The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “Guess they’re not out tonight.”

  Did Pitch think the car meant to shove them into the gorge? Oh please, not Snake Neck. No. No. No. It must’ve been reckless kids. She grasped the edge of her seat, feeling each strand woven into the scratchy fabric.

  Pitch turned the high beams back on and steered between canopies of drooping, dark branches.

  Their truck lumbered at a faster clip than she’d expect. On a private road. At night. Transporting a paying guest.

  Every bump jolted through her until she spotted an illuminated three-story lodge. Golden light beckoned from large windows recessed into logs the size of Redwoods.

  Outlined against a starry sky, it resembled a giant version of a rectangular fortress Kenny had once built out of vintage Lincoln Logs.

  One long side faced woods, the other side overlooked a meadow. On the short end, furthest away, a river-rock chimney rose above the roofline. A thin ribbon of smoke wound skywards.

  Closest to the driveway, a porch faced two red barns, which created bookends to a fenced area between them.

  Pitch parked under a light mounted on the smaller barn. “I forgot to give you this form about your riding abilities. Kat’s careful choosing who sits atop her ponies.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and then patted her arm. “You’ll see, life’s path is easier to walk with a horse between your legs.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Miranda took the form. “I’d prefer an old gelding.”

  “Speak a’ the devil. Trey Langley’s heading into the barn.” Pitch tried to jest, but his tense voice said otherwise. “The boss does a final night round on the ponies.”

  Miranda glimpsed a man wielding a flashlight while walking the center aisle of the larger barn.

  “There’s Kat, I mean Miss Kathleen, waitin’ for you at the back door.” He pointed over his shoulder.

  A diminutive woman with curly blond hair stood on what Miranda’s mom would’ve called a veranda.

  Stairs led to the wide porch, which wrapped around to the woodsy side of the property. Rocking chairs and small tables were scattered across the raised deck.

  “I gotta talk to Trey. Miss Kathleen’s excited to meet you.” He hopped out, and marched off toward the largest barn.

  She shoved open her door. “Thanks for the lift,” she called to his backside.

  Her stomach issued a loud growl into country silence. Heat rose in her cheeks while she crossed the driveway.

  “Welcome, Miss Whitley. I’m Kathleen Langley, or Kat.” A genuine smile took years off her middle-aged face. “We hope you’ll enjoy our ranch. If you haven’t eaten, I can warm supper.” She stuck out her hand. “We’re glad you’ve joined us.”

  Miranda gave a quick shake and then put her hand on the railing and her foot on the first step. “A snack sounds great. Sorry I arrived late.”

  “No worries. We noticed the bus delay, and while I served the guests, Loretta fixed a plate for you from tonight’s dinner.”

  That damned sense of aphids climbing her back returned while they lingered out in open view. Had the car doubled back? She needed protection, not dinner. With luck, Kathleen stowed a loaded shotgun under her bed. Wasn’t being a crack shot a cowgirl requirement?

  Miranda drew courage from deep within and smiled back. “It’s nice she saved me a meal. Pitch told me you treat everyone like kinfolk.”

  “We try. I’ll have you dining on meatloaf in a jiffy, and afterwards we’ll walk you to your cabin. I bet you’re beat.”

  “Cabin?” Miranda squeezed the railing until the wood bit into her palm. “I reserved a single room on the top floor.”

  “Oh, we upgraded you. You’re staying in our most secluded spot, nestled in the woods.”

  Why hadn’t she called Agent Morley to meet her? Should she divulge the real reason for her visit? She trudged up the stairs behind Kathleen. “I’m fine in your beautiful lodge.”

  “Our cutest cabin’s all ready for you.” Kathleen had reached the porch. Her gaze dropped to Miranda’s worn tennis shoes. “No extra charge.”

  Miranda reached the top step and turned her face into the shadows, then ran her palm up and down the railing. “Very kind of you to go to so much trouble.”

  “My great-grandparents homesteaded here for the unspoiled beauty and passed on their wishes to share its calming effect. Their descendants live in all directions.” Her hand motioned in a wide circle of pride, then pointed to the pickup and a man with ginger-colored hair streaked by silver. “There’s my husband, Trey.” Her face beamed with pride.

