple closed the patio door. “I meant to shut this before I went looking for you.”

  Kate watched her draw the blinds closed. “I’m surprised. You rarely close that door.”

  “Tonight is different.” Dymple returned to the kitchen. “Would you care to have a cup of chamomile tea with me before bed? It’ll warm you and help you sleep.” She carried the teapot from the stove to the sink to fill with water.

  “I would love some tea, anything hot. I should have taken a jacket.” A shiver vibrated through her.

  “I’ll get you a quilt.” Dymple set the teapot on the stove and turned on the burner. “It’s not good for you to be chilled so soon after surgery.”

  Kate let Dymple wrap her in a heavy cotton comforter and settle her into the recliner with a pillow under her head, her legs raised. It felt good to be mothered—something she hadn’t experienced since her parents’ death. She’d once thought she wanted Laura Duncan for a mom, or a mom-in-law, but Dymple was a mom and grandma all wrapped into one sweet, generous woman. “You’re spoiling me again.”

  Dymple tucked the corners of the quilt around her legs. “My pleasure.”

  Kate snuggled into the heavy blanket. The mellow smell of the chamomile made her feel like she could ignore her problems for a few hours, and like she could fall asleep at any moment.

  Dymple poured them each a cup and sat on the couch. After they’d both sipped at their tea, she looked at Kate, an unusual expression on her face.

  Kate raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “I had a strange phone call tonight.”

  Her serious tone sent a different kind of chill through Kate.

  “From someone I know?”

  “Evidently.”

  Kate set her mug on a coaster.

  “It was a man who asked, or rather, demanded, to speak to you. And he didn’t believe me when I said you weren’t here.”

  Ramsey. Kate’s jaw clamped so tight she could barely speak. “Did he give you his name?”

  “No. But he said to tell you he’d find you, that he’d make you pay for ruining his life. That’s the reason I locked the patio door.”

  Kate groaned. Would she never escape Ramsey, never escape her past? “That’s why I can’t stay at your house, Dymple. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

  “Is he the person you told me about earlier?”

  She nodded.

  “Is that why I found a knife in your bedding?”

  Kate tilted her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “When I packed your things at the Whispering Pines, I stripped the bed, and a big butcher knife fell out. Do you know how it got there?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Kate finally answered. “Yes. I put it there.”

  Dymple stared into her soul the way she had the first time they met. “That’s it? You put it there?”

  “What more is there to say?”

  Dymple’s wrinkles knotted on the bridge above her nose. “You must have had a reason for placing a knife under your pillow.”

  Kate clasped her hands on top of the quilt. “My first night at the Whispering Pines, the guy who called here broke into my cabin—but Mike chased him away. I knew he’d be back, so I put the knife under my pillow. That’s the reason.” Before the butcher knife, she’d used Uncle Dean’s hunting knife. Where was it now? Did Ramsey have it? Had he called her from jail—or was he out?

  “That’s a hint of a reason.” Dymple put her cup down. “Kate, your life is in danger, and apparently, mine, too. It’s okay to have secrets, but there are times when you need to reach out, to get help. Even the Lone Ranger had tonsillitis.”

  Kate snickered. She couldn’t help it.

  “Oh, dear.” Dymple screwed up her face. “Did I do it again?”

  “You said the Lone Ranger had tonsillitis.”

  She huffed. “I meant to say ‘Tonto.’”

  “I thought so.” Kate sipped at the tea, which Dymple had sweetened with a dab, as she termed it, of local honey. Perhaps it was time to bare her soul. She hated to dump her garbage on her host, but Dymple, like Mike, wanted an explanation for her secrecy. “Okay, Tonto, here goes.” She took a long breath.

  ***

  Kate told Dymple everything—Ramsey’s full name, how and where they met, the incidents at the Whispering Pines. She talked about foster parents who used her to get money from the state and abused her in every imaginable way. She told how she ran away, again and again, about life on the streets, about selling her body to maintain a meth habit, and about her years behind bars. She explained that another conviction could trigger three-strikes-you’re-out sentencing and result in a lifetime behind bars.

