Wind River Lawman

by Lindsay McKenna

  “Yes, I did read your DD Form 214.” Her voice lowered. “And you need to know that I consider you a genuine hero. You saved men’s lives out there. You have three Purple Hearts.”

  Moving a bit, he shrugged. “They weren’t for major injuries, so don’t put much by them, okay? I didn’t want them and tried to tell my CO I didn’t deserve them.”

  “I see. Well, you can’t say the same for a Bronze Star with a ‘V’ or a Silver Star, Dawson. I don’t expect you’ll ever want to discuss it with me, and that’s okay. I know what those medals mean, and I know they aren’t given out ‘just because.’ So? Are we clear on that point?”

  “Clear. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you do in the Corps? How long were you in for?”

  “My dad had been a Marine for four years when he was young, and I followed in his footsteps. He’s always been such a great role model for me. He’s a good person, with good morals and values, and his integrity is without question. I wanted to be like him. Once I got into the Corps, I went into the law-enforcement side, as he had. I loved it, and when I got out at twenty-two, I had my law enforcement degree and got a job with the Teton County sheriff’s office. I stayed there until two years ago. My father retired, and at his suggestion, I ran for his position to be sheriff here in Lincoln County. I got voted in and so here we are.”

  “I’ll bet your parents are proud of you.” He saw her eyes go soft with emotion, and the last of her game face dissolved. These little discoveries were thrilling to Dawson.

  “They are. I think, in part, the voters of our county were hoping my dad’s way of delivering justice would be similar if I was voted in,” and she smiled a little.

  “Were you running against a man?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t much of a contest. I received eighty-five percent of the votes.”

  “Were you scared at first, taking on the job?” he wondered.

  “Terrified. But I had good training with Commander Tom Franks up at the Teton’s department. It’s just that I was a woman, only twenty-seven years old when I ran for office. I honestly didn’t think I had a chance, but my dad sure did. He stumped around the county for me. I’m not exactly a great speaker, but he coached me, and it worked out.”

  “So, you’re not a very public person?” and his smile widened as her eyes grew amused.

  “I’m a Scorpio. I’m a very private, intense, quiet person. My dad is a Libra; and he’s a meeter-and-greeter type, very outgoing and an extrovert. I’m a complete introvert, so for me to go out and be a politician was pretty painful. I’m good with one-on-ones, but not a crowd of fifty to a hundred people.”

  “Funny thing, my mom is a Libra like your dad.”

  She laughed. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your birthday is in January. You’re a Capricorn.”

  “Yeah, the old sea goat. My mother always teased me about that.”

  “What sign is your dad?”

  “He’s a Sagittarius. A real outdoors type, loves being out in the elements and doing a lot of hard, physical work.”

  “Capricorns are known as the plow horses of the signs, the hardest-working and most responsible.”

  “Oh,” he said, opening his palms, showing his array of calluses, “I’m all of that.”

  She turned her palms over. “I acquired these when I was a lot younger, working on Gertie’s ranch, as well as Nell’s. She sells grass leases every year to cattlemen from out of state who want to fatten up their beef on our lush, green grass in the summer. I was always fence mending at Nell’s ranch, or digging postholes.”

  “I was wondering where you got your calluses. I thought you might be working out in the gym or something. But you’re a wrangler yourself.” It made him feel good to know that, but he didn’t understand why it counted so much to him. Sarah’s face was free of the darkness of her past and she was smiling fully, laughter dancing in her eyes. Dawson liked the woman who hid behind the sheriff’s uniform. He understood why she had a game face and why it was necessary. But it was also nice to know she trusted him enough to let down and be herself around him. It was a huge, wonderful discovery, and his heart swelled with so much emotion, it took him by surprise. No woman had ever caught his attention like Sarah Carter did. And he had no idea where the hell these feelings would take him.

  Surely Sarah was engaged or married. There was no way she couldn’t be one or the other. It wasn’t something he could just ask her either. But damn, he sure wanted to know. Dawson would never entertain a relationship with a married woman; it simply wasn’t morally right to him. His silly heart yearned to hear that Sarah was footloose and fancy-free, but he couldn’t go there, as much as he wanted to.