  He examined the front bumper while Pitch stood next to him, scowling.

  “Come here, Trey,” Kathleen called to him.

  Flashing a grin, Trey strode over and then jogged up the stairs. “Last guest of the season accounted for, so all the chicks are safe in our hen house.”

  Safe? Miranda edged her feet across wooden planks toward a screen door. A brightly lit room shone from the other side of their back door.

  “My partner in the ranch operation,” Kathleen smiled at him. “Trey handles creatures, I handle comforts. And he’s the handsomest man west of the Mississippi. Trey, this here’s our Miss Whitley.”

  He shook Miranda’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He leaned into Kathleen and started to speak, then closed his mouth. Instead, he stroked his wife’s hand.

  A sad smile crossed Miranda’s lips. Her father used to touch her mother in the same affectionate manner. “Glad to meet you.”

  “We hope you’ll get R & R,” he said. “Let us know how we can assist.” Trey kissed his wife’s cheek. “Kat’s the best horsewoman and hostess in Hanlen County. Tell her your needs, and she’ll make it happen.”

  Regrettably, no one turned back time. The bleak, wintry feeling hung in the night air. Miranda shook off the chill. “Home-cooking and sleep sounds perfect.”

  A loud thump boomed from behind them.

  Her pulse jumped. Relax, it wasn’t a shot.

  She turned in time to see Pitch swing a rubber mallet at a block of wood he’d placed at the edge of the bumper.

  “Did Pitch hit something with his precious truck?” Kathleen asked Trey.

  “Nope. Nothing,” he cleared his throat. “Encountered those wild driving kids on the highway. All’s well.” He drew his finger across his lips and patted the chest pockets on his denim shirt.

  Kathleen cocked her head. “Kids . . . Right. Oh-kay.”

  Had Trey given his wife a signal to button up? Miranda swallowed. “I need to—”

  “Eat. You must be famished. Come on in.” Kathleen held the door for Miranda to enter.

  A hallway began at her left and beyond it stretched an open kitchen with stainless appliances.

  “Please sit at the prep island, while I warm your meal,” Kathleen said. She stepped to an industrial sized refrigerator, removed a covered dish, and slid a plate heaped with mashed potatoes, carrots, and a slab of meat into the microwave.

  Scents of spices and beef lingered in the air, and carried a sense of calm. Miranda’s mouth watered. She plopped onto a wooden barstool. “Wow, meatloaf beats the bus stop offerings of burritos and greasy chicken wings.”

  “You’ll get all country cooking this week, served family style in the dining room behind you,” Trey said.

  Miranda swiveled her seat to face an open-beamed room holding a built-in buffet on one side. In the room’s center sat a long wooden trestle table and chairs for at least twelve.

  Trey set a glass of milk at her place. “You landed here pretty fast. Most of our guests book months in advance.” He winked at Kathleen. “I guess absence makes a heart grow fonder.”

  “I won’t miss Seattle.”

  Trey handed her a napkin wrapped around silverware. “Our ranch is good for any
broken up—”

  Kathleen poked her husband in his ribs. “Quit your teasin’.”

  Miranda studied Trey’s smirk. She rubbed her chin. “Not many singles visit here?”

  “We get an assortment of guests,” Kathleen said. The microwave chimed, and she moved the steaming plate onto her placemat. “Be careful, now, the food’s piping hot.”

  Miranda dug into spuds topped by melting butter.

  “Our Wagyu ground beef’s from my cousin’s ranch, and the vegetables are grown here.” Kathleen wiped a spotless counter.

  “My family helped in Mom’s garden,” Miranda said. “Come fall, we’d take turns using an old potato fork to find root veggies and then sit at our scarred oak table enjoying the feast.”

  “How lovely. Here in Emma Springs we pride ourselves in treating one another like extended family,” Kathleen said.

