Nat had always liked him.
“Sorry to hear about your mother, son.” Rich’s watery blue blinked repeatedly. “We can do this another time if you want.”
Nat looked out over the crowd of people gathered nearby. No way did he want to go through this again. Ever.
“No. Today.” Nat cleared his throat. “Appreciate you doing this for us.”
“Don’t mention it. Just glad I can help.” Rich looked at his wristwatch. “You ready to start, son?”
The compassion in Rich’s eyes made Nat avoid his gaze. This wasn’t easy for him, but he’d be damned if he showed that weakness in front of anybody here today.
“Let’s do it,” Nat said.
“If it makes you feel any better I have Atty in the crowd and we’re prepared to pay at least the reserve price.” Rich peered out, searched for his diminutive wife somewhere in the multitude.
Nat swallowed, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “You don’t have to do that, sir.”
“Hell, we’d love to own this land, Nat.” Rich lowered his head conspiratorially. “You know women, son, once they get an idea into their heads.” Rich laughed, a funny belly gurgling sound that sounded as forced as Nat’s smile. “If she goes nuts I’ll just pretend I don’t see her.”
Nat went and stood beside the top gate. Marlena watched him and he prayed to God she didn’t come over. Strange slipped a hand around his wife’s waist and pulled her closer. Nat hoped he had chains.
Rich started the show with an outline of the land and what it contained. The stream with its waterfall, fishing rights, hunting rights. Seven acres of mature forest, mainly yellow pine, quaking aspen, and some red cedar. And three acres of lush spring meadow. Each word struck a nail in Nat’s heart. Bids started at $100,000.
Nat watched as the smaller players upped the ante, slowly, inexorably towards the $200,000 mark. That was what he needed to clear his debts. That was enough to pay off the bank.
Slowly the small time bidders fell away and the serious combatants began to show.
Nat tried to be dispassionate. It was just land after all. But his mother had always loved this patch of ground... A guy who looked like a rumpled tourist bid $220,000, which surprised him. Nat wondered if the man was just dipping his toes into the action to add to the excitement of his day or if he was serious about owning a piece of Montana.
Troy Strange had the smug look of a man who knew he could buy out everyone there twice over and upped the bid to $250,000, and went back to his conversation with the banker.
Shit.
Nat wanted to kick a rock but stuck his hands in his pockets instead. One of the local doctors upped it to $260,000 and Nat began to hope.
Strange upped it again, his grin tighter this time. Rich looked back to the doctor who shook his head. His wife whispered fiercely in his ear, but the doctor just shook his head and folded an arm around her shoulder.
Nat’s heart began to pound in his chest.
No. No. No.
He stared into Troy’s smirking face, gritted his teeth and set his mouth into a hard line. If the bastard bought it he was going to deck him.
“Any more bidders?” Rich asked in a hopeful tone. He knew how much the Sullivans disliked their Texan neighbor.
One man raised his hand, all the while talking into a cell phone.
Rich tilted his head in polite inquiry as the guy held up his hand again in a quick moment of consultation.
“But that’s ridiculous...” was all Nat could catch at this distance.
Impatient, Nat crossed his arms over his chest and breathed out a heavy sigh. He wanted to get this over with, find out if Eliza had left him—and bury his mother.
“One million dollars,” the guy on the cell shouted. “One million American dollars.” He looked liked he’d swallowed his tongue.
Nat wished he’d had the pleasure of watching Strange’s mouth sag, but his own was gaping in surprise.
“That’s one million going once,” Rich stared at Strange who ground his teeth and glared at the little guy with the phone, “Going twice,” Rich waited a heartbeat, “Gone!”
Nat sagged against the five-bar gate. One-million-dollars? His legs recovered slowly, but his ears still rang. One-million-fucking-dollars! He wanted to laugh, would have, if his heart hadn’t been ripped out and his pride trampled into the mud like trash.
