Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

I backed up. Kept the gun trained on him as I climbed in and slammed the door. “Stay there, right like that until I’m gone. Then stay the hell away from me.”

  I started the truck, threw it in reverse and burned rubber.

  Without conscious thought I drove to the ranch. By the time I reached the turnoff I realized what an utterly asinine thing I’d done by taunting Little Joe Carlucci with the false information I had the disk, and then taking potshots at him.

  I definitely had brain damage.

  My dad was sitting on the porch, almost as if he’d been waiting for me. We hadn’t spoken since the day he’d been in the office. As usual, I had no idea how he’d react to me being there.

  I climbed out of the truck and trudged up the steps.

  “Heard you wrecked your car,” he said.

  I managed, “Yeah,” before I sank into the fluffy cushions on the porch swing.

  He didn’t ask if I was all right, just stared pointedly at the bandage.

  Birkenstocks kicked off, I tucked one foot beneath me and used the other foot to push against the porch and set the swing in motion.

  “Where are Trish and the kids?”

  “She left to take ’em to church camp. She’ll be back later tonight. They’ll be gone for the rest of the week.”

  The swing bumped into the railing behind me, rattling the chains. I slowed down the swinging motion to a gentle, easy glide.

  A crow called an alarm; another answered.

  I said, “Heard they arrested Viv Granger for shooting Red.”

  He snorted. “Didn’t take ’em long to make a mess of it. Got the wrong person in jail. No way did Viv shoot Red.”

  My gaze lit on the vegetable garden. The tick tick tick whirr of the sprinkler provided a soothing background. Water clung to the dark maroon leaves of the sweet potato vines; the droplets glistened in the sun like gems. A slight breeze brought the loamy scent of wet soil, and the soapy sweetness of rose blooms. I drank it in, savoring the rare moment of tranquility.

  Dad sighed. The wicker chair cracked and groaned as he altered his position.

  Finally, I said, “Can I tell you something?”

  He looked at me strangely and nodded.

  “I don’t think the sheriff believes Viv did it either.”

  “Then why did he have her arrested?”

  “Had enough evidence to make an arrest. He’d have caught more heat if he’d ignored it.” The painted slats were cool beneath my foot as I pushed back and forth.

  “What was the evidence?”

  “Red’s gun.”

  “That’s it?” he scoffed. “Don’t mean nothin’. Everybody in the county knew he kept that gun in the barn. I’ve even gone over there and borrowed it a time or two when I’m out in the field.”

  “Don Anderson know about it too?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Don came to see me yesterday. At my house.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “Wanted to hire me to follow Dale Pendergrast.”

  A frown appeared. “Why? What’s he think old Dale’s been doin’?”

  “He’s afraid Dale might’ve had something to do with Red’s death. Thought if I followed Dale around, I could, shall we say, allay his fears that his buddy was a murderer.”

  “Don tole you he thinks Dale killed Red? What for?”

  Succinctly as I could, I repeated my conversation with Don. Dad’s anger escalated to epic proportions. When I reached the end of the tale I was afraid he might have a stroke.

  He exploded. “For cryin’ out loud, most days Dale can’t find his butt with both hands. He ain’t smart enough to come up with that kinda scheme, and he don’t even take a crap without runnin’ it by Maurice first.”

  The way he’d sneered Maurice caught my attention. “I thought you and Maurice were pals.”

  “You’d know I don’t have much time for him anymore if ya came ’round more often.”

  I ignored the taunt. “But when I came to dinner last week you were ticked off about Maurice losing calves because of the dust from building the casino.”

  “Don’t like to see nobody’s livestock dead.”

  He pushed back his black cowboy hat and stretched out his long legs. He wore his usual workday clothing, long-sleeved, light weave cotton shirt, ripped and stained once dark blue Wranglers, not skintight like rodeo cowboys and western singers preferred, but baggy, with the cuffs frayed and dirty from dragging in the pasture.

