***
The week passed quickly for Deanna, even without her customary multiple telephone access, faxes, computers, and television to distract her. Until she found the latter hidden in a cabinet built into the stone fireplace wall. Alone in the house, Deanna tuned into a local station news program, fearful of what she might hear, yet having to know.
The announcer read the story about an ongoing investigation into the car bombing of an Amtron Enterprises executive suspected of embezzlement in Great Falls. Relief flooded through Deanna when the announcer's pause indicated the end of the story, but it was premature. He resumed with, "Further investigation regarding the connection of the company to a drug money laundering scheme is underway by federal authorities."
Drug money! Were drug lords the ones who'd ransacked her apartment? The very idea seemed to draw the strength from her knees, forcing Deanna to the sofa before they gave way completely She knew when her apartment had been trashed that things were bad, but this was worse than she'd thought. Far worse.
Deanna wiped at the tears forming in her eyes as if to make the situation go away. There was nothing she could do to undo what was already done. Tears wouldn't help, nor would panic. She had to think rationally.
Anthony Manetti hadn't raised his little girl to be a wimp. The veteran New York taxi driver prided himself over Deanna's spunk and aggressiveness, while he credited her endurance and tenacity to his wife, who started in the garment industry as a cutter and moved up to manager and stockholder in a male-dominated business world. Deanna was the "cream of both crops," as her dad would say.
Maybe curdled cream. She blew her nose on a tissue from a box on the end table. Thank God they weren't here to see her now. And thank God Shep didn't watch television and that her name wasn't mentioned.
But why? Deanna frowned, puzzling over the omission. If this was drug related, maybe the authorities wanted to find her first, like as a witness, except that she knew no more about who C. R. was involved with than she did before. Why turn herself in when the police wouldn't believe that she knew nothing about the embezzlement? They wouldn't believe that she didn't know about the drug ring either.
Shoulder's drooping beneath the overwhelming burden, Deanna fell against the sofa back. The fact was, her goose was cooked no matter which way she turned. The proverbial fat would hit the fire sooner or later. All she could do was enjoy the time she had now. It wasn't her thing to put off meeting a challenge head on, but until she could figure out something else to do, it was her only option.
In the week that followed, she almost enjoyed the routine at the ranch, despite wondering when her name would be released or when she'd be found. With a fervor she didn't think possible, Deanna mucked the stables in true cowboy fashion, even braving to give the horses treats from the garden while Shep worked on repairing the corral behind the livery. Together, they groomed the animals, Shep building her trust in them and vice versa.
Each night after the dishes, Deanna found a simple recipe from a cookbook in a box marked Books that Shep hadn't bothered to unpack and prepared the cuisine the next day. She offered to unpack the moving boxes stacked along the wall, but he was adamant that she leave them be,
"Most of it goes into storage anyway I've unpacked all I need."
Was this increasing distance due to the strain of having taken on her burden, worrying about his friend's progress in clearing her? Just the mention of it wound him up tight as a spring. That Deanna understood all too well. Regardless, she counted her blessings each night, and the cowboy was number one on her list.
Toward week's end, Ticker Deerfield returned from roundup and heralded them with tales of rebellious cows and greenhorn shenanigans over a crescent roll and crusted Beef Wellington Deanna had made from a recipe on the canned rolls. The more she laughed, the more the old-timer would embellish until tears ran down her face.
"You'd be a perfect storyteller around a campfire." She could just picture Ticker in buckskins, keeping city slickers like herself spellbound or in stitches.
"Shoot, ma'am, I was born spinnin' yarns, so my mama said."
It was hard to believe how badly mistaken she'd been about Ticker, Shep, Hopewell, and Buffalo Butte. The people and town were just friends and a home she hadn't discovered yet. And she'd have never discovered them, if not for her trouble. God had made them the silver lining of her cloud, even though she hadn't seen or felt His presence at the time.
"More yarn than substance," Shep teased, more relaxed in Tickers presence than he'd been all week.