  Miranda savored the last bite of homegrown carrot, trying to recall the tinkle of Mom’s laughter when she threw her head back and chuckled at one of Dad’s jokes. A hollow emptiness filled her chest. “Your townspeople sound very friendly.”

  The screen door banged shut. Pitch wiped his boots on a bristled mat inside the doorway. “Except for a few young rascals.” He crossed to the end of the counter. “I declare, Miss Whitley, you polished off the meatloaf quicker than a stray dog. Loretta will be tickled.”

  Kathleen gathered her empty plate and glass. “We cherish our community, especially the old codgers.” She pinched Pitch’s cheek. “The other flashlight’s out in the barn. Can you get it?”

  “On my way.” Pitch headed back outside.

  “Anything else we can get you, Miss Whitley?” Kathleen asked. “Tomorrow’s going to be full of fun surprises.”

  “Please call me Miranda. Right now, a good night’s sleep will work wonders.”

  “Yup, you’re gonna need your shuteye,” Trey teased.

  Had she missed something? By the checked cowboy shirts and the way they flattered one another, Trey and Kathleen fit country wholesome to a T, but their sharp eyes held a hint of flat-out mischief.

  “Breakfast’s at eight,” Kathleen said. “Pa, I mean Pitch, will show you to your cabin. He’s our go-to guy.” Her face shone with affection. “Good night.”

  Pa? Loretta was her mother? Did they know how blessed they were, two generations working together? The napkin in her hand squeezed into a ball. She smoothed it out and placed it on the counter. “Night.”

  “Sleep well.” Trey held the lodge door open for Miranda to exit. He began whispering to Kathleen and pulled it shut.

  Where was Pitch? Fluorescent lights hung in front of their barns and at each end of the fenced arena, casting a bluish glimmer onto the bare ground below.

  Beyond the pasture grew giant firs. Between their trunks, it was blacker than India ink. They’d be beautiful in sunshine, but appeared downright spooky now.

  Goosebumps rose on her arms. She clutched the handrail and descended the stairs.

  “This way, Miss Whitley,” Pitch’s voice called out from her left. He stood beside a pole topped by a black dinner bell at the entrance to a shadowy path.

  She increased her stride to reach the glow of his flashlight. “Here’s your torch, case you need to come to the lodge.”

  The heavy flashlight he handed her cast a strong beam, but the farther they hiked between looming trees, the closer she tailed him and her swinging duffel bag.

  Stillness magnified pine needles crushing underfoot. “No streetlights or sirens,” she offered.

  The moon glowed while it edged out of a bank of clouds.

  “You might hear coyotes. They’re night hunters.” Pitch stopped in front of a log cabin tucked into a grove of Ponderosa pines. “Nothing but rolling hills behind you.”

  He opened the door, and slid her bag inside. “Light switch’s to the right.” Her room and the porch became illuminated. “Your home away from home.”

  “No other cabins nearby?”

  “Nope. You city folks appreciate privacy, and Kat mentioned you might have company.”

  A branch snapped. Her eyes flicked to the woods.

  Thirty feet away, a dark figure stood under a pine tree.

  She gasped. “Who–”

  “What’s wrong?” He turned to where she pointed.

  “A man.” She backed into the doorway. “Over by the tree.”

  Pitch shone his light on the area. “Branches throw shadows. Nothin’ to worry about.” He put two fingers to his lips and sent out a shrill whistle.

  The nearby bushes rustled and a black shepherd bounded to him like a furry bullet. The dog sat next to his cowboy boot.

  “Dylan, go search.” He motioned to the forest. “Rest easy. He’ll bark at anything strange.”

  Her heart pounded. “Good.”

  Pitch strode to the tree and lifted a low hanging branch. The image she’d noticed bounced. “Night, Miss Miranda.”

  “Thanks. Night.” She closed her door, slid the bolt, and checked the locks on every window before drawing the curtains shut. Her fingers shook while she wedged a chair under the door knob.

  Could Venom have followed her? Her brain flashed to the bumper scraping the guardrail.

  Montana wasn’t going to be restful or safe. She needed to find Grant before her mind went wild from fright. What had Pitch said about company? Should she call him back?