  His work boots caught my attention. Dust covered, the color had faded from brown to creamy tan, soles worn thin, heels worn down, the leather weary and cracked. A hole by the ball of his left foot allowed a piece of his white sock to stick out.

  I had the oddest sensation, looking at that dirty, stained sock, like I was seeing a secret part of him that he didn’t realize was exposed.

  Before I could analyze that weird feeling, Dad slapped his thigh. “Damn ticks are everywhere this year.”

  “They been bugging the livestock too?”

  “Not as much as the dust.” He sighed. “No matter how much of a know-it-all pain in the rear Maurice has become, he don’t have money to spare to replace them calves or to pay the vet to keep comin’ out. Not since the shooting range project went belly up.”

  “How’d that affect him? Wasn’t it going on county land?”

  “Yeah, but he’d sunk a lot of money into building improvements, figurin’ with his land being closest to the range, plenty of people who like to shoot but don’t have no access to huntin’ grounds would pay to hunt on his property. Didn’t work out that way. Had to sell a chunk off in order to pay off his loan and the property taxes.”

  I rocked. Listened to the clank clank of the swing chain. From the oak trees behind the barn came the loud buzz of cicadas. The drone tapered to a hum when the wind rose and fell. Pungent, hot, aromatic outdoor scents swirled around me until I sucked the sweet musk of summer into my soul. I relaxed for the first time in days. With my father of all people. Go figure.

  Strangely enough, I kept the conversation going instead of taking my leave. “Is that why Maurice is so hot to get on the county commission? Wants to lower property taxes?”

  “I think most of the reason he wants to get on the commission is so he can get his acreage borderin’ the county rezoned commercial. He can put his own shootin’ range on it and that holy group that caused all the problems can’t do a thing ’bout it because it’ll be on private land.”

  Something didn’t fit. “If he’s so broke, where’s he going to get the money? Wasn’t it supposed to cost the county around 200 grand to build it?”

  He shrugged. “Evidently he’s taken on a silent partner. Been kinda cocky ’bout it, which is one of the reasons why I can’t stand to be ’round him no more.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I pretended to consider his response. Asked with forced casualness, “Remind me again of the name of the holy group?”

  “I dunno.” He scratched his forehead. “Medicine Wheel something. All them Injun names sound the same to me. Another thing that bugs me about Maurice is that he’s suddenly ‘put aside’ his differences with them. Seems a man oughta stick to his principles, not shove them away when it suits him.”

  My blood ran cold.

  Dad claimed anyone could’ve waltzed into Red’s barn and lifted the gun.

  Including Maurice. Who would’ve known exactly where the gun was kept. And where to find Red on his vast ranch.

  What if part of what Don Anderson had told me was true? I agreed with Dad: Dale wasn’t smart enough to pull off such an elaborate con. But I also didn’t believe Don was bright enough to put it all together himself either.

  I’d bet Maurice planted the seeds about Dale’s guilt in Don’s head, knowing full well Don wouldn’t rat out his longtime friend. Maurice had a big ego. He’d have to tell someone.

  It made more sense that Maurice killed Red to get on the county commission and then framed Red’s wife for it. With Mau
rice’s hunting buddy on the council, a recommendation for Maurice to fill Red’s vacant seat was pretty much sown up.

  Then he’d get his damn shooting range.

  The implications brought back the queasiness. I stopped rocking the swing.

  What if Maurice had shot Luther Ghost Bear because of his involvement with stopping the shooting range, and it was Rondelle who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, not Luther, like I’d originally suspected?

  Would Maurice really wait two years to get revenge on the members of the Medicine Wheel Society?

  Hell yes. Guys like him had a long memory and could carry a grudge for generations.

  That still didn’t explain how had Tommy gotten involved. Another victim of wrong place, wrong time? Maybe Tommy had been tasked with following Rondelle and had ended up in the crossfire.

  Could he have been Maurice’s silent partner? As a lower level thug, and a friend of Little Joe’s, I doubted Tommy had the cash to fund Maurice’s enterprise.