  The more he discovered about Sarah, the more he wanted to know about the woman beneath the uniform. Worse? He liked what he saw way too much. Still, Dawson dreamed, very sure his fantasies would never come true.

  Chapter Four

  June 8

  Sarah was looking forward to her grandmother meeting Dawson. From her perspective, he would be the perfect assistant. Best of all, she liked his alertness, awareness of others and his ability to read between the lines. His mother training him in psychology as he grew up didn’t hurt either. He obviously used all those skills as a combat medic. Now, if only Gertie thought as highly of him as Sarah did. She would find out shortly.

  It was Friday, and she was going to meet Dawson at Gertie’s ranch. She’d given him the address and he’d said he’d find it on his map app. The sun was high in a semi-cloudy sky. It had rained this morning, the front passing through the area rapidly, leaving patches of blue sky in its wake. Gertie had listened without interruption the other night when she’d called her about interviewing Dawson. And typical of her grandmother, she hadn’t had much to say. Instead, she’d said she’d eyeball him at her office when she saw him face-to-face. Sarah had smiled at that comment.

  The only thing Gertie asked when she was done giving a readout on him was, “Can he take the heat in the kitchen?”

  Sarah assured her that Dawson could. Both her grandmothers had found out through her father what had happened with the trap set by Gonzalez’s soldiers on Route 89. Just because her father was no longer sheriff didn’t mean he didn’t have a police scanner. After talking with Sarah, and finding out she was all right, he’d told Gram Gertie and Gram Nell, so they wouldn’t be blindsided. Gossip would flare up like a wildfire in the valley, so it was better it came directly from him. Her whole family was upset at the entrapment and her brush with death. Sarah was glad the tiny wounds along her chin and neck were pretty much healed. She didn’t want Gertie getting more upset about the incident than she already was. Let her focus be on Dawson, instead.

  Gertie had more than once lamented about Sarah being sheriff. She wished Sarah wasn’t, for many reasons. But it was the perfect spot for her to try to rectify the family’s dark, grief-stricken past, and maybe utilize the position to find out information she had always been looking for but had yet to discover. She’d give anything to change the past, and she frowned as she drove down the two-lane asphalt road that led to the Loosey Goosey Ranch.

  The road gently sloped into a bowl-like valley below her. There were long white aluminum buildings with steeply built green roofs to shake off heavy winter snow accumulation. Around one side of each of these buildings were ten-foot-high wire fences, encompassing up to five acres of land. There were thousands of hens loose, happily being outdoors and scratching and pecking in the dirt and grass. That was Gertie’s idea, to give her free-range hens a happy place to live. When the hen was ready to lay her egg, she went inside to one of the hundreds of wooden egg boxes filled with fresh straw, to lay her egg for the day. And then employees would come through once an hour, collecting them, sending them through a washer for cleaning, a stamp on each one indicating the farm name and then, packing.

  On the other side of the valley were the fryer buildings. They, too, had huge areas where the older hens who were no lo
nger laying eggs as often, were let out each day the weather cooperated. Two other buildings housed white geese. She saw the red, two-story barn near the three-story Victorian home where Gertie had lived with her husband most of her life. Sarah had fond memories of playing on the sunporch, which encompassed three sides of the 1900s’ home. There was a large, bright green swing at one end of the front porch, and she loved sitting in it. Often, she and Gertie would be out there on a warm summer day, drinking iced tea and talking. Sarah loved those times with her grandmother.

  To her surprise, she saw Dawson’s pickup already sitting in the asphalt parking lot on the southern side of Gertie’s home. He’d arrived early and was standing nearby, dressed in his jeans, boots, black Stetson and a blue-and-white long-sleeved shirt, the cuffs rolled up to just below his elbows. He was tall and strong-looking but not muscle-bound. Her heart thudded upon seeing him. Yesterday had been a busy day at the office and she hadn’t seen him at all. Talking to Dawson, she found it easy to let down and be herself, not to have to be official and aloof as the sheriff of Lincoln County.