Ticker also brought the news that Charlie Long had found the parts he needed for Deanna's car in a junk auto lot in Wyoming. It would save Shep five hundred dollars over the new. They were being shipped via truck and should be in the beginning of next week.
With Charlie's news that she'd be on the road again in another week also came his advice. "Sell that foreign bucket of bolts while she's ahead and get a good used American made vehicle." The man also sent her portfolio with Ticker.
"Said he don't want to be responsible for anything in the car," Ticker explained as Deanna cleared the leftovers from the table. "Charlie's a queer old dog."
This, from a man who was taking Molly up to a hunting cabin the next day because the town was too crowded for him, Deanna mused later. Shep and Ticker had gone on the nightly rounds, leaving her to amuse herself.
While she boiled potato cubes for salad for tomorrow's Buffalo Butte roof raising and barbeque, Deanna opened her portfolio and took out a sketchpad. The pencil she began to doodle with felt foreign to her work-calloused fingers, as if it had come from another world.
Still, by the time the potato salad from Betty Crocker's Best Recipes was sealed in a large Tupperware container, Deanna's doodling had come together. It was a sketch of the hotel lobby, not as it was, but as it could be. Skylights replaced some of the tin panels in the vaulted ceiling, flooding the open area of the first floor as well as its perimeter second floor balcony with a natural light to supplement the electrified replica chandeliers. Instead of piles of junk and boxes, Victorian settees, chairs, and even gaming tables were arranged in groups around the lobby. Elegant feathery plantings flanked the great archway into the round tower of the dining area. Across the middle of the richly carved walnut desk, a smear of mustard provided the only color.
Now she remembered why she didn't cook and work at the same time, Deanna thought, studying the rough sketch as though looking into the future. But with planning and care, the two worlds of marketing and homemaking could be combined, just like the Old West atmosphere with the twenty-first century amenities. Sure, there'd have to be concessions from each to make it work, but the end result would be worth—
Outside the porch door, Smoky barked, startling Deanna from her introspection. She thought the dog had gone off with Shep and Ticker.
"Just wait till I catch you half asleep sometime, pooch," she threatened as she went to the door to let him in. "Payback is..."
Just as she reached for the door handle, Smoky vaulted off the porch and raced around to the side of the house, his barking becoming fiercer.
"Shep?" The dusk-to-dawn light on the gable of the livery stable illuminated the street in front of the house, but the far side and back were in the shadows. "Smoky, what is it, boy? Is that barn kitty trespassing again?"
The dog had grown very territorial after Deanna discovered the yellow tomcat in the livery. Now the shepherd mix mongrel stood at the back corner of the house, the hair around his neck raised stiff as an Elizabethan collar.
"What's with the dog?" Shep emerged from the barn in a trot, Ticker not far behind.
Deanna heaved an exaggerated shrug. "Probably the barn cat is out there. Why don't you go around the garden side and call him?" She dropped down to her knees. "Come on, Smoky."
"Deanna, get in the house and stay there."
Startled by the sharp edge of Shep's voice, she rose, but he ducked around the side of the house, a long flashlight brandished in hand,
without seeing the blank look she gave him. Gradually, her shock gave way to alarm. Did Shep know something he wasn't telling her?
"Best do as he says, missy," Ticker told her. "Could be that dog's cornered a porkypine or worse, a stinkin' skunk. He won't chase nothin' worthwhile."
Recalling Ticker's earlier tale of how Smoky wound up at the veterinary hospital having needles plucked from his hide, she let out a breath of relief and headed for the safety of the house. Skunks, porcupines, wolves, big cats—welcome to the Wild West, city gal.
Behind her, Ticker threatened, "Dog, if you get sprayed, I'm gonna shave you nekkid as a newborn!"
The mental picture of the nekkid dog was too horrid, not to mention funny, to dwell on. With a giggle, she walked to the rear window where the long beam of Shep's light flashed among the small grove of volunteer trees that shaded the backyard. Emboldened by his presence, Smoky rushed to join him with Ticker not far behind, still grumbling.