But Troy Strange hadn’t bought it. That was the other good news. Nat pushed himself off the gate and walked down the hill to where his banker stood in his Sunday best. “You’ll get your money tomorrow, Brent.” Nat tipped back his hat and couldn’t contain the gleam of satisfaction that lit his eyes.
“Obviously I know something you don’t, Sullivan.” Brent Whittaker’s tone implied an as per usual that hung in the air like a red flag.
Nat studied the man, and wondered if he could punch Brent in the nose without getting sued. Not with this many witnesses. The prick always managed to sound supercilious whatever the subject. He was a money-man who cared about little besides wealth and power.
It was all bullshit.
“Your loan was bought from the bank—”
Nat grabbed him by the throat one handed and squeezed. “Who?”
“Don’t...know—” Brent choked.
Nat let go, but leaned closer. “Who bought the loan?”
“Maybe the same person who bought the land.” Whittaker rubbed his sore throat and looked over to the guy who’d bid a million dollars. “Maybe they’re trying to force you out.”
Nat didn’t give a fuck what they were trying to do. With a million dollars in the bank the ranch could survive for a good few years. Maybe long enough to get the stud farm up and running.
It was almost worth losing the woods.
“How do I find out who holds the debt?” Nat demanded.
“I expect they’ll let you know soon enough.” Whittaker’s lips twisted into a smirk that suited his pinched autocratic face before he turned and scuttled away.
What a jerk.
Nat shrugged and walked over to where Rich was exchanging details with the guy on the cell phone. Sticking out his hand he introduced himself.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sullivan.” The man juggled the phone, some papers and a briefcase between his knees. “I’m Arthur Nugent.”
The accent sounded English to Nat. “You going to build a home here, Mr. Nugent?”
The man laughed sounding tired, and bobbled the cell. “No, no sir. I’m acting on behalf of a client.” The man nodded towards the phone like it was a real person. “A client who wants to remain anonymous, so that’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”
Feeling uneasy, Nat thanked both Rich and Arthur Nugent and agreed to meet up the next day in his lawyer’s office. He signed the papers and walked back to his truck, unable to shake the disquiet that tingled at the back of his mind.
There was no way anyone would get their hands on his ranch.
No way.
He vaulted the gate, jumped into the truck and reversed to drive back up the lane. Suddenly the euphoria of the sale receded; money was only one of his problems.
Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth took her rifle from the top of the wardrobe where she’d placed it for safety. She loaded it, left the hammer half-cocked and the chamber empty, then slid it into its carry case and propped it next to her rucksack. Back in the living room she packed the rest of her gear, piled some emergency cash, a spare passport, and a change of clothes into a small tote.
Just in case.
She tried to focus her mind on the job, not on the stabbing pain whenever she thought of Nat.
The trials were due to start any day. The newscasts continued to harp on about her disappearance and she felt uncomfortably exposed. Not that she resembled Juliette anymore, but Nat had pieced together her identity pretty damned quickly, which meant others could also.
Nat...
She swallowed, zipped the tote determinedly. Maybe she should disguise her
voice—quash the Irish lilt that lingered? Prickles of unease traced the top of her spine—she felt as if she’d missed something. Screwed up and given something away?
DeLattio was after her.
She knew it. She almost felt his fingers clutching at her back.
She checked the Glock, undid her shirt and slid the gun into the shoulder harness she’d strapped on over her T-shirt.
A navy baseball cap was pulled low over her head and she picked up her black shades and carried her stuff out to the Jeep. Blue hovered next to her, tried to jump inside, but couldn’t quite make it.
“Sorry buddy, you can’t come with me.” She rubbed his head, lingered over the soft velvet of his ears and swallowed the lump in her throat. She gazed up at the mountains in the distance. The sky was a relentless blue. Deep and clear like the depths of Nat’s eyes. She tried to absorb the scene. Knew she’d never set foot in Montana again.
The yard was peaceful. The cattle had been moved up to higher pastures. Foals gamboled besides their dams. The kittens chased strands of hay by the open barn door and Stealth whinnied from his stall.
There was no one around to say farewell. They were all busy. Just the way she’d planned it.
