The Rivals

by Joan Johnston

  “I’m coming, my darlings. Just hang on until I get there.”

  14

  Drew caught up to Brooke and said, “Don’t you think it would be better not to subject Ryan to the sight of his father’s rotting body? Come to think of it, you and Nate ought not to be looking at it either.”

  His intent was to shock her into a realization of what it was they were doing, but Brooke never broke stride.

  “I’ve known Daddy was dead for a long time,” she replied. “He would have come home to us if he were alive.”

  Drew was surprised by the certainty in her voice. “I still think—”

  “I’d rather see him, and know that he’s dead, than wonder forever what happened to him,” she said.

  “Brooke’s right,” Nate said. “This is something we have to do.”

  “Why not let the police take care of this?” Drew suggested. “Your mother—”

  “Mom doesn’t care,” Brooke said. “She wouldn’t even come here looking for Daddy.”

  “She explained that,” Drew said, rising to Sarah’s defense. “She needs probable cause to—”

  “How about someone shooting at us?” Nate interrupted angrily. “You think that’s probable cause something hinky is going on around here?”

  “If these guys were digging up a body, it was only because they want to move it somewhere else,” Drew said. “They’re going to be highly pissed off if you get in the way.”

  “We already have,” Brooke pointed out. “We’re still alive and they’re gone.”

  “That doesn’t mean they won’t come back,” Drew argued. “We should be running as fast as we can in the other direction.”

  “We’re not turning around,” Brooke said.

  “Then at least be careful,” Drew warned.

  “We’re going to look before we leap,” Nate assured him.

  “But we are going to look,” Brooke said.

  “I’m cold,” Ryan said through chattering teeth.

  Drew realized he was still wearing his dry overcoat, while all three kids were wet. So much for protective paternal instincts. He unzipped his parka and pulled it off.

  “Hold up a minute,” he said. He stuffed Ryan’s small arms into his coat and zipped it up.

  “Thanks,” Ryan said. “This is warm.”

  Drew quickly realized that the boy’s hands were caught mid-elbow in the sleeves of the parka and that the hem nearly dragged the ground. Afraid the boy might trip, he scooped him up into his arms.

  “Hey!” Ryan said. “I’m not a baby.”

  “No, you’re not,” Drew replied. “But your legs aren’t as long as ours, and with danger lurking, we may need to move fast.”

  “Danger?” Ryan said, his eyes wide.

  Drew cursed inwardly. He hadn’t meant to scare the boy, but obviously Ryan hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation he’d been having with Brooke and Nate. “There’s at least one man out there somewhere with a gun. If we have to run, I don’t want you to get left behind.”

  “Me, neither,” Ryan agreed. “Okay,” he said. “You can carry me.”

  Drew tried to think of the last time he’d carried a child like this. He’d carted one of his female cousins across Bitter Creek at a Christmas get-together at the Blackthorne ranch when he was twelve. But that was a long time ago.

  The boy’s arms circled his neck and after another minute of slogging their way through the thick underbrush, Ryan laid his head on Drew’s shoulder. Drew gradually became aware that he was holding dead weight and realized the little boy must have fallen asleep. He shifted Ryan’s weight and tightened his hold to make sure the child would be safe in his arms.

  “There it is,” Nate whispered at last, pointing toward a shallow grave that had been partially excavated. Moonlight shone in a clearing on the newly dug soil. “Dad’s grave.”

  “You can’t know that without taking a closer look,” Drew said.

  “I…I don’t think I want to do that,” Nate admitted.

  “I will,” Brooke said.

  Drew handed Nate the sleeping boy and stepped in front of Brooke. “I’ll do it.”

  “How will you recognize Daddy?” Brooke said. “You’ve never met him.”

  “I saw a picture of him and your mom on the piano in your living room,” Drew said. He’d been looking at a more youthful, happier Sarah, but he hadn’t missed seeing Tom. “You’ve told me he was wearing a blue-and-white-and-green plaid shirt.” Which he needed to know, because there likely wasn’t much of Tom Barndollar’s face left to identify. “You guys wait here where you can’t be seen. And be quiet.”

