Wind River Lawman

by Lindsay McKenna

  “You can tell I’m an amateur when it comes to crutches,” she grumbled, her full focus on the second step.

  “Actually? You’re doing real good,” Dawson said. She could sense his hand still hovering near her lower back.

  “There,” and she let out a breath of air as she made it to the solidity of the floor. Turning partly, she saw his face, his eyes narrowed and fully focused—on her. It was a good feeling, not an unsettling one. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get me on two working feet sooner rather than later.” It came out as an apology, acknowledging this was taking a lot of Dawson’s time. She saw the corners of his mouth hook upward as he took the steps and stood nearby. Again, she drew in a deep, quiet breath, purposely inhaling his scent. He was like perfume.

  “How’s that thigh feeling now? You’ve been up on it for a good fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s a toothache pain coming on,” she admitted. “But it feels so good to be able to move around, Dawson. I hate being bed bound.”

  He chuckled a little, following her as she crossed the room to one of the huge sofas with the bright flower fabric. “Did your mom ever get exasperated over your constant wanting to move around? I wonder,” and his smile grew as he tossed her an amused look.

  “No, she’s real patient, though for sure, I was a restless kid. The schoolteacher said I should be tested for ADD or ADHD. My parents refused, saying kids in the first six grades should get at least three or four recesses outside to play in the sun, run and have fun.”

  “Good for them.”

  “I want to push myself, Dawson. I’m going to try to sit down on that couch.”

  He nodded. “Okay, type A, go for it.”

  She laughed a little and moved toward the couch. “It just looks so inviting. Heck, I’d rather sit out here with my leg propped up than stay in a bed. At least out here? I can see the world and life go by.”

  “Not a bad idea. I think we could get that to happen.”

  She could feel Dawson nearby as she maneuvered herself around. At one point, she handed him one of the crutches, using the other to balance herself as she stood close to the sofa. “I’m going to try to let myself down slowly,” she told him, leaning over, placing her left hand on the arm. She saw him nod again, focused on her. King came around the coffee table, sat near it, watching her intently. It wasn’t exactly balletlike as she grunted and groaned as she allowed herself to sit slowly on the thick, fluffy cushion. Sarah didn’t want to fall, and she didn’t know the strength of the cushion. At one point, Dawson stepped in and slipped his arm around her left upper arm to give her more strength if she needed it. Eventually, she made the landing.

  “There,” she huffed, “I made it with your help. Thanks.” Easing her back against the cushion, she began to relax.

  “How’s the leg feeling?”

  “Stressed. I can feel the wound pulling.”

  “Let’s try this, then.” He released her arm and brought the coffee table closer. Grabbing a throw pillow, he placed it on the table. “I’m going to slowly lift your leg so you can place your heel on that pillow. If I can get your heel on the pillow, you shouldn’t be in pain, just comfortable.”

  “I’m willing to try it,” she said. In no time, he’d done as he’d said. By sliding the table even closer, the stress was markedly reduced on her knee. “That feels so nice,” she said, giving him a grateful look.

  “Want to sit here for a while?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “My laptop?”

  “Okay,” he said, a grin coming to his mouth as he left her and headed down the hall to her bedroom.

  He came back with the laptop, handing it to her.

  “You still comfy?”

  “Yes.” She glanced over at King, who had settled on the floor near her right foot. “Do you have things to do?”

  He glanced toward the kitchen. “Well, it’s about 1300. Do you feel like some lunch? You need to eat to keep up your strength.”

  “Whatever you want to fix, Dawson. I’m really hungry for the first time since before I was shot.”

  “I think coming here was a good healing decision.”

  She gave him a warm look. “I have you and King. I’m going to Skype my parents and my grandmothers. I know they worry about me and I don’t want them to.”

  “They’ll be more than happy to hear you’re okay up here. I’m going to make us some grilled cheese sandwiches.”