Loneliness pressed against the edges of her mind. It was an emotion she was well acquainted with. Heartbreak wasn’t. She hefted the last bag, pushed it further into the dark recesses of the rear compartment.
She didn’t want to go.
A chasm of grief tore so wide it threatened to swallow her up. Emotions that had been buried deep surged and overrode the need to run. Sagging against the side of the Jeep, she held her hand across her eyes and tried not to cry.
The sun felt warm on her skin. Metal, hard beneath the press of her hand, gleamed dully in the midday sun. Birds sang and darted around the cabin. The breeze rustled the tree branches in a familiar refrain. She’d found a home here, a family to love. Fear and revenge seemed petty cousins to such riches. But she wasn’t leaving for her own safety, she reminded herself. She was doing it for the Sullivans. For Nat. If she didn’t leave now they could all die.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the warm metal of the car and blanked her thoughts. Taking a step back, she reached up and closed the door with a sharp bang that echoed off the distant hills in a final volley. Moving quickly she went back to check the cabin one last time, and Blue followed each step she took.
****
Marshall Hayes sat behind Dancer in Sheriff Talbot’s beat-up old Blazer, anxiously gripping the back of the headrest.
“You say you interviewed Elizabeth Reed three-days ago?” Marsh asked Talbot.
“Yes sir.” The sheriff’s drawl was pure Midwest. “Knew right off there was something funny about her. Looks like I was right—don’t it?” He looked at Marsh, clearly expecting an answer.
The sheriff wanted to know what sort of criminal he’d tracked down.
“We really appreciate the ride, Sheriff.” Marsh avoided answering the question. He needed to keep the guy on his side, but without risking any leaks to the press.
A tree-shaped air-freshener jiggled as the sheriff turned his attention back to the road. Elizabeth should have been smart enough to leave the ranch once the sheriff had questioned her. Even if he wasn’t suspicious, she’d have moved on—right?
He tried to focus on what the sheriff was saying. “Pardon me?”
“I just wondered if any of you high-rolling federal agents,” the drawl carried an edge of irritation, “were ever gonna tell a hick country boy like me what the hell is going on?”
Marsh smiled at the man. Pissed off law enforcement officers were his forte. “Later Sheriff, I promise you.” Marsh caught Talbot’s gaze in the rearview mirror. The sheriff’s eyes flashed hot for an instant, but then he nodded, apparently satisfied.
For now.
Marsh glanced around at the scenery through the windshield. Took in snow-capped peaks, deep valleys, and long swathes of uncut forest. The land was ripe with spring. Bright greens splashed against mountainous backdrops, wildflowers intermittent along the margins of the road.
A pretty spot.
“Triple H is just over the next ridge.” The sheriff nodded towards the approaching rise.
“What are the owners like?” Marsh asked.
“The Sullivans?” The sheriff looked grim. “Rose Sullivan, the mother, died of a coronary just yesterday, so they’re not really accepting social calls.”
“This is far from a social call, Sheriff.”
“Right.” Talbot nodded, threw a measured look over his shoulder. “Well, Nat Sullivan is a big sonofabitch, and I wouldn’t wanna rile him. But he should be down at the auction right now. They’re selling off a piece of land down near the reservoir.” The sheriff tapped sausage-like fingers on the steering wheel. “But they’re good people. Been here for generations. Nat’s got a brother and sister that live on the ranch too. She’s a doctor down at County.” The sheriff shrugged. “They’re regular folk.”
The sheriff wound down his window and leaned his forearm along the sill. Adjusted his mirror. “It’s just a small ranch. They’re struggling to keep it afloat, but they’re stubborn. Too damned stubborn to go down lightly.”
They crested the ridge, and the ranch spread out below them across a small valley. Marsh took in the large central ranch house with its L-shaped frame. A big orange Dutch barn dominated the yard and a long shed, probably stables, crouched close besides it. There were three circular wooden corrals and horses dotted the meadows all around the valley.