  Drew moved toward the grave site as quietly as he could. He’d done enough hunting to know how to stalk prey, but he’d never been the object of the hunt. He felt his neck hairs hackle and stopped dead.

  Someone was out there.

  Drew was well aware that if anything happened to him, Sarah’s kids would be sitting ducks. Imagining Sarah’s devastation if anything happened to one of her children made his stomach churn. There was no room here for error. Precious lives were at stake. He remained motionless, straining to see movement in the dark.

  The grave site appeared to be abandoned.

  Drew didn’t want to look at a decomposed body, but he’d promised Sarah’s kids he would determine whether or not their father was buried in the disturbed dirt. He moved forward cautiously, his eyes and ears alert for any sign that the man who’d shot at him had returned.

  He heard nothing.

  Drew let his gaze roam the area for a long time before he moved out of the concealing underbrush toward the mound of dirt and debris and the shovel that lay beside it. He knelt and saw the bones of a human hand. It was a grave all right. He released a soughing breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “Stay where you are,” a voice commanded.

  Drew felt every muscle in his body tense.

  “Stand up, but don’t turn around,” the voice ordered. “I have a gun aimed at your back, so don’t try to run.”

  Drew knew he was a dead man if he didn’t run, so running made a whole lot more sense than staying where he was. What he needed was something to distract the man with the gun, to give him a fighting chance to escape.

  Then he spied the shovel.

  The shovel was pointed, but more importantly, it had a long wooden handle. If he could reach it, he could swing it to some effect. He might injure or disarm, and would certainly distract the man with the gun, so he could make a run for it.

  “Hey, mister!” he heard Nate shout from the bushes.

  Drew cursed the kid for exposing himself and at the same time rose and whirled with the shovel in his hands, swinging it in a death-dealing arc.

  Unfortunately, the man with the gun was too far away for the shovel to make contact. When Drew let go and the shovel took off, the gunman merely jerked aside, and the shovel flew by without even scratching him.

  He stood there, gun in hand, moonlight reflecting off teeth that were bared in a horrific grin. “Game’s up,” he said.

  “You’re right about that,” a female voice said from behind him. “Don’t move. You’re—”

  Drew dove for the bushes as the gunman pivoted and fired at the voice behind him. Drew heard the explosion of a second shot in almost the same instant. When he looked back, the gunman lay crumpled on the ground.

  And Sarah stepped into the moonlight.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “And where the hell are my kids?”

  “Mom!” Nate shouted as he crashed through the undergrowth toward her, Ryan awake and wailing against his shoulder.

  “Are you hurt?” Brooke cried, rushing toward her mother.

  Drew saw the shock and relief on Sarah’s face as she enfolded her children in her arms, like a mother hen gathering chicks.

  Only this hen was still holding a smoking Glock.

  He rose and checked the pulse of the man Sarah had shot.

  “How
is he?” she asked as Nate transferred Ryan into her arms.

  “Dead,” Drew replied. He was amazed at how calm she seemed, how unperturbed that she’d just killed a man. Then she tipped her head up and he got a better look at her eyes in the moonlight. Stark. Agonized. And he saw how her jaw was clamped. She wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to believe.

  He rose and slid an arm around her and felt her slump against him. He hadn’t been wrong then. She needed a strong shoulder to lean on. His shoulder.

  For a few moments, they all simply huddled together, gathering warmth and comfort. Then Sarah lifted her head and asked, “Why was he pointing a gun at you?”

  He met Sarah’s gaze over her children’s heads. “He was digging up a body.” He glanced down significantly at the half-covered plaid shirt revealed in the moonlight. “And we caught him at it.”

  In the distance Drew heard shouts and saw bobbing lights in the crackling underbrush. “Sounds like the cavalry has arrived.”

  “I called for help. I’ll need to stay here to answer questions. Can you take the kids—“

  “Mom, we found Daddy,” Brooke said in a choked voice.

