Thunder at Dawn

by Jill Gregory

  “Patti prepared everything—I’m just a guest,” she said quickly, setting down the salad bowl and hurrying back to the kitchen.

  Patti was already sailing out with the mashed potatoes and a second basket of warm bread, so Faith had no choice but to take the dish of creamed peas, the last of the side dishes, and return to the dining room.

  “Bob mentioned you might be here for most of September,” Owen remarked as Faith slipped into her seat opposite him and Rusty.

  “If I’m lucky.” She smiled. “I’ve missed Thunder Creek.”

  “So life must be pretty hectic in the big city?” Owen helped himself to salad as the bowl was passed around the table. “You been keeping busy putting all the bad guys away?”

  “Giving it my all.” Faith forced a smile.

  “Ty is damned proud of you. He loves to talk about how you kick butt in the courtroom. Of course, anyone who knew you way back when would expect no less.” Owen winked at her as he lifted a forkful of salad to his mouth.

  “Any plans for your stay while you’re here, Faith?” Rusty Gallagher’s voice was a deep, gravelly Western drawl, which Faith was sure many women found sexy as hell. He was a lean, muscular six-footer, probably in his late thirties, with a handsome square jaw and deep-set, intelligent brown eyes. His hair was the color of wheat, barely touching the collar of his crisp blue shirt. He had the rugged and easy look of a cowboy, but when he’d introduced him, Bob had mentioned Rusty was an attorney employed by Wood Morgan’s corporation.

  “No plans really, nothing too exciting,” she told him with a smile. “I hope to get some riding in and visit with some old friends. Speaking of which—one in particular is determined to keep me busy. She recruited me to help with the auction for the hospital wing.”

  “Anyone I know?” Bob chuckled and glanced at his wife, who returned his grin. “She’s had her hands full with that whole deal. No surprise that she’d rope you in too, Faith.”

  “My boss’s wife, Mrs. Morgan, is very involved in that auction as well.” Rusty glanced around the table. “The Morgans are paying half the cost of however many tickets their employees buy—from the ranch hands and guest handlers and cleaning staff of the dude ranch, to all the attorneys and accountants and techies in the company,” he explained. “I think Tammie’s sold nearly fifty tickets herself just in the past few days.”

  “Well, good job, Tammie!” But Patti shot Faith a look that clearly said now there’ll be no living with her.

  “So are you planning to go to the dance, Faith?” Rusty asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to support the event every way I can.”

  “The Barclays never pass up a good cause,” Owen told the lawyer. “I don’t even know if you’re aware of this, Faith, but last year, Ty paid the highest price of the night for a saddle that belonged to Wild Bill Hickok. It’s hanging on the wall of his study in that big house he built for him and Josy.”

  Rusty ignored this comment. He was still watching Faith, his intent gaze traveling from the high cheekbones of her lovely serious face to those pretty toffee-colored curls, then to the intriguing V neck of her sweater, which revealed an enticing hint of beautifully rounded breasts.

  “I hope you’ll save me a dance.” His deep-set brown eyes held hers as if there was no one else in the room.

  Aware of the silence that dropped over the dinner table like a heavy linen cloth, Faith fought the impulse to shrink back in her chair. In the courtroom she loved being center stage. In her personal life, right here and now, not so much.

  Especially when that personal life had so recently imploded.

  She’d never liked being set up on a date with anyone, and now, between Owen and Rusty, she had the impression that she was the main course of this dinner, not Patti’s steak and mashed potatoes.

  “I’ll try,” she told Rusty, summoning up a smile. “But I have the feeling Patti’s going to have me running around like a headless hen making sure everything goes smoothly all night. I can’t make any promises.”

  “Well if you manage to save one for him, you have to save two for me,” Owen countered quickly. “One for now, and one for old times’ sake. We go way back, and don’t you forget it.” He waggled his fork at her, his eyes lit with teasing amusement.

  “That’s right.” Bob leaned forward, nodding at Faith. “Remember that time Owen stood in for Zach, when Sheriff Harvey grounded him before the rodeo? Owen drove you to Casper at the last minute so you could see Ty and Adam in the steer-roping—and then you ditched him for Zach when Zach snuck out of the Last Trail and showed up.”

