by Kieran York
Crystal Mountain Veils
A Royce Madison Mystery
Kieran York
Scarlet Clover Publishers
Littleton
Copyright © 1995, 2015 Kieran York
First Edition, April 1993 – Third Side Press
Second Edition, Published January 2015 – Scarlet Clover Publishers
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher. This includes electronic or mechanical recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, except for the quotations or brief quotations used in critical articles or reviews, without prior permission from Scarlet Clover Publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, locales and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Art, Design, and Technical Director - Beth Mitchum
Cover photo:© Noamfein | Dreamstime.com - Colorado Mountains Photo
Other photography by Kieran York
Published by Scarlet Clover Publishers
www.kieranyork.com and www.scarletcloverpublishers.com
P.O. Box 621002, Littleton, Colorado 80162
Printed and bound in the United States of America, UK, and Europe
ISBN-13: 978-0692328057
ISBN-10: 069232805X
Books also written by Kieran York:
Night Without Time
Earthen Trinkets
Careful Flowers
Appointment with a Smile
Timber City Masks (A Royce Madison Mystery)
Sugar With Spice (Short Fiction)
Blushing Aspen (Poetry)
Touring Kelly’s Poem (forthcoming)
Loitering on the Frontier (forthcoming)
DEDICATION:
When this book was originally written, to say things were different is such an understatement. It has taken courage and it has taken willpower to gain equality. Twenty years ago I could never have envisioned same-sex marriages becoming a reality.
This dedication is being written on October 29th, 2014. Today two of my very best friends, who have been together for 34-years, were married.
I dedicate this book to them.
Congratulations Bobbie and Sharon. Much happiness to you both!
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:
As always, I thank Beth Mitchum, Shawn Marie Bryan, and Rogena Mitchell-Jones for their expertise, support, encouragement.
Beth is the amazing Creative Director and Technical Director of Scarlet Clover Publishers. Many thanks, Beth!
The first edition of this book was published by Third Side Press, Inc. I thank Midge Stocker and everyone who helped publish the first edition of Crystal Mountain Veils. Midge was magnificent to work with, and has my undying appreciation.
During the printing of the first edition, the role model for Smoky – actually named Carmy – was ill. Carmy was a feisty little schnauzer with pure heart – and courage. Doctors at Deer Creek Animal Hospital treated her.
Clover, the CEO of Scarlet Clover Publishers, is also cared for by Doctor Ray Cox and the other amazing veterinarians and staff of Deer Creek.
Prologue
The calculated, quick steps were those of an experienced hunter. The man stayed in the shadow. Thick evergreen boughs concealed him. Like wisps of electricity, he advanced his position nearer, scarcely being noticed.
In the stranger’s eyes was an evil intent. His face overflowed with anger. Hatred raged each time he saw the lovely young Native American veterinarian. When he entered the animal clinic the first time, Doctor Hertha White had been formal. The second time, she was fearful when he demanded that she become his woman. He enjoyed the emotional static produced by inducing fear. The sensation was one of being fed on energy. Within the week, he hungered for her – and her quiet dread.
His deepest acrimony was reserved for the object of the woman’s affection. Her face lit up each time Timber City’s acting sheriff approached. They were lovers. Two women! They were going against nature.
They must be stopped.
Chapter 1
Autumn, mid-1990s
Timber City’s acting sheriff, Royce Madison, couldn’t explain the fear in a corner of her mind.
The tranquility of Timber County, Colorado, seemed perishable. Royce watched a stranger lurking behind the barbershop. He’d been there all morning.
His presence was unnerving; threatening. But it was more personal than that. He glared toward the High Country Animal Clinic where Royce’s lover was the veterinarian. Hertha White, D.V.M., would be alone most of the day.
Although the High Country Animal Clinic was located on the corner directly across the street from Timber County’s courthouse, where Royce worked, time didn’t permit Royce to keep a constant lookout over her lover. Royce made a mental note to ask her mother to watch from her small bakery located across the street on the opposite side. The vantage point from Molly’s Pantry was unobstructed, but again, Molly was often busy serving her clientele. Royce would ask their family friends at Timber City Times if they would assist in keeping a watch out for Hertha’s safety. The local newspaper was catty-corner from the clinic. Gwen Ives and Nadine Atwell could observe anyone entering the clinic.
Royce was not sure why she felt so protective of her lover. Part Anglo and part Native American, Hertha had been raised on a Ute reservation and later attended a ‘white’ school. She certainly had the physical ability and psychological acuity to stave off uninvited advances. But this one might be different. Royce glanced back over her shoulder at the menacing glower of the stranger.
Timber City was normally a friendly mountain community. But this drifter had transgressed. He’d barged into the clinic and arrogantly told Hertha that she would one day become his woman. Hertha reached for the telephone and started to dial the Sheriff’s Department. The drifter went to the door. He turned and jeered. He promised that she would be his before they died. His threat had frightened Hertha. When Royce answered the phone, Hertha told her lover that there was something very off-kilter about the stranger. Royce knew that Hertha’s instincts about people were excellent. If the vet was concerned about the incident, her anxiety was justified.