  As she drove up and parked next to his truck and climbed out, Dawson ambled around the front of his truck to greet her. She was in uniform and went to meet him.

  “Hey, stranger,” he called. He touched the edge of his Stetson.

  Old-fashioned and courtly were the words Sarah wanted to use for Callahan. “Hi, yourself. When did you arrive?”

  “Oh, about ten minutes ago.” He gestured toward the buildings in the distance. “I wanted to get a feel for Gertie’s place. It’s a huge, superbusy operation,” and he placed his hands on his hips, his gaze focused on the trucking terminal at the other end of the valley. “I didn’t realize just how big an empire it really is.”

  Standing next to him, Sarah said, “She and Isaac built this from scratch. One chicken at a time. One building at a time. One dream at a time, and then investing a lot of work and elbow grease in expansion. It took them fifteen years to get all the buildings constructed, have the truck terminal built and make it all work together.”

  He cocked his head, his eyes meeting hers. “And you grew up with them here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sarah said, smiling fondly. “My mother worked and, of course, my dad was the sheriff, so we were brought over here to Gertie’s after school or over to Nell’s place, depending upon who had time to take care of us. Then, my mom would pick us up after work and we’d go home for dinner and to do our homework.”

  Nodding, Dawson said, “Well, it’s a pretty big spread.”

  “You ready to go in? Gertie had Cece make some peanut butter cookies for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Sure. You do like peanut butter cookies, don’t you? They’re Gertie’s favorite dessert.”

  He fell into step with her, cutting his stride a bit as they left the parking lot, heading for a red-brick sidewalk and a white picket fence gate. “I like any kind of cookies. I’m not picky,” he said, opening the latch on the gate, allowing her through first.

  “Thanks.” Sarah halted, looking at the early flowers studding the inside of the fence. Gertie’s colorful tulips, which had been planted last fall, were blooming.

  Dawson turned and gazed up at the three-story structure. “The house is an architectural wonder,” he said, gesturing to the third story and the green tin roof over it.

  “It’s on the National Heritage register,” Sarah told him. “And Steve Whitcomb, the resident architect in the valley, just dotes on this particular design. He loves to come over here with his wife, Maud, to have tea with Gertie on summer afternoons, when they can all get away from their work demands.”

  Taking the wooden steps, Dawson followed her up to the screen door. “I can see why. It’s in top condition, painted and obviously well cared for.”

  “Steve has a master carpenter from Driggs, Idaho, come over every summer to replace rotting or old wood. He does wonderful work. And he has a painter from Jackson Hole come in to keep the wood protected because the winters are so long and harsh around here.”

  “At least I’m not expected to do that kind of work,” he said in jest, standing by the screen door.

  “Are you nervous about meeting our force of nature?” Sarah asked, opening the screen and pressing the doorbell.

  “Curious? Yes. But nervous? No.”

  “Not much rattles you, does it, Dawson?”

  “Not after my years overseas; you’re right.”

  The door swung open.

  Gertie Carter stood in the doorway, peering critically at Dawson through her watery blue eyes.

  Sarah squelched a smile. “Hi, Grandma. I want you to meet Dawson Callahan. Dawson? My grandmother, Gertie Carter.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said, taking off his Stetson and offering her his hand.

  “At least you got manners, young man,” and Gertie slid her parchmentlike hand into his. Then she tilted a look in Sarah’s direction. “He’s got calluses on his hand. That’s a good sign.”

  Chuckling, Sarah said, “He’s a hard worker, Gertie. May we come in?” Her grandmother was in her typical workaday garb: jeans, a pair of beat-up old brown Oxford shoes and bright red socks to go along with her starched, long-sleeved white blouse with a red knit sweater vest over it. Her hair was silver and gray, short and bobbed. Sarah hoped Dawson didn’t assume that because she was only five feet tall and wiry that she was a pushover. Gertie was tough as nails. He towered over her, and Sarah noticed how gently he took her hand to shake it. But Gertie was surprisingly strong, and she saw her grandmother grip his much-larger hand with a returning firmness that placed a look of surprise on Dawson’s face.