  Dymple listened intently, interrupting now and then to ask a question or offer more tea.

  When the clock on the fireplace mantel chimed midnight, Kate rubbed her eyes and yawned. “That’s it. That’s all there is to say about my sordid history.” She picked up her cup for a final sip, amazed by the lightness she felt in her soul. Maybe it was because Dymple was such a compassionate listener.

  Dymple settled her cup atop the saucer on the coffee table. “I need to know more about this Jerry Ramsey person.”

  “There’s not much I can add, except that he’s a sick blend of crazy and evil.”

  “I don’t understand why he’s after you, why he thinks you ruined his life.”

  Kate stared at the ceiling. “I’m ashamed to say I traded Ramsey sex for drugs. But after I found God—or God found me, I wanted Ramsey and dope out of my life. That didn’t go over so good, but he was transferred to another unit, which was a relief, until I realized I was pregnant.

  “When I started to show, I’d been imprisoned long enough it was obvious the father was a correctional officer. After a lot of pressure from the staff, I finally told them Ramsey was the one who got me pregnant and agreed to an abortion. I later heard he was fired.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “He beat me up the day I …” Kate wiggled her fingers above the edge of the quilt to indicate quotation marks. “Broke up with him. I regained consciousness in the infirmary and remained there for several days. Even so, I refused to rat on him until later.”

  “You poor dear. I’m surprised you didn’t lose the baby.”

  Kate swirled leaf particles at the bottom of her teacup. It might have been better if Ramsey had been the one who killed the baby, not her.

  ***

  Mike punched the start button on Kate’s computer. “Can you believe it’s July already?”

  Coach swung his chair around to face Laura and Mike. “Is Whispering Pines entering a float in the Fourth of July parade this year?”

  Mike shook his head. “Who around here has time to make a float?”

  “All you’d have to do is put a couple bison calves in the back of a truck and you’d have the biggest hit of the parade.”

  Laura looked up from her work. “It’s not that easy. We’d need banners for the truck. Plus, we’re running low on brochures, so we’d have to get more printed and also buy candy to throw to the kids. Might even be insurance issues to consider, in case harm is done by or to the calves. The biggest drawback is that it may be too late to get an entry approved by the parade committee.”

  “Just a thought.”

  Mike offered a thumbs-up. “I think it’s a great idea.” But then he grunted. “Uh-oh.”

  Laura frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “This desktop background. I think it’s—”

  Laura and Coach hurried to his side, but Laura looked away as soon as she saw the picture. “That’s horrible.”

  “Where did that come from?” Coach squinted at the screen. “Did Kate put it on there?”

  “She couldn’t have. The calf was knifed while she was in the hospital.”

  The two men stared at the close-up of the bloody gash, then at each other. Coach’s brow wrinkled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Yep.”<
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  Laura stood to the side, her gaze averted from the screen. “What are you two talking about?”

  Mike rubbed his eyes. “It’s a different calf.”

  The visitor bell and the telephone rang at the same time.

  Mike jumped to his feet. “I’ll get the counter.”

  “Thanks.” Laura returned to her desk and reached for the phone.

  A middle-aged couple stood at the front desk, their faces bright with expectancy.

  Mike forced the gruesome image of the dead calf out of his head and a smile onto his face. “Welcome to Whispering Pines. How can I help you?”

  The man spoke first. “We’re the Cunninghams.” He had solid shoulders and a husky voice. “We have reservations.”

  Mike searched the computer files. “Here you are. Buck and Sherri from Lubbock, Texas.” He reached across the counter to shake their hands. “I’m Mike Duncan.” He checked the computer again. “You’re staying three weeks, right?”

  Sherri nodded.

  Buck maneuvered to where he could see the screen. “Does the computer show I paid the extra fee to hunt buffalo? That’s the highlight of this vacation for me.”

  Mike stopped typing.

  Sherri, a petite blonde, frowned. “They’re really big animals, Buck. What in the world will the two of us do with all that meat?”