  He laughed, then yelped as Patti kicked him under the table.

  Faith nearly choked on a mouthful of peas. Couldn’t she escape Zach even at Patti’s house? Owen, to his credit, looked almost as uncomfortable as she felt at the mention of Zach’s name. And for good reason, she thought with a pang. Owen had not only been Pete Harrison’s friend, he was the one who’d witnessed Zach running away that last night, leaving him lying on the ground, unconscious after decking him in a fight.

  She didn’t know how, but Owen managed to keep his tone unemotional. “That was a long time ago, Bob.” He took a drink of his beer.

  “Yeah, I guess so . . . sorry.” Bob had it now. He looked embarrassed, and knowing Patti, Faith figured he’d have a black-and-blue ankle by morning. “It just popped into my head all of a sudden . . . I didn’t mean to . . . well, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Uh, Rusty, how about passing me those peas?”

  “Are you talking about Zach McCallum?” the lawyer asked as he handed over the dish. When Bob nodded, Rusty leaned back in his chair. “So you all know him from way back? I thought he hailed from Texas.”

  “He visited Thunder Creek one summer—a long time ago,” Patti explained. “His aunt was Ardelle Harvey and she owned the Last Trail ranch. Zach spent the summer with her and her husband, Sheriff Harvey. Many of us became friends with him then,” she added, consciously avoiding glancing over at Faith.

  “He was here just that one summer?” Rusty asked.

  “Just one,” Owen said tautly.

  “There was some trouble near the end,” Bob explained, speaking more quickly than usual. “Anyway, Zach didn’t come back after that.”

  “Until now.” Rusty helped himself to another steak. “Seems like there’s going to be some trouble this time too, I’m sorry to say.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of trouble?” Patti asked the question before anyone else had the chance.

  Rusty glanced around the table and saw that he had everyone’s full attention, including Faith’s.

  “Well, first off, let me say he’s tried hard to make himself welcome by opening a branch of TexCorp here. That was a smart move—it’s good for jobs and good for business, of course. It’s great for Thunder Creek’s entire economy, and no one can have any argument with that. But he’s also got some other project up his sleeve. It’s pretty controversial. And folks are going to be hearing a lot more about that venture pretty soon.”

  “So why don’t you tell us now,” Faith met his gaze directly. She didn’t care for insinuation or instigation, and she was getting the impression that Rusty Gallagher was one of those lawyers who practiced both.

  Owen nodded and spoke in a low tone. “You’re fairly new to Thunder Creek, Rusty—but you’ll find folks here are pretty up-front. Don’t feel you have to beat around the bush.”

  “All right then.” Rusty shrugged. “Word is that Zach McCallum has plans for several thousand of the Last Trail ranch’s back acres. He’s leased it to a nonprofit outfit that wants to build a camp.”

  “A camp?” Patti looked intrigued. “What sort of camp?”

  “A charity camp. You know, along the lines of Paul Newman’s Hole in the Wall camp. The idea is to bring in underprivileged kids, mostly urban, some foster kids, maybe even some who’ve had trouble with the law, and give them a few weeks at this here camp in the mountains, riding, fishing, whatever. I guess the folks orga
nizing it hope that exposure to the great outdoors will get them turned around, or at least headed in the right direction—though I for one fail to see how two weeks at a Western camp can turn a bad kid around, or make much of a difference against poverty.”

  Rusty took a forkful of potatoes. “And I can tell you right now, my boss is opposed to the idea. A lot of other folks are opposed too. There’ve been some private meetings about it, but you’ll hear soon enough, there’s going to be a fight.”

  “What kind of fight? Legal?” Bob frowned.

  “Possibly. Maybe a petition, a town meeting. Hal Miller’s going to be writing about it in the Thunder Creek Daily, so everyone will be apprised and welcome to speak out. That’s if private negotiations with the Morgans and others don’t work out,” he added with a slight smile. “Actually, it would be in McCallum’s best interests to listen to public opinion and ditch this plan before it goes too far.”