Royce straightened her back, and her shoulders lifted. She was wearing her tan summer uniform, and her badge and sunglasses reflected the late August sunshine. Behind those sunglasses were Royce’s weary eyes. She was feeling the strain of recent weeks. With her first election campaign gearing up, she was coming to terms with the fact that her opponent was more formidable than she had thought. Dillon Granger supporters were determined to see Royce lose her badge, and he had the backing of major contributors.
Pressure was mounting, she conceded as a squint formed. Her own campaigners were amateurs. They were ordinary townspeople able to contribute only small amounts to her campaign. Her opponent seemed to have an unlimited supply of money and was staging a very slick campaign, even though the man himself was anything but slick.
Royce also felt the pressure of the two upcoming debates. Shy by nature, she dreaded the thought of public speaking. She didn’t see how it could possibly benefit her cause. Her quiet, sensitive, good-humored style was no match for her boisterous opponent. He was loud, combative, and lacked Royce’s code of ethics.
Royce’s slender face, with square set jaw and softly cleft chin, was becoming haggard from stress. At twenty-eight, she was already feeling the wear of age. Her slim, tall frame was easy-going. Her pouty lips were tight; her short cornstalk hair seemed limp; and her throat was parched by early autumn’s dryness.
She couldn’t be sure the election was responsible for the tension between her and her lover. Or possibly, she guessed, it might be wo
rking the other way and their newly-formed relationship was impacting the campaign. Both were uncharted ground for the acting sheriff. And both were important; vital to Royce’s happiness.
What should be the best time of her career, and her life, seemed to be disintegrating. Moment by century, she thought, as she entered the clinic and smiled for the first time that day. She smiled at Hertha White. And perhaps it was for Hertha. It was a wide, honest smile that brought out her dimples.
Hertha returned the smile as her limber body leaned against the counter. “How’s my county Mountie?” Hertha asked.
Royce wanted to hold her. She gazed into Hertha’s bright ebony eyes surrounded by thick lashes. She wanted to reach over and touch Hertha’s soft hair, and to anoint her lover’s cheeks and lush lips with a veil of kisses. Instead Royce removed her Stetson and carefully placed it on the counter. “Hertha, I’m sorry I was so brusque with you this morning.”
“This is all new to both of us. Getting a relationship right takes practice. Royce, I love you.” Hertha’s lips were downturned as she looked at the window. “I know the campaign has you worried, and I’m anxious too.”
“But we don’t need to keep rehashing the past. We don’t need to discuss our difference. Can’t we live in the present and appreciate our compatibility?”
“Royce, we’re from different cultures.”
“Mom says that we may not all have the same roots, but we’re all part of the same orchard.”
“Your parents didn’t teach you prejudice, so I’m not sure you know what it’s about.”
“I’m lesbian. I know something about prejudice.”
“It’s part of the same orchard, but the roots are different,” Hertha commented with a slight smile. “I know that Native Americans don’t have an exclusive on feeling bigotry and cruelty.” She leaned away and her arms folded. She stood erect, and though she was only two inches shorter than Royce’s five-foot-nine and was only twenty-five, she seemed taller and older than Royce. “I can’t expect you to understand.”
“All I’m trying to say is that I can’t change bigotry and hatred. What I can do is concentrate on making my part of the world more tolerant.”
There was no need to continue her thought. If she didn’t win the election in November, the Timber City Sheriff’s Department would be headed by a good ole boy backed by the Colorado Family Morals Coalition. The Coalition had been pouring money into the election. A woman should not be the sheriff, in their opinion, and certainly not a woman like Royce. They stopped short of calling her lesbian, but it was inferred.
Hertha’s smile seemed to be forced, as if she needed to reassure Royce. “After you’re elected sheriff, you will make it better.”
“If I’m elected.”
“You’ll win,” Hertha’s gentle, well-modulated voice stressed.
“I’m not so sure.” Royce heard the bark of her schnauzer, Smoky.
“Smoky, girl, you got to sleep in this morning.” Smoky rushed to her, and Royce knelt to one knee. The eight-month-old pup jumped against Royce’s shoulder and tightened her front legs around the sheriff’s neck. “Good hug, Smoky. But you missed your morning rounds, so no commendation for the K-9 corps.”
Smoky’s hug routinely was part of her newly learned series of tricks. She would shake hands, dance in circles on her back legs, and do an assortment of other tricks. When Royce leaned down, patted her shoulder, and Smoky dove against her for a hug, it entertained Timber City’s children. For the occasional lost, injured, or abused child, Smoky’s antics could help ease their pain.
Hertha’s hands went into the pockets of her forest green smock. Her eyes dimmed. “I know things are difficult for you right now, Royce. I’m sorry I’m contributing to your troubles. I should be more understanding and patient.”
“It isn’t that. Maybe we’re both frustrated by our need to be discrete. Maybe the need to keep our relationship secret is getting to us. With all my heart, I wish we would live together, openly. Right now, with the Family Morals Coalition just waiting to get me, it wouldn’t be a good time.”