  She watched him saunter away from her, his stride balanced, fluid and once more telling her that he was in top athletic condition. There wasn’t anything she didn’t like about his body and his personality. He was ruggedly good-looking. His hands, although callused, were always gentle when he touched her. And did she ever look forward to any time she could connect with him. His mouth had been so close to hers earlier, when he held her in the bedroom. How much she’d wanted to kiss him! Sarah told herself that he probably would have gone into shock with her spontaneous need of him. Besides, she was in no position, literally, to do much more than kiss him.

  Really? Sarah had constantly entertained loving Dawson and having him return those needs and feelings. She saw the look in his eyes sometimes and was experienced enough to know when a man desired her. Lust was a part of it, but there had to be more. As she lingered over starting up her laptop, she watched him from beneath her lashes as he moved quietly around the kitchen. It was like watching a wonderful, sweet dessert. Only right now? She couldn’t have the dessert.

  There was danger around them, and she shouldn’t be thinking about things like that. Feeling a little guilty, Sarah logged on to the laptop and began to answer emails from her office on a number of open cases. Just listening to Dawson puttering around filled her not only with peace, a sense of safety, but something else so beautiful she didn’t dare name it. Not yet. Maybe never. They were living in a chaotic time, and Sarah had no idea what might happen. None.

  Chapter Fourteen

  June 22

  “King and I took in the area earlier this morning while you were sleeping,” Dawson told Sarah. She had worked hard to get herself to the kitchen table to eat breakfast with him. The crutches were unwieldy, and he could tell she hated using them. Glad that she wasn’t trying to keep on a game face, he understood that yesterday something good—something wonderful—had magically happened between them when he’d held her. He’d lain awake half the night, replaying the unexpected intimacy between them, the trust she’d given him. He stopped fooling himself about Sarah. The truth was, he wanted a deep, ongoing relationship with her. What would she think if he confided his deepest wish?

  Sarah sipped her coffee. “It’s nine o’clock. What time did you two leave? I sure didn’t hear you or wake up when you left.”

  “Got up at dawn. I wanted to scout a mile around the cabin from the entrance road, memorize the layout and let King get a sense and scent of the area.”

  “How did he do?” She looked over to see him lying next to her chair. Always the protector.

  “Fine. I had him on a sixteen-foot leash and he obeyed all my commands without a problem.”

  She smiled down at the dog. “I’ll bet he loved getting out and getting some exercise.”

  Dawson nodded. “And I’m sure you’re feeling the same way.”

  “Got that right. But I can’t, not yet. I’m just no good at being sick or injured.”

  “You’re young and your body is going to heal fast.” He saw she was unhappy. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “I already ate some oatmeal. You go ahead, though. I’ll sit and drink coffee with you.”

  “How are you and the crutches getting along?” he teased, moving to the kitchen.

  “It sucks. I’m a very impatient person.”

  Chuckling, he leaned over and opened a cabinet beneath the kitchen counter, drawing out a big black iron skillet. “Coulda fooled me. At least you know you can feed yourself. What’s on your agenda fo
r today?”

  She smiled over his teasing comment. “I want you to teach me about the electronics in that room, the radios and stuff. I need to Skype Cade, who’s running the sheriff’s office in my absence. I need a morning report from him on what happened overnight.”

  Pulling eggs from the fridge, Dawson asked, “Did you have someone from your office at the funeral for Brian yesterday?”

  “I had a deputy, out of sight and in civilian clothes, watching. All three boys were there.”

  “So now,” Dawson murmured, cracking the eggs into a bowl, “those three are at large.”

  “We have tails on them.”

  Brows rising, he asked, “I thought you said you didn’t have the manpower to do something like that.”

  “Tom Franks loaned me three of his deputies.”

  “Can you afford that?”

  “He’s paying for it out of his county budget, not mine.” She shook her head. “I never saw that coming. Tom’s always been a good friend, great to coordinate law-enforcement issues with, but his offer took me by surprise.”