  “The last I heard, Wood and Tammie Morgan didn’t represent public opinion in Thunder Creek,” Faith said evenly. “Most of the people here like to think for themselves.”

  “Just what are the Morgans worried about?” Bob asked. “I seriously doubt a camp in the mountains is going to interfere with the profitability of the Crystal Horseshoe Dude Ranch.”

  “Well, now, you’d be surprised. That’s something that can’t be determined yet. Who knows what kind of rowdy kids will be hanging around town? There could be disturbances . . . problems. Thunder Creek is a perfect dude ranch town right now. Small, pleasant, quiet, except when a little hell gets raised at the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill.” Rusty smiled genially. “Tourists like the quiet, the quaintness, the clean-cut small-town atmosphere here. And the guests at the Crystal Horseshoe are good for the economy—they shop in town, eat at Bessie’s Diner, shop on Main Street for antiques and handmade quilts. This camp could ruin the atmosphere here, the very things that make Thunder Creek special, if there’s a bunch of noisy kids hanging around, running wild, possibly getting into trouble—”

  “Rusty, this better not be about race,” Patti said in a low tone. Her piquant gaze bored into the lawyer’s face.

  He shook his head. “Absolutely not. It’s about a bunch of kids who have no clue about living in Wyoming, getting bused into Thunder Creek—and we’re talking lots of kids over the summer—four two-week sessions of camp, over a hundred kids a summer. We just don’t know what kind of effect all these high-spirited young people out on their own will have on the town’s population, its businesses, and its tourist attractions.”

  “Our ancestors handled gunslingers, bank robbers, and crooked sheriffs—I expect we can handle some high-spirited kids,” Faith said.

  “You bet. They’ll have the time of their lives.” Owen drained his beer.

  Before Rusty could argue, Bob spoke warningly. “You might want to remind Wood that anyone who wants to tangle with Zach McCallum should think twice. He’s always been a hell of a brawler—and not the type to back down from a fight.”

  You can say that again, Faith thought, taking a sip of lemonade. She’d never forget seeing him take on three of Thunder Creek’s high school football players outside the movie theater when they’d been bullying a younger kid. No one fought as cleanly, as ferociously, and with such angry focus as Zach. Not even her own very formidable brothers.

  And yet, Zach had shown remarkable restraint today when he’d been taunted by Fred Harrison. Either he’d really learned self-control over the years or he’d just been more focused on his son than on taking a swing at a man twenty-five years his senior.

  At any rate, she reminded herself as she helped Patti clear the table, none of it had anything to do with her. Zach might well be in for a fight about leasing his land for a summer camp, but that wasn’t her problem.

  And from what she’d seen in the past few days, he seemed perfectly capable of handling his grown-up life and whatever troubles came his way all by himself.

  She left Patti and Bob’s shortly after dessert. She was tired and restless, and not in the mood for Rusty Gallagher’s not-so-subtle attentions, or even for Owen’s good-natured bantering.

  “Sorry, next time it’ll just be the three of us,” Patti whispered as she walked Faith out to her car.

  “Dinner was wonderful, don’t be sorry.”

  “Rusty could barely take his eyes off you and I could see you weren’t interested. But Owen’s fun, isn’t he?”

  “Very.”

  Patti said nothing as Faith swung open the SUV’s door. “All that talk about Zach—you’re okay with it, right?” she asked hesitantly as Faith slid behind the wheel.

  “I’m fine.” Faith dismissed the question with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Zach McCallum doesn’t have the power to throw me for a loop anymore, Patti. You don’t have to worry about that. Look.” She changed the subject in the next breath. “I never did reach Tammie today. How about if I call her in the morning and let her know I’m on the committee and that we need a meeting within the next few days? Can you make it Wednesday? Bessie’s Diner, around three? Coffee’s on me.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Letting herself into the cabin a short time later, Faith switched on the light and slung her purse over the back of a chair, then kicked off her kitten-heeled sandals.

  She checked her answering machine. The message light wasn’t flashing. And there hadn’t been any calls on her cell either.