  Unless he’d recently come into some money.

  Had Tommy been upstairs at Trader Pete’s when the bookkeeper was in the office? Little Joe would’ve trusted him to make sure the safe got shut when he stormed off and raped Rondelle.

  Instead, Tommy could’ve seen it as easy money and grabbed it. Shut and locked the safe knowing the cash wouldn’t come up missing for a week. If he destroyed the security disk, both he and Little Joe would’ve been in the clear for their separate crimes.

  Big Joe wouldn’t have suspected either of them.

  But Rondelle had gotten to the disk first.

  When Rondelle reviewed the disk, she must’ve seen that Tommy had stolen the money. Had she blackmailed him? Is that why he’d decided to kill her?

  Then how had Tommy ended up dead?

  By trusting Maurice.

  Once Maurice had gotten his money from Tommy, he probably decided he didn’t need a partner. Bang. Partnership turned into a sole proprietorship.

  “What’s wrong with you all of a sudden?” my dad asked sharply. “You look sick.”

  I perched on the edge of the swing. “Still feeling the effects from the car accident. I should get home.”

  After Don Anderson’s reaction yesterday, I knew I’d get a similar one from my father if I shared my suspicions about his former buddy Maurice. I didn’t need the lecture. I also didn’t need Dad running off at the mouth before I had a chance to talk to Sheriff Richards.

  As I shuffled to my truck did my dad wish me well? Or say something snarky?

  Hell. He didn’t say anything at all. Not even goodbye.

  CHAPTER 33

  ON THE WAY HOME, I ATE TWO TWINKIES, SLURPED A can of warm soda, and smoked a cigarette. Didn’t alleviate the churning emptiness in my stomach.

  I couldn’t get my brain to shut off either. Something didn’t fit, but what?

  Cue the cheesy game show music. I was about to play another round of “What If?”

  Round one: I’d connected Rondelle to Luther via the Medicine Wheel Society. Luther to Maurice via the Society getting the shooting range banned. Rondelle to Tommy via Trader Pete’s.

  But Tommy to Maurice? That was a stretch.

  According to my father, Maurice had been talking about his silent partner for months. If Tommy had just taken the money from the Carluccis, he could’ve only bought into Maurice’s business proposal days before his murder. Maurice wasn’t the type to wait around.

  Who else had enough money to help fund the shooting range?

  The Carluccis, obviously. Although they’d been opposed to the Bear Butte casino—same as Maurice—I doubted Maurice would’ve trusted them. Not only weren’t they local, they were from the east coast; an ethnic group from the east coast, which was worse.

  But greed had no national boundaries.

  So, if the Carluccis were lower on the totem pole of potential silent partners, who were the other possibilities?

  Not Maurice’s cronies, Dale Pendergrast and Don Anderson. They’d have been bragging to everyone in the county about their big plans. Their assets were tied up in their land.

  Same went for my father.

  Red Granger had money. Yet, he’d been one of the few honest politicians I’d known. He would’ve seen a conflict of interest in personally investing in a privately held shooting range—especially if he had to recommend rezoning to the Bear Butte County Commissioners to allow it to get built. He was out, too.

  I coasted to the end of my driveway and stopped.

  Local person, with money, wanting to make more. Hoping to make himself look good. Good old boy who believed in God, country, and the NRA.

  Bud Linderman.

  Ding ding ding. Jackpot! Julie Collins, you are the winner of round two!

  Ah hell.

  I rested my forehead against the steering wheel, as, once again, the implications made me dizzy.

  Rondelle had double-crossed Linderman. Tommy worked for the hated Carluccis. In this scenario, Luther had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  With a few blasts to the head, through Maurice, Linderman had eliminated a couple of problems.

  Oh, I didn’t doubt Maurice had been the triggerman in either scenario. He’d always struck me as a sociopath capable of extreme violence for no reason other than he had a bevy of firearms and a desire to use them. A result of post-traumatic stress disorder from Vietnam? Maybe, but even combat flashbacks weren’t a valid excuse for the brutal deaths Luther, Tommy, and Rondelle had suffered at his hands.