  “You always find out who your real friends are when you’re sick or injured,” he said, stirring the eggs briskly in the bowl. Sliding her a glance, he saw how grateful she was. There was fragility about Sarah this morning. He didn’t know what else to call it. Sooner or later, she was going to crash and split open from the trauma she was still holding inside.

  “I just worry what the Elsons are going to do now. I worry about my family . . .”

  He poured the eggs into the hot skillet. “Having tails on them will be a huge help.”

  “Yes. I’m more worried about my family than me.”

  “Well,” he said, giving her a look as he stirred the eggs, “you can worry about them, but I’ll take care of you. Me and King, that is.”

  * * *

  Hiram Elson studied a map of the Salt River Range. It paralleled the entire valley that created the western boundary for Wyoming. Sitting at the truck stop just outside Wind River, in the café section, he had the map spread out before him. He’d gone over to Sarah’s parents’ home and watched from a grove of trees across the street for five hours. Although he’d seen David and Emily Carter coming and going, he never saw any sign that Sarah was staying with them. Leaving there, he went to get lunch. Where had they hidden Sarah? In his gut, he knew that was what they’d done. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Sarah would realize that by killing their father, she’d guaranteed they’d kill her to settle the score.

  He pushed his long fingers through his short red hair, wanting a cigarette, but even the truck stops forbade smoking these days. He growled in frustration. Studying the map, his mind leapfrogged over possibilities. It would stand to reason, Kaen, the middle brother, twenty-nine years old, had argued yesterday, after the funeral, that Sarah would disappear. She would know they were coming for her. She wouldn’t want her family involved in it, so she wouldn’t stay with them.

  At first, Hiram blew off Kaen’s reasoning. But after this morning, nearly to noon, he’d seen absolutely no evidence Sarah was at her parents’. They’d check out the two grannies, too. Kaen was going to watch Gertie Carter’s place and Elisha, twenty-four, would watch Nell Franklin’s home. It would take a couple of days to determine whether she was with one of them. Kaen, who was the geek in the family and always bragged he was the most intelligent of the four brothers, argued that Sarah Carter was keeping her family out of this revenge hunt and hidden somewhere else.

  But where? Scowling, his thick red brows lay straight over his narrowed green eyes, ruthlessly studying the map. The four boys had all grown up in this valley. And they’d done a lot of rooting around in the Salt River Range, creating what were known as ratlines, new trails to offload drugs coming into the county that their father had bought to distribute. These trails led to meeting points, where dealers could pay them and then drive off with the purchased drugs. They had several meth labs up in the mountainous region, well hidden, so the smell of cooking wouldn’t be inhaled by anyone or give them away. The trails were well hidden, used only by them. They never wanted the Forest Service to find them.

  He wished Cree, the third brother, was there. Hiram had always admired his brother’s ability to think outside the box. Unfortunately, Cree was dead, the dumb shit. He was obsessed with that Tara Dalton, and look where it got him: six feet under. So, there was no way to talk to him about this.

  His mind clicked over the fact that the sheriff was wounded. An ambulance would have taken her out of the hospital. Moving his thick finger along the slope of the Salt River Range, he began to circle, in pencil, known trails that might allow an ambulance to drive on it. All the roads leading into the range were dirt. Some were better, even graded, and cared for by the county. Hiram was sure they would choose a cabin that had a well-graded road. They couldn’t bring a buslike ambulance on a bad road; the vehicle simply couldn’t handle the potholes, the dips or rough surface conditions. Ambulances weren’t ATVs.

  Rubbing his square jaw, he considered his epiphany. Knowing he was making a decision to start looking for roads, he designed a plan. He’d start with the nearest roads into the range from the hospital. After Elisha and Kaen ended their observation of the grannies, he’d make a call on a burner phone to tell them to meet him at the family homestead. There, they could plan in privacy. Sarah Carter was a dead woman. She just didn’t know it yet.