  “Damn.” She’d been hoping to hear back from Liz about Hank Bayman’s work attendance and if there’d been any change in his routine. Or any indication that he might have discovered where Susan and the kids had gone.

  But Liz hadn’t returned her call yet.

  There was one way to find out right now if Susan was all right. She sank down on the sofa, picked up her cell phone, and found Susan’s number. As the line rang several times, Faith chewed on her lip, then felt a wave of relief when Susan answered the phone. A television blared in the background—it sounded like the kids were watching cartoons.

  “Everything is great, Faith. Couldn’t be better.” Susan sounded happier, stronger than Faith had ever heard her. She could picture the woman’s short black hair, her dark, haunted eyes. She no longer sounded defeated, as she had after Hank’s trial.

  “Everyone’s been so nice. Your friend at the law firm in Phoenix found me a job as an administrative assistant. And the kids love their new school.”

  “That’s great.” Faith closed her eyes, smiling at the picture in her mind and the note of confidence in Susan’s voice.

  “And you use the security system every day?” she asked.

  “Yes. Always. But . . .” There was a pause. “The only thing is . . . if Hank ever did find me, I know he’d have a way to get around the system. Any system.”

  “He’s not going to find you,” Faith assured her, swinging her feet onto the sofa and leaning her head back against a throw pillow. “Even Julia Kimball at the shelter doesn’t know where you are, remember? I’m the only one who knows, and I’d cut out my tongue before I’d tell him.”

  “I know you would, Faith. You’ve been wonderful throughout all of this. I . . . I don’t know how to thank you.” Susan’s voice wobbled for a moment. “I . . . I never thought I’d get away. I didn’t think it was possible. If it wasn’t for you, I’m sure Hank would have killed me by now—and the kids.”

  “He should have been the one forced to leave,” Faith said grimly. “If we hadn’t gotten a chauvinistic pig of a judge who let him cop a plea, and then let him off with probation, Hank would be locked up right now. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do better for you.”

  “That judge was never going to give Hank jail time. I could tell by the way he looked at me during the trial. Like this was all my fault. But it sure wasn’t yours, Faith!”

  It was, Faith thought, at least in part. I failed, and the system failed. I should have been able to get through to that judge. And Hank Bayman should have been kept behind bars.

  But the sys
tem wasn’t perfect, no system ever was, and despite her best efforts, a battered, desperate woman had been left vulnerable to attack—perhaps even to murder—by a man who routinely put a knife to her throat and punched her until she hemorrhaged.

  Up until the Bayman case, Faith had accepted and worked through a lot of crap in the maze of the legal system, and had been able to live with it. But she hadn’t been able to just throw in the towel and leave Susan Bayman to the mercy of her husband.

  “Call me if you have any concerns,” she told Susan as she heard one of the boys calling her. “I’ll check back with you in a few weeks.”

  Reassured that Susan and the kids were all right, Faith turned her attention to the auction. She spent the next couple of hours jotting down ideas for the benefit—thoughts on how to pull in more donations and pump up the totals. Around midnight she fell asleep on the sofa with a legal pad on her lap and a pen in her hands, but she slept no more than a few hours before the nightmare woke her once again.

  It was the same nightmare as always. A graveyard surrounded by barbed wire, in a cemetery full of snow and ice and blood. A figure floated straight up out of a sealed coffin, its gaunt face locked in a silent, frantic scream. He was floating toward her, fingers twitching, eyes wide. She recognized him as he bore down on her. It was Jimmy Clement. She tried to beg his forgiveness, but her mouth was frozen. No words could form. Closer he came, blood oozing from his nostrils. Closer and closer and . . .

  She jerked awake, shaking. In the lamplight, the cabin was warm, still, and very quiet. No one’s here, it was just another dream, she told herself, taking deep breaths. But panic filled her chest. Along with a wave of guilt that swept through her, cold and bitter as a January wind.

  Faith sat up and raked a trembling hand through her hair. Beads of sweat clung to her skin and her heart was racing. Sleep was not coming back, not tonight. That she knew from experience.