“Turn off the engine and coast down the hill,” Marsh said. He spotted a cowboy riding away from them on horseback up on the far ridge. Two small cottages were just visible at the edge of the trees, beyond the furthest corral. A Jeep and a red Explorer were parked beside the barn. “Everything look as it should, Sheriff?”
Talbot stared at Marsh for a moment before the import of the question sank in. Talbot turned back and examined the scene through law enforcement eyes.
He pointed to the cowboy on the ridge. “That’s old Ezra Jenkins, one of the hands, heading on to the upper pastures, by the looks of it.”
His gaze shifted to the ranch itself. “The Jeep is Eliza Reed’s, or whatever the hell her name is. The Explorer belongs to Sarah Sullivan. Don’t see Ryan’s truck. Could be parked in the old barn though.” He pointed to a ramshackle building on the far side of the ranch house. “Cal Landon, the other cowpoke who works here, doesn’t own a vehicle so he could be anywhere.” The sheriff brightened. “You here because of him?”
Marsh shook his head.
Talbot’s face dropped.
“Oh yeah, there’s a little girl about the place too.” The sheriff added.
Marsh and Dancer exchanged a glance. Shit. A kid to worry about, as well as everything else.
Marsh took out his SIG and chambered a bullet. “I’m going around the back. You two drive around the front and check it out.”
He slipped out of the car and ran across the gravel track, vaulted a wooden fence and sprinted to the side of the house. DeLattio could have come and gone already. Wasn’t likely, but it could have happened. Sweat beaded on Marsh’s brow and he swiped at it with the back of his hand. He didn’t want Elizabeth in that man’s clutches. The medical report had been bad enough and next time, Delattio wouldn’t stop until she was dead.
Next time...
Marsh gritted his teeth. Not if he could help it. He skirted the house. Trampled some shrubs and cut his hand on a rosebush. Sucking blood from his finger, he checked the windows. Didn’t see anyone. Ducking his head, he ran across the neatly trimmed back lawn to the far side of the house. At the corner he paused for a moment, scanned the area before running down the side of the house. The sheriff and Steve Dancer stood on the porch, knocking on the door.
Dancer had his hand in his jacket pocket, weapon concealed.
Marsh heard someone answer the door.
“Hey—Sheriff Talbot, you back again?”
> “Sorry to impose, Ryan. Condolences on your ma.” Talbot placed his hands on his waist, formalities over. “Miss Reed around?”
“What do you want her for this time?”
Marsh heard the frown in the young man’s voice.
“Just answer the question, Ryan.”
Marsh measured the hesitation, knew with certainty that Elizabeth was around somewhere and then froze at the sound of a bolt chambering a round close to his ear.
Shit.
He balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to dive, held his SIG up in the air. Didn’t breathe as he turned to face a blond cowboy who scowled down the length of a .308 Winchester.
Marsh exhaled a short snort of relief. At least it wasn’t a gangster who’d gotten the drop on him. Not that the cowboy looked particularly friendly, but at least he had no reason to want him dead.
Marsh looked the man over, tried to assess the light in the man’s blue eyes.
Sharp, cool, focused.
“Drop the gun and move out into the open where I can see you.” The cowboy’s voice was deep and flat. Calm. Not easily panicked.
Good.
Marsh threw the SIG into the yard, near the parked cars and walked with his hands on his head, out from the side of the house.
The three men on the stoop watched him, slack-jawed. The cowboy followed him, but kept close to the house for cover.
“Jesus, Nat, what in the hell are you doing?” Sheriff Talbot fumbled with his holster.
“Touch that gun, Talbot, and I’ll nail your ass and bury you so deep, not even the bears will find you.” His attention never left Marsh. “Get your hands up, all of you, before somebody does something he regrets.”
Talbot must have seen his career slide down the toilet and gasped. “He’s a goddamn federal agent.”
Marsh saw no surprise on Nat Sullivan’s face. Now wasn’t that interesting? And he didn’t lower the rifle.
Her Sanctuary Page 24