  “All I want is a trophy head to mount on the wall.”

  She wrinkled her nose and gave him a sideways glance.

  “I’ll hang it in the den.”

  “With all the other beady-eyed deadheads. I get the heebie-jeebies every time I walk in there.” She turned to Mike, placing her hands on the counter. “I apologize. It’s rude of us to squabble in front of you, but it’s probably obvious I’d rather not be included in the buffalo hunt.”

  He nodded. The buffalo hunt.

  Buck smiled. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll donate the meat to the ranch.”

  As if the dining hall kitchen didn’t already have a freezer full after the last cow was killed.

  Laura walked in from the other room. Mike introduced her to the couple, and they shook hands.

  He cleared his throat. “Mom, Mr. Cunningham was planning on a bison hunt, but—as you know—things have changed since he registered. We’ve lost a couple bison to … to disease lately.” He stared at his mother, hoping she would support him on what he was about to say, but she just stared back, eyebrows scrunched.

  He turned to Buck. “I know you want—”

  Buck held up his hand. “I don’t want. I expect.” He leaned toward Mike, his fists on the counter. “I’m here solely for the hunt—the hunt advertised in your brochure. The hunt I paid for. If I can’t hunt, I’ll have my lawyer sue for false advertising.”

  Sherri grabbed his arm. “Buck, surely you don’t mean that.”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  MIKE KNEW WHAT HIS mom was thinking. He nodded to Buck. “You paid for a hunt, you’ll get a hunt. I’ll line up a guide for you.”

  Laura gave the Cunninghams a key and explained the map showing the ranch layout. Mike finished their registration in the computer, all the while mentally kicking himself for advertising bison hunts. Thank God they were running low on brochures.

  After the couple left, Coach wheeled into the doorway between the office and the counter. “Wanted to let you know I’m leaving for my appointment in Rawlins.”

  Laura smiled. “No problem. We’re just glad to have your help when you have time to stop by.”

  He maneuvered his chair around to leave.

  Laura winked at Mike. “Just a minute, Coach. Do you suppose you could run an errand for me?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her. “Sure. What do you need?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by the print shop to see how fast they can whip up a couple banners for us. In the meantime, I’ll call Jill Harris. She’s the parade chairman this year.”

  “And order more brochures.” Mike pounded the counter with his fist. “Without that stupid blurb about bison hunts.”

  After he left, Laura peered at Mike like she was seeing him for the first time. “When did you change your mind about the hunts? You and your dad hunted together every fall.” She indicated the moose head above the fireplace. “You’re the one who shot Mangy, and if I remember right, it was your idea to offer our guests a chance to shoot a buffalo.”

  “I know, Mom. I know.” He made another notation in the computer. “But the more I thought about it, the more I dreaded watching hunters kill my cows. It’s bad enough someone’s killed two, maybe three, of our bison. Then Kate said it wasn’t fair, because the buffalo would just be standing there, fenced in with no chance to get away. It’s not hunting—it’s slaughter.”

  “Hmm. Kate said that, did she?” Laura gave him a knowing smile.

  Mike felt his cheeks flush. “Well, anybody could have said it. Besides, Marshall Thompson wants to buy as many cows as I’m willing to sell him. Why let guests kill them when I can give my animals a good home?”

  The latch on the lobby’s screen door clicked.

  Mike glanced toward the doorway in time to see Tara step into the room, a folder in her hand. He groaned.

  Laura elbowed him. “Hello, Tara.”

  Tara ignored her and bee-lined for Mike. “I haven’t seen you for days, Mikey.” Her perfume flooded the room like a nasty fog.

  Mike coughed but didn’t speak. God only knew what would spew out of his mouth. Knowing he’d cursed at Kate, he hated to think what he might say to Hughes in front of his mom.

  Tara stroked his arm.

  He jerked away.

  She turned to Laura, stenciled eyebrows arched. “You the person who does the hiring around here?”

  Laura didn’t respond.