  What now? What proof did I have? None. I knew Sheriff Richards would (grudgingly) listen to me, but until tangible evidence surfaced, all my “what ifs” and theories didn’t mean squat.

  Plus, if I called him, he’d probably demand I come in and explain why in the hell I’d shot up Little Joe Carlucci’s car.

  Better to save that phone call for later.

  The adrenaline from practicing my shooting skills on a live target, and spending time with my father had taken a toll on me.

  I dragged my aching body in the house. Left a message for Martinez to call me. Same for Kim.

  After locking the doors and placing my Browning within reach, I downed a pain pill and sacked out on the couch.

  Cool air drifted over me as the quilt was peeled back from my body. Strong arms separated me from my cozy cocoon and picked me up.

  Groggy, I stirred and inhaled: leather, a subtle pine cologne, a whiff of machine oil, all mixed in with the musky male scent of warm skin.

  “Martinez?”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  I yawned as he carried me down the hallway. “You taking me to bed?”

  “Been waiting months to hear you say that, blondie.”

  My heart began to pick up speed. “You know what I meant.”

  He rubbed his cheek over my crown. Gave it a warm, soft kiss. “Same goes.”

  If this was a dream, I didn’t want to wake up.

  Smoothly, he set me down on the cool mattress.

  I opened my eyes to the near darkness of my bedroom. “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “God. I’ve slept away the day.”

  “You needed it.” At the window he twisted open the plastic blinds, then shut them again. Turned on the knock-off Tiffany lamp by my bed.

  “Where are your bodyguards?”

  “Interviewing enforcer candidates.”

  They’d decided to let El Presidente waltz around alone after all that had happened lately? Wrong. “You ditched them, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I focused on his economy of movements, soothing, yet sexy as hell. “Hey, how did you get in here? I know I locked the doors.”

  “I noticed that.” He shoved the rumpled mound of bedcovers to the other side of my bed. “I also noticed your gun is on the coffee table.” After piling two pillows together, he said, “You really should clean it after it’s been fired.”

  I sighed. “I suppose you wan
t to know who I fired it at today?”

  Martinez froze. “You shot at someone today?”

  “Yeah, and before you get all pissed off, I’d planned on telling you, okay?”

  “Start telling me now.”

  I did.

  When I’d finished, he spun on his heel, paced to the door, stopped and came back. Dropped to his haunches in front of me. Pressed his forehead against my knees and began to laugh. Hard.

  “What?”

  He grinned at me and curled his hand around my head like he always did. I was beginning to get used to it.

  “I don’t know why I bother to worry about you.”

  “You worry about me?”

  “Yes.” His fingers brushed away the wisps of hair that had stuck to my cheek. Then those rough-skinned knuckles traced my jaw line, up one side and down the other.

  His touch was electric shock therapy; my aches and pains miraculously disappeared.

  “Tony, why are you here?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He kept stroking my face, watching my reaction with those dark, dark eyes. “Do you want me to go?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good.”

  Unnerved by his continued stare, I dropped my chin. “Stop staring at me. I look like crap.”

  “You think I care?”

  I looked up at him skeptically.

  “See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it didn’t matter.”

  “You really don’t care about the stitches and the bruises? I’ll probably have scars.”

  He kissed the corner of my mouth, my swollen nose, the skin around my stitches. “Scarred or not, I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  My stomach did a little flip. “You do know what you’re getting yourself into with me, don’t you?”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  I hadn’t forgotten Martinez lived by his own rules. Not the ones set by the law. Not even the same rules I followed. Could I ever come to grips with what he did as president of the Hombres?

  Probably not.

  But as he kneeled in front of me, I didn’t see the outlaw, just the man. I knew he saw me for who I really was. Maybe he was one of the few who ever had.

  I lightly fingered his worn leather vest, covered in those intriguing patches. “So, you remember the other night?”