  She rubbed her temples and then unzipped the gym bag.

  A pair of jeans, a cotton shirt, and her old sweatshirt lay on top of her cowboy boots. A side pocket bulged with running tights she’d wear for pajama bottoms.

  She took off her windbreaker, her T-shirt, and cargo pants. The nap on the inside of the sweatshirt brushed against her skin. The tights slid across the flannel sheet.

  A shiver ran through her. She unfurled the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulled it to her chin.

  The dog growled close by, then barked.

  Hairs rose on the back of her neck. She grabbed the flashlight and found the switch. Her fingers dug into cold metal while she slid her feet to the floor.

  ~ ~ ~

  Venom stood on a foothill between two pine trees. His pulse had steadied to a regular beat after the rush of adrenalin from nearly kissing a Mack truck doing seventy. Damned if her geezer pickup driver hadn’t held his ground instead of careening off the cliff.

  Next time he’d eliminate her once and for all, with a bullet. He lifted the night vision binoculars and adjusted each eyepiece to a sharp focus. The light inside the cabin went out. “Well, plant girl, no bag ladies or soldiers hovering around you now.”

  A clear sky and everyone except the girl slept in the lodge. Nothing beat a panoramic view from a ridge. He did a second scan of the cabin’s perimeter.

  “Christ,” he muttered. The dog sat under the porch light outside her door.

  Could he pop the mutt and her before anyone spotted him? Decisions, decisions. He stroked the pit viper on his neck.

  In the morning, she should be on the trail ride. The hunters he’d passed in town earlier presented a perfect set-up for a stray bullet.

  Heck, the fool he’d seen in full camo carried a street sweeper. A good hunter needed one clear shot, not a piece carrying twenty rounds of ammo.

  Better to finish the job and sever his final tie to Maneski. He pulled on a ski mask and shouldered the rifle.

  ~ ~ ~

  The second and fourth boards creaked while Grant descended the worn outside stairs of his family’s century old homestead. He hadn’t noticed it last night after they’d stopped here on the way home from the airport.

  He took a deep breath of fresh air, tinged by pine. Hard to relax when the timing of the old mountain hermit’s yearly delivery of staples cost him a week in bureau
time. Now that he’d winterized his house today, how fast could he get Stan’s supply trip done and return to Seattle?

  The back door squeaked, and Mom stepped outside. More gray than brown colored her hair, but the sparkle in her eye hadn’t diminished. “Goodnight, dear. We enjoy your FBI stories. I hope my lasagna filled you up after you worked all day at your place.” She blew him her traditional air kiss.

  “Your cooking’s always great, Mom. Two homecooked dinners in a row. My win. Time for me to head to my house and a chance of cell reception.”

  “We’ve got spotty coverage by the barn. Love you to the moon and back.”

  “You too.”

  Dad and Poppy joined her. He smiled at the two men of influence in his life, men who dwarfed his mom’s petite stature.

  Poppy’s six-foot, four-inch frame might be stooped, but was still damn muscular for an eighty-five-year-old grandfather.

  “We’re really proud of how you’re positioning yourself to reach SAC.” His dad held his mom’s hand. “Nothing like a son climbing the ranks.” He tossed the keys to their Bronco.

  Grant caught them. “Thanks for the vehicle loan. The battery in my Suburban’s still on the charger. Call me if you need the Bronco tonight.” He maneuvered into their old SUV. Hours at the gym after he’d arrived in Seattle and a five-inch growth spurt had freed him from being a high school runt who’d flustered his folks.

  Gone was the kid needing a mounting block or the teenager whose legs didn’t reach the clutch pedal on the John Deere. Gone was the kid regularly beaten by the Three Falls version of a gang. He clenched his fist at the memory of those weekly pummeling sessions under the bleachers.

  His dad had shown him a few defensive moves and told him he’d dealt with worse as the kid of an FBI agent. “My State Highway Patrol career creates a better family environment than the bureau”—those words had been his father’s explanation for turning down Quantico. Had his dad regretted the compromise?