  “Well, you obviously don’t run background checks.”

  Mike considered shoving Tara out the door, but he didn’t want to touch her. No doubt she would construe that as an act of intimacy.

  She opened the long folder, which appeared to be filled with legal documents, and slid the top paper toward them. “Notice the name at the top?”

  They couldn’t help but look.

  The State of Pennsylvania

  vs.

  Katherine Joy Neilson

  Page after page followed, the same name always at the top, whether paired with the State of Pennsylvania, the City of Pittsburgh, or Allegheny County.

  Tara leafed through the forms, her voice growing louder as she listed the offenses. “Robbery. Burglary. Public intoxication. She slapped the forms onto the counter one-by-one. Assault. Petty theft. Trespass. Possession of an illegal substance. It goes on and on, even including …”

  Eyes narrowed, butterflies animated, she leaned over the counter, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Pros-ti-tu-tion.” She straightened, a gleam in her eyes. “The moment I saw her, I knew there was something wrong with the slut. Did you know she just got out of prison?”

  She acknowledged their silence with a sneer. “Didn’t think so.” She narrowed her eyes and shook her finger in Laura’s face. “You’ve endangered this entire valley by neglecting to do a background check and by employing a convict. You ought to be ashamed.”

  “That’s …”Mike fought to control his voice. “That’s enough.”

  “But don’t you see, Mikey? Kate Neilson is a whore.”

  He pounded the counter. “Out!”

  Tara jumped.

  “Katherine Neilson could be anybody.” Laura’s eyes were wide. “She can’t be our Kate.”

  Tara guffawed. “Your Kate is one and the same. Don’t be a bimbo brain.”

  Mike whipped around the counter.

  Tara grabbed the folder and began to back away.

  He followed her, staying in her face as she retreated. “If you—” The cadence of his words matched the beat of his boots on the wood floor. “Ever–again–step foot–on our ranch–I’ll get a—”

 
He jabbed a finger at her. “Restraining order against you!” He stopped his advance when she grasped the door handle. “That’s a promise.”

  She thrust her chin forward. “If you ban me from this ranch—my ranch—I’ll tell everyone you hire felons. Then nobody will come to your dumb dude ranch. You’ll go out of business and beg me to broker a deal with my Daddy to buy your pathetic little dirt farm.”

  She flung the door open and marched away, her high heels drumming the porch boards.

  ***

  When Kate awoke the next morning, the sun was above the trees. She found Dymple on her knees in the garden pulling weeds. “Good morning. I suppose you were up at five, as usual.”

  Dymple sat back on her heels. “I’ve never been one to sleep in, especially on such a beautiful morning.” She grabbed her hoe and used it to stand. “How about some brunch? I had a glass of juice earlier with a banana, but my stomach is ready for a refill.”

  “Oh, look, Dymple.” Kate was pointing at the opposite end of the garden. “A bunny with babies. Aren’t they cute?”

  “Cute, my foot!” Dymple voice squeaked. Brandishing the hoe, she hobbled between the rows as fast as she could, her braid dancing across her back. “My candles won’t stand a chance.” She shook the hoe at the little balls of brown fur. “Beat it, you thieving critters!”

  Mama rabbit looked at the human scarecrow, blinked and herded her brood away from the carrots, under the fence and into the bushes. Dymple dropped the hoe to the ground and rested her forehead on the handle.

  “Are you okay?” Kate tried not to laugh.

  “Yes.” Her reply was muffled. “I’m too old to chase rabbits. Maybe I should get a dog.” She raised her head. “But a dog would dig holes in my garden.”

  They shared a simple meal of blueberry muffins, fruit and green tea on the patio. “I’m sorry about the rabbits.” Kate peeled a mandarin orange. “There must be something you can do to discourage them.”

  “I’ve tried the easy solutions, like sprinkling vinegar and hot pepper flakes around the plants. Those may work, but every time it rains or I water the garden, they’re washed away.” She sliced a square of butter and spread it on her muffin. “I need to get serious about the battle.”