  * * *

  Dawson couldn’t sleep. He’d quietly gotten up, padded barefoot down the hall, peered into the gloom of Sarah’s room and seen King’s head come up, looking at him. The dog knew not to growl or bark because he recognized him. Sarah was sleeping.

  It was three a.m. He hated being jolted awake, but it was part of his PTSD. One therapist had told him, while he was still in the military, that when he woke up at the same time every night, it had to do with a traumatic event that had taken place at that time. That his mind, and maybe his dreams, were revolving around it, trying to dissolve another fragment of the terror he’d felt at the time. Moving out to the kitchen, a small stove light on, he opened the cabinet and found some tea. Not about to drink coffee—then he’d never get back to sleep—he filled the copper kettle with some water from the faucet.

  The clack of King’s paws striking the pine floor caught his attention. Looking up, he saw the dog come around the corner and into the kitchen.

  King whined, then looked toward the hall.

  Frowning, Dawson put the cup and tea bag aside. “What’s going on?” he asked the dog.

  Another whine. And then he wagged his long, whiplike tail, turned and trotted down the hall, disappearing into Sarah’s room.

  Concerned, he rubbed the T-shirt across his chest and set the kettle aside, then moved toward the hall. Was something wrong with Sarah? He wasn’t familiar with this command or training in a dog, but he knew from growing up with dogs that they sensed things humans didn’t. And it wasn’t unusual for a dog to run to get help for a human in trouble either.

  Halting at the door to Sarah’s room, he saw King sitting tensely near the head of the bed. His gaze flicked to Sarah. She was muttering and mumbling, restless and pushing the covers off her body to her waist. Silently, he moved inside, trying to hear what she was saying but not wanting to startle her awake. King was like a statue, his ears up, his sole focus on the woman he was to protect.

  “. . . Lane . . . no . . . hold on . . . hold on . . .”

  Frowning, Dawson moved closer to her bedside. Sarah couldn’t toss and turn because of her leg injury, but he saw her gripping the covers at her waist. Lane. He’d heard mention of that name at different times. He’d wanted to ask Sarah about this person, but things had been moving so fast in their complicated lives, he hadn’t had the opportunity. With the light from the hall falling silently into the room, he could see her face, which looked pained. Surmising the medication to stop the leg pain had run out; that could be the reason for a bad dream.

  Sarah suddenly screamed.

&nbs
p; Flinching, Dawson saw her snap into an upright position, eyes wide open and staring, unseeing at him, but seeing something beyond him that he didn’t. She was breathing hard, her face taut, perspiration across her brow. Her hair had fallen forward, framing her face, showing how pale she was. She was having a flashback.

  He didn’t wait any longer.

  Moving to the side of her bed, he called her name softly but firmly. She was breathing roughly, moaning, closing her eyes and then opening them. How badly he wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her. Sensing that was what she needed but not daring to do it, Dawson kept calling her name. He knew that people with PTSD or having nightmares shouldn’t be touched. Instead, a calm, quiet voice calling their name would eventually break through the terror and awaken them.

  The fourth time he called her name, the glassy look in her eyes changed. They moved to where he was standing beside her bed, as if hearing him for the first time. Her breathing was harsh and labored, her chest heaving beneath the nightgown she wore. She stared up at him, looked around the room, her gaze swinging back to him once more.

  “W-what are you doing here?” she managed, her hand against the column of her neck. “Is something wrong?”

  “You were screaming, Sarah. I was in the kitchen making myself some tea.” He pointed to King. “He came to get me. When I walked in, you were screaming out a name.”

  Her brows fell and she stared at him. “A name? What are you talking about?”

  “Did you have a nightmare, Sarah? You were calling out for someone named Lane.” Instantly, he saw what little color was in her shadowy face drain away. Her eyes filled with anguish and the corners of her mouth tucked inward, as if to stop from crying or screaming. Opening his hands, he said, “Who’s Lane? Were you having a dream?”

  “Oh . . .” she whispered brokenly, “oh, God, no. . . .” and covered her face with her hands.