“No. Between the Coalition and the resistance of the deputies, you’ve got more than your share of problems. I shouldn’t be adding stress.”
“I’m having trouble keeping all the corners tacked down at the same time. But Hertha, I want you to understand how important our relationship is to me.” Royce wished she could display her heart. So often she felt as if she had known Hertha from the beginning of time, yet when she wanted to express herself and reinforce her emotional ties to Hertha, she was often speechless. “One way or the other, after the election, we’ll live together.”
Hertha reached across the counter and touched Royce’s hand. “We’ll make it work.” Hertha’s face reflected her gentle spirit. Her eyes reflected past wrongs against her people. But they also revealed optimism about life’s bounty.
Royce gave Hertha a loving squeeze and then put on her Stetson. The Sheriff’s Department gold insignia was centered on the front of the hat. Royce had polished it to a bright gleam to reflect the high country sun. “Yes, somehow we’ll work it out.” She paused at the door. “Why don’t you keep Smoky with you this afternoon?”
“Sure,” Hertha agreed with a frown. “But why?”
“You two can guard each other.” Royce issued a shy grin. Before leaving, she turned back and said, “Take care.” She would add only a brief caution. Perhaps, she thought, the stranger would disappear after seeing a law officer enter the clinic. “I spotted the drifter who hassled you this morning. Probably it’s not a problem, but I’d rather Smoky stay with you.”
“You really think I need an attack schnauzer?” Hertha asked with a laugh. “Ninja schnauzer.”
Royce glanced into Hertha’s face. She recognized the staggering love she felt for this woman. “We can all use a Smoky in our lives. I’ll see you this evening.”
The young acting sheriff made her way across the street. For a moment, the man was out of her line of vision. And then she saw him again. He appeared to exude danger. Although criminals come in a variety of packaging, many strangers passed through Timber County and Royce had seen dangerous people before. She recognized the ominous intent in their faces. Some strangers loitered in Timber City, a small mountain community of about three-thousand people. They shopped gift shops, and were entertained by the Western atmosphere. Other visitors went on to find work at the Crystal Mountain ski resort a few miles outside of Timber City. Tourists often visited both areas.
Although Crystal Mountain was in the jurisdiction of Timber County, the resort town was considered Dillon Granger’s turf. Deputy Granger was Royce’s election opponent. Crystal Mountain was a growing prestigious area filled with the rich and famous.
Surveying the stranger, Royce guessed he was in his mid-thirties. Six-foot, his build was wiry. His shoulder-length beige hair was unkempt. A quarter-inch stubble of unshaven beard shadowed his sallow sunken cheeks. As she neared him, she noticed two of his front teeth were missing. She looked for scars and other identifying makings. She saw treachery in his dark brown eyes when his glance strung with hers.
“I’m Sheriff Madison,” Royce said. “We have a loitering law here in Timber City.”
“I ain’t loitering.” His voice was gravely and haunting. A malicious grin covered his face. He spoke with icy calm. “I never loiter.”
“I’d like your name. Are you a resident of this county?”
“Naw. I’m Rick Brown.”
“Are you a transient? If so, where are you staying?”
“It isn’t nightfall yet.”
He’d obviously been advised of his rights before, Royce assessed. “And what are you finding so interesting across the street?”
“That squaw doc is a looker.”
Royce realized she was indeed dealing with a stalker. Carefully, she moved close to him. “I don’t want to tell you this more than once. You stay away from her.” There was a rampaging ache inside as she added, “Do you un
derstand what I’m saying?”
“No law against a man lookin’ at a woman.”
“I don’t want you watching, harassing, or in any way bothering her or any other woman in this county. Do I make myself clear?” Her words were sledgehammer blows.
His lips curled when he smiled. “I’ll just betcha you don’t.” He turned and walked away toward a battered gray truck with a small camper shell attached. Royce memorized the Florida license plate numbers. She would return to the courthouse and run the numbers through the DMV to find out if there were any outstanding warrants on either the vehicle or owner.
Royce enjoyed most phases of her work, even endless paperwork. License chases rarely yielded little in the way of clues. But it was always worth a try. She relished delving toward answers – and solving crime. The one thing Royce hated about being a law enforcer was seeing so much evil in a human face.
***
Royce entered the Sheriff’s Department. She was perplexed by the stranger’s open arrogance.
“Phone calls have been pouring in. Seems the citizens are concerned about the upcoming visit of Godiva. She might taint our purity,” Deputy Nick Hogan reported with a chuckle.
“The Family Morals Coalition is outraged,” Royce uttered with a trace of bitterness. “That’s their favorite state of mind – outrage. I wish Godiva would go to Aspen or Vail. I don’t need this now.”
Nick Hogan slumped back in his desk chair and sighed. He was aware of his handsomeness. Appearing even more youthful than his twenty-three years, he prided himself on his athletic build. Brown, curly hair framed his classic face, and his dark blue eyes nearly always appeared to be joking. Royce had seen the young deputy somber only a few times when the situation’s grimness allowed no other expression.