  Drew watched as tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. She threaded the fingers of her free hand through Brooke’s tangled hair and pulled her stepdaughter close enough to kiss her brow. “I know, baby. I know.”

  “That sonofabitch killed him.” Nate turned and kicked the dead body and then burst into unmanly tears. Drew pulled the boy to him and Nate clutched him tight, muffling his sobs against Drew’s shoulder.

  Sarah met Drew’s gaze and said, “Can you get the kids checked out at the hospital?”

  “Mom, we’re fine,” Brooke protested. “Just cold.”

  “I know,” Sarah said. “Freezing cold! That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “Cripes, it’s gotta be forty-five degrees out here,” Nate said. “That’s not freezing.”

  “All we need is a warm bath,” Brooke argued.

  “I can see you’re both shivering,” Sarah said.

  “I’ll be fine when I get out of these wet clothes,” Nate said. “I’m not going to the hospital. And that’s final.”

  Drew’s throat was tight as he watched Sarah draw her children close and kiss each one. He swallowed hard and said, “I’ll take them home, if you want.”

  Then he remembered how he’d arrived on Bear Island. “As long as someone can give us a ride.”

  He saw the moment Sarah realized she was still holding her gun. She stuffed it into her holster, dug into her coat pocket and handed him a set of keys. “Take my Tahoe.”

  “But, Mom, no one’s allowed—”

  “This is an emergency, Nate,” Sarah said, cutting him off. “I’ll be home as soon as I can get there. I need to stay here a while and explain…” Sarah’s voice trailed off and Drew heard her swallow hard.

  He stepped closer and said for her ears only, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a little shaken,” she admitted. “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  He could feel her hands trembling as she transferred Ryan into his arms. He slid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close enough to give her the comforting kiss on the forehead she’d conferred on each of her children. “Don’t worry about the kids. I’ll make sure they get warmed up and into bed.”

  Sarah looked up at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight, and said, “Thank you, Drew.”

  He felt his heart swell. “You’re welcome, Sarah.”

  Then, as though he’d done it all his life, Drew turned to the two older children and said, “Let’s go, kids. We’ve got a little hike ahead of us. When we get home, I want you all to take a hot shower and get right into bed.”

  He looked down when Brooke grabbed his crooked arm, but she was staring straight ahead, ignoring him. Nate strode along beside him, excited, now that it was all over, and rhapsodizing about how his mother had gotten the draw on the bad guy. Ryan wrapped his arms around Drew’s neck, laid his head on Drew’s shoulder and fell soundly asleep.

  Unable to sleep, Libby had turned on the TV a little after two in the morning, staring transfixed as she heard the news of Clay’s arrest on CNN. She made a phone call to the captain of the Teton County Jail, who was a friend, asking him if she could talk to Clay Blackthorne, since the girl he’d supposedly murdered had also been a missing person, like her daughter Kate. When he said yes, she threw on some clothes and raced into town.

  Libby didn’t need the heater in her Outback. Her body felt hot, flushed with anger. The man she’d considered making love to had ended up in bed with another woman the same evening. And the woman—only a girl, really—had ended up dead.

  Libby couldn’t believe Clay was guilty, but what was he doing in bed with some woman when he was supposed to be focused on helping her hunt for their daughter? And why hadn’t he called to let her know what had happened?

  She gnawed her cheek. Reporters, print and television alike, were surely swarming the Teton County Jail by now, hoping for some juicy tidbit to feed the ravenous public. Once they started looking into Clay’s background, asking the locals questions, digging for dirt, they might connect Clay to Kate, might even find pictures of the two of them together.

  Libby shuddered to think of what kind of media frenzy it would create if they discovered a young woman who’d visited Clay whenever he was in Jackson Hole had disappeared within the past forty-eight hours. That much attention focused on Kate could get her killed.