"See anything?" she called out through the open window.
"Not yet."
Shep's terse reply gave Deanna pause for concern once again, until reason prevailed. If she were stalking a skunk or porcupine, she imagined she'd be a bit uptight, too. Returning to the table and her sketch, she began to put her drawing materials away. She didn't like tipping her hand on an idea before it was ready for presentation, even if it was a far-fetched what if.
But then, until last Sunday, her entire future was a far-fetched what if. With God and the shepherd He sent her, impossible was no longer a valid word in Deanna's vocabulary. As long as she believed, all things were possible.
Twenty-five
"I'm going to be up on the roof of the church most of the day, so you two had best be on your toes," Shep instructed Jay Voorhees and his men. The older technical agent would remain behind with Ticker in case Majors showed up at the ranch, while Voorhees and Agent Jon Kestler kept an eye on Deanna. "There's over two hundred and fifty people expected in the plaza today It's the perfect place for Majors to make contact with Deanna."
"You really think he was at the house last night?" the senior agent queried, brow arched in skepticism.
Shep answered with steel-jawed impatience. "Someone left footprints at the back bedroom window. If the three of you had stayed away from the house like I told you, I'd know for sure."
By the time Shep and Ticker had looked among the trees and returned to the house, Voorhees and Kestler had tracked up the area when they joined the pursuit. There had also been evidence that someone had tried to pry open the back screen, which had been painted shut for years. Chipped paint was scattered like snowflakes around the window and on the sill. Confound it, they knew better.
"Maybe you can get a partial footprint," Shep said, voice ripe with accusation. "That is, after you eliminate yours. The window is a long shot with the paint peeled off like this, unless the perp touched the glass." Unless one or more of them contaminated the scene on purpose.
"We couldn't have known where the guy had or hadn't been," Kestler objected. "We heard the commotion and ran out to help."
"Help?" Shep exclaimed. "Like you kept me informed that Majors got a cash advance in Taylorville?"
The disconcerted exchange of glances between the two men convicted them. "Seems you still have friends in high places, Jones." Jay Voorhees's dry remark did little to improve Shep's humor.
"Seems you still like to keep your own people out of the loop." Was Voorhees the mole?
"You're not our people, Jones," the agent reminded him. "Your cooperation warrants you information on a need-to-know basis. Your personal involvement with Miss Manetti gave my chief second thoughts regarding that much. We've been after Victor Dusault for the last five years. The man runs everything from drugs to firearms and launders his money through operations like Amtron Enterprises. He finances nonexistent product development and marketing through someone in house like Majors, who transfers the money back through a Swiss account for a percentage."
"Until he got greedy and brought in a naive girl from New York to sucker into making the deposits in his private account instead." No, Jay was too ambitious for his own good, but Shep didn't think he was criminal. "It's her face on the camera; naturally everyone thinks she's in it with him."
"Now you're catching on."
"But it wasn't Deanna who withdrew the money The female had her coloring, but not her build or features. I know that, too." Kestler had been nosying around, but then a stakeout could be boring. As for the other guy, who knew? The tech wiz hardly ever left the trailer.
"She's our only solid connection to Majors," Voorhees explained. "Turns out we were right. That tracking device we found in her car shows someone else thinks she's involved."
It didn't make sense. Unless Majors picked up the money in drag and had it, but why follow Deanna? If he gave it to her with the intention of meeting later... nobody would be that stupid. She was the most viable suspect, captured on video. That left Deanna as the patsy with Majors and possibly a female accomplice setting her up. But again, why follow her?
At the short blast of the Jeep's horn, Deanna's signal that she was ready to leave, Shep pointed a warning finger at Voorhees.
"Look, we never have cared much for the way the other works, but we got the job done. Don't let her out of your sight."
"You know, Jones, I hope for your sake Manetti is innocent."
Not trusting his ears, Shep spun on his heel.
"I mean it. I can't see it, but I do mean it."