  Releasing his hand, Gertie said, “Of course. Come on in. We’ll go to the kitchen first, and then to the dining room to chat. Cece’s just taken out some fresh peanut butter cookies from the oven. I’ve got iced tea waitin’ for us.” She turned, leading them down the hall.

  Dawson gestured for Sarah to go inside first as he held the screen door open for her. In his other hand was his Stetson, which he kept off his head. She liked his manners a lot. And she could tell Gertie was pleased with them, too. Maybe Westerners expected good manners from their men even in this day and age, when such gallantry was considered dead and buried. But it wasn’t dead in the West. Her black boots thunked lightly down the mahogany floor, which shined a reddish hue beneath the lights above.

  Waiting, she turned, seeing Dawson shut both doors and then walk over to a clothes tree and hang his hat on it.

  “Ready?” she asked, watching as he quickly took in his surroundings.

  “Lead on.”

  Sarah brought him into the kitchen. Cece was at the counter and waved her hand in their direction, scooping the last of the cookies onto a plate with a spatula.

  “Those smell good, Cece,” Sarah said, going over to pick up the plate.

  “I’ve had trouble keeping Gertie outta here.” The forty-year-old woman chuckled.

  Sarah turned toward him. “Dawson, this is Cece. She’s Gertie’s housekeeper and cook.”

  Cece smiled up at him, shook his hand and said, “Right nice to meet you, Mr. Callahan.”

  “Call me Dawson, ma’am. Nice to meet you, too.”

  Gertie walked across the huge kitchen toward another door. “This way, young man. Let’s have a seat at the dining room table, and Cece will bring us refreshments.”

  Dawson followed her.

  Sarah smiled at Cece, who smiled back.

  Leaning forward, Cece whispered in her ear, “He’s awfully good-looking!”

  “I know.”

  “And he’s got manners!”

  “He’s from Texas.”

  “Ohhh, that explains it all. Well, skedaddle! I’ll bring the tray of drinks.”

  Sarah gave Cece a quick hug, then went into the dining room. It was as large as the kitchen but separate from the kitchen itself, as all turn-of-the-century homes were. The polished mahogany rectangular table was ten feet long and had been
in the Carter family for over a hundred years. The chairs surrounding it were original to the antique table, all with nicely padded seats.

  Gertie was going to pull out the main chair at the end of the table to sit down, but Dawson beat her to it, pulling it out for her.

  “Why . . . thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she murmured, sitting down. Poking a finger to her right, she said, “You sit there. Sarah? You sit on my left, please?”

  Sarah had placed the plate of cookies between them and then sat down. Cece brought in a sterling-silver tray with three glasses of iced tea, a saucer of freshly cut lemons and a sugar bowl, plus spoons and napkins. In no time, she’d served them. There was a pocket door to the main dining room, and the housekeeper slid it shut, leaving them in privacy.

  “Well!” Gertie said to Sarah. “It’s nice to see you again, my dear.”

  “I’ve been missing in action,” Sarah apologized. She picked up two cookies and set them on her porcelain plate.

  “Are you doing all right?” and Gertie motioned to her left arm, knowing she’d had some stitches in it at the local hospital after the attack by Gonzalez.

  “Yes, fine. Everything is back to normal again, so don’t worry.”

  Gertie took three cookies off the plate. “Young man? Don’t be late getting these goodies or we’ll have them all eaten before you can grab yourself some of Cece’s world-famous cookies.”

  Dawson nodded and took two. “Ladies first,” he told the older woman.

  “Right nice to see your folks taught you right.” Gertie busied herself with taking a bite of the first cookie. “Sarah, here, tells me you’re from Texas. That your father is a wrangler on a major ranch near Amarillo. Why aren’t you back there working on that ranch instead of lookin’ for work here in Wyoming?”

  Dawson squeezed some lemon into his tall glass of iced tea. “Because I’ve always wanted to fulfill my dream of coming to Wyoming.”