  On the way into town, she heard Kate’s name being spoken on the radio. She turned up the volume and heard the female reporter say that Kate was the third local girl to be reported missing over the past fifteen months. She explained how a Nevada runaway was found dead several months ago in the nearby mountains. How the first local working girl reported missing was still missing. And how a second missing local girl, Lourdes Ramirez, had now turned up murdered. And finally, speculated about what Kate’s fate might be.

  “Oh, God.” The words slipped out. A prayer. A plea. Libby had tried very hard to believe Kate would come home safe and sound. Every hour her daughter was gone with no word, Libby had sunk deeper into a well of terror.

  Libby was grateful that Hank Studdard, the captain of the jail, was a hunter, and that she’d taken him on a couple of guided trips without charging him any fee. An enormous, trophy-sized stuffed turkey he’d bagged on one of their trips occupied the corner of Hank’s office. Hank’s noble, if homely bird, of which he was infinitely proud, stood as tall as a four-year-old boy and had saggy red wattles and a stringy black beard.

  When she’d called and asked Hank if she could come to the jail to talk to Clay, he’d said, “Don’t know why you’d want to march through that circus of reporters outside, but I owe you one, so come on. By the way, your daddy’s here.”

  Her breath had caught in her chest. “What?”

  “King Grayhawk himself,” Hank said. “Said he has a word or two to say to the judge about bail for this prisoner.”

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes, Hank,” she’d said.

  “Come to the back door,” he said, “and I’ll let you in.”

  The Teton County Jail was in a separate building across the parking lot from the sheriff’s office, and as she’d feared, both buildings were surrounded by camera crews and reporters who’d flown in from television stations around the country. She parked three blocks away and forced herself to walk slow enough that she didn’t end up slipping and breaking her neck on the melting ice and snow.

  She rang the buzzer at the back door and Hank let her in. “Come on in, sweetie,” he said. “Your daddy’s been keeping us all in stitches.”

  Libby stared at her father in disbelief. Her daughter was missing. A girl was dead. And all her father could do was make jokes, no doubt at Clay’s expense. That was King Grayhawk, vindictive to the end.

  “Where’s Clay Blackthorne?” Libby asked the captain. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “Sorry,
sweetie,” Hank said. “No one gets in to see him.”

  “On the phone you promised—”

  Hank shrugged. “Can’t help it, sweetie. Didn’t know there were going to be so many folks around.”

  “Why did you let me in, if you weren’t going to let me see him?” Libby asked with asperity.

  A deputy approached Hank and whispered in his ear.

  “Now the shit will hit the fan,” Hank muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Libby asked.

  “Seems that boy’s daddy has shown up here on my doorstep.”

  “Jackson Blackthorne is here?” Libby glanced at her father, who was regaling a circle of deputy sheriffs with another story.

  Hank followed her gaze and said, “Don’t see how I can get King to leave or the other to stay away. Bound to be some fireworks here in a minute.”

  “Let me talk to Mr. Blackthorne,” she said. “Maybe I can convince him that this isn’t the best time—”

  She was too late. Jackson Blackthorne had evidently talked his way inside.

  Libby was amazed at how much alike her father and Blackjack looked. Both were tall, both broad-shouldered, both still lean.

  Blackjack’s hair was silver, his brows black, his gray eyes as implacable as stone. He was wearing a dark blue Western suit, with a crisply starched white Western shirt held at the throat by a silver bolo tie. He stood with his feet widespread in expensive alligator boots. The clothes might have been civilized, but there was no mistaking the craggy, sharp-featured face for anything but a man who’d spent his life fighting the elements.

  Her own father’s hair was still thick and dark brown, though it was never seen, always hidden beneath a Stetson, as it was now. His wide-set eyes were a clear, bright blue, like the arctic sea. He used his cane like a king’s scepter to give him majesty as he limped—long step, short step, long step, short step—toward his enemy.

  Blackjack focused cold gray eyes on King Grayhawk and said, “You’ve got no business here. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “The hell I don’t!” her father shot back. “You know as well as I do I have an interest in the charges against your boy. ’Specially in light of recent events.”