Seventy times seven. The reminder stopped Shep's stinging reply. Who knew, maybe there was hope for Jay Voorhees as a humanitarian yet.
Lord, I know it's not up to me to judge the man, much less exact the pound of flesh he owes me. I have to forgive him. I really thought I had. But this time, it's not about me. It's about Deanna. Help me keep her safe. Send angels. However You want to handle it. Just protect her.
***
There was no parking space anywhere on the plaza in the center of Buffalo Butte. Cars and trucks closed ranks along the side streets as well as behind the businesses lining the large shaded square. People kept arriving with lawn chairs and blankets to watch the competition. Two giant dump trucks waited on either side of the pristine white A-framed church to receive the debris from the old roof. Two flatbeds, courtesy of Seth Farley's Farm and Ranch General and the lumber supply in Taylorville, were loaded with the new materials.
In the tree-shaded plaza in front of the church, a carnival atmosphere pervaded. Tents set up by local vendors and civic groups sold crafts, baked goods, and food and refreshments to the gathering crowd. A troupe of church clowns from Taylorville came to entertain the children with pony rides, face painting, and zany shenanigans. What had started off as a volunteer labor project had grown into a fund-raiser that possibly would pay for the materials as well.
Deanna stood, head bowed, next to the Whet Your Whistle tent with ladies of the congregation and listened as Reverend Lawrence launched the event with a prayer of thanksgiving and blessings for those who'd made the affair possible. Gathered around him were the volunteer cowboys and farmhands, divided earlier into two tag teams.
Afterward, when the Reverend gave Deanna credit for the competition idea, which kindled the wildfire growth of the event, she grew warm from head to toe. She wasn't embarrassed. This was the kind of thing she did every day for a living. The warmth came from being included as one of their little congregation-Buffalo Butte's own, he'd called her. Next to her, Esther Lawson squeezed her hand as if to second the minister's words. Deanna's Amen was wrung straight from a heart overwhelmed with thanksgiving of her own.
After the blessing was over, the minister and ex-construction boss, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said I work for a Jewish carpenter, slapped on a baseball cap from Farley's Farm and General and walked over to one of the trucks, where he honked the horn long and loud, signaling the work to begin. The gathering scattered like spooked sheep, but each had a mission.
Deanna re
mained long enough to watch the strapping young men climb up the ladders like monkeys and nail braces in place until they knelt against the peak of the roof. Armed with flat bars and belts hung with assorted tools slung low on their hips, they began a coordinated attack on the buckled and faded shingles from both sides.
After moving a safe distance to the Whet Your Whistle refreshment booth to help Esther Lawson and Maisy O'Donnell sell sodas, it was hard for Deanna to tell which of the sweat-glistening, tanned specimens in beat-up black Stetsons on the roof was her Shep... until she spied a green checked dish towel hanging out of his back pocket.
"Aha, I told you so, Esther." Smug, Maisy added, "Those two have it bad."
Both women grinned at Deanna.
"Honey, the leaves above us just waved with that dreamy sigh of yours," the diner's part owner teased. "Have you set a date?"
"Maisy, you're embarrassing Deanna. What's she going to think of us?" Esther chided, invoking her schoolmarm authority.
"That we're nosy, meddling old women... at least I am. So...?" Maisy's raised brow turned the curve of the penciled-on arches over her eyes into pointed chevrons.
"No, we haven't even talked about a date," Deanna admitted, reluctant to count chicks before they were hatched. Her situation was still as tenuous as walking on eggs. "We're taking it slowly. After all, we've only known each other a couple of weeks."
"My Chuck and I knew we were meant for each other the first time we met," Maisy told them. "He told me on our first date that he was going to marry me."
"What did you do?" Deanna asked.
"I told Mama to start making my wedding dress," she declared with a wicked giggle. "I wasn't going to be one of those silly young women the minister always preached about who got caught without my lamp filled with oil and ready for the groom."
"Does your family know about our Shep?"
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