Redemption

His words made her heart beat a little faster as he put both the evidence bag and the magnifying glass back in his pocket. She watched him finish his soda, seeing the weight of this on his broad shoulders.

“What’s that written on the back?” she asked.

He shook his head as he paid for the soda and candy bar. “It looks like hieroglyphics to me.”

“Or a map of some kind.”

He looked up at her, and for the first time, his gaze seemed to brighten. “A map? You know you really are an amazing woman.”

She wasn’t actually blushing, was she? Nettie quickly scooped up the money he’d put on the counter and busied herself putting it in the cash register.

“I’d better get going.” As he glanced toward the street, he let out a curse. “I promised you I’d check on your new neighbor.” The Branding Iron Café was directly across the narrow strip of pavement from the store. “I’m sorry, it completely slipped my mind.”

“You’ve had a lot on your plate with the Ginny West murder case.” The murder had gone unsolved for eleven years—until late last fall when some new evidence had surfaced.

“Still, that’s no excuse. I told you I’d do it and I will.” He frowned. “Did I see an Apartment for Rent sign in your front window?”

“You know I’ve been threatening for years to use that old apartment upstairs for something other than storage.” She and Bob had lived up there when they’d first gotten married, but only until their house on the mountain behind the store had been finished. “I know I can’t get much rent for it, but I thought I’d try. Would be nice to have someone living up there who can help keep an eye on the store,” she added quickly. She didn’t want him to think she needed the money. Nor did she want him to think she missed Bob.

“Good idea,” Frank said, but she could tell he was distracted. “Lynette, if you ever need anything—”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine, Frank.”

He smiled, the warmth in his eyes making her feel like a schoolgirl again. “Yes, you are fine. By the way, I like your new haircut.” Then he hesitated. “You won’t say anything about—”

“No.” She swallowed back the bad taste in her mouth at the mention again of the Ackermann family. She almost wished he’d never shown her the photograph. When she’d looked past the faces, she’d seen the cave behind the house, a thick wooden door covering the opening, and remembered what had been found in the cold, damp darkness behind it.

She shuddered, hugging herself, and said a silent prayer for all of them as she watched the sheriff leave.

* * *

JACK REINED IN his horse to look out across the wide, green valley. He breathed in the day, never more thankful than right now that he’d come back here. Next to him, the creek roared as it tumbled through large granite boulders. Farther away, calves bawled for their mamas in a field of tall, new green grass and wildflowers.

He loved helping with spring roundup on the W Bar G, gathering the cattle in order to tally the calf crop and getting ready to tag and brand. It was a big operation on this huge ranch. He’d been riding for two long days now, combing the breaks and coulees for cattle and heading them toward the central point where other riders kept the herd together until they could be moved down to the corrals for branding.

Each night he’d fallen dead asleep, saddle sore and exhausted, hearing the sound of lowing cattle even when he closed his eyes. The work had kept him from thinking about anything other than cows. But the spring roundup was now over, and he had to make a decision whether to stay on at the W Bar G, ranch his own place, or sell out and move on.

“You’re good with horses and cattle,” Destry Grant said to him now as they rode back down toward the main ranch house. “I need someone I can trust, and my ranch manager likes you. Not that Russell will go any easier on you than he does on the rest of the wranglers.”

He grinned at that as they dismounted. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Destry gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’re back. So is Carson.” Carson had been his best friend since they were kids. Jack had lied for him eleven years ago, knowing that Carson had nothing to do with the death of his former girlfriend Ginny West. He would do it again, since Carson was the closest to a brother he’d ever had.

But being under suspicion of murdering his girlfriend had been rough on his friend. Carson had enough to overcome after being raised by W. T. Grant, an overbearing, controlling father. Rest his soul in peace, Jack quickly added. W.T. had died late last fall, leaving the ranch to Destry instead of Carson.

“Carson’s doing okay, right?” Jack asked as they walked toward the big house her father had built.

“He’s not gambling and he’s paying back what he owes,” she said. “But I worry about him. I think he’s restless.”

“He just needs a good woman,” Margaret said, and smiled at Jack as he and Destry reached the kitchen. “Welcome back.” Margaret had been W. T. Grant’s closest friend as well as the cook and housekeeper. When he’d died, he’d left the house to her, since Destry preferred to live in the old homestead down the road, until her upcoming wedding to Rylan West.

Rylan was in the process of getting a home built for them. The W Bar G and the West Ranch, where Rylan worked with his father, adjoined, so they were building on a site in the middle.

“You two aren’t trying to line Carson up, are you?” Jack asked, seeing that they were.

“Lisa Anne Clausen has had a crush on him since grade school,” Destry said and crossed her fingers. “They’d be good together.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure Carson is ready. Just saying...”

Carson seemed to be doing fine, though, Jack thought as he drove toward Beartooth and his cabin. It made him proud that his friend was finally taking responsibility for himself and his actions. It was his gambling and the murder charge that had made W. T.

Grant cut his son from the will. Carson got to live in the big house as long as he was employed. Fortunately, he seemed to have taken to ranching after years of fighting it.

The long days on the W Bar G had also kept Jack out of trouble and away from the Branding Iron Café. Which meant he hadn’t seen Kate LaFond again. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. As he pulled up in front of his cabin, it was early, but he was tired and couldn’t wait to lie down and put his boots up.

The knock at his door what seemed to be only a few minutes later brought him out of a deep sleep. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He’d come into the cabin and collapsed on the bed still fully dressed after the long day in the saddle.

He rose now and padded to the door, thinking Carson must have stopped by for some reason.

When he saw the sheriff darkening his doorway, Jack felt that old, familiar fear he’d grown up with. The law at your door was never a good thing.

“Sheriff Curry,” he said, fighting to fully wake up. Whatever the sheriff wanted, Jack figured he needed his wits about him. “Is there a problem?”

“Sorry if I woke you,” the sheriff apologized.

“Been working spring roundup,” he said, but figured the sheriff probably knew that. Sheriffs tended to keep track of ex-cons, and Frank Curry had watched him grow up so probably took a special interest.

“I heard you’re on the W Bar G now.” Frank pulled off his hat. “Just need a minute of your time, Jack. I’ve got something here I was hoping you might be able to help me with. Mind if I come in for a moment?”

Jack stepped back, wondering what the hell this was about. He turned on another lamp and offered the sheriff a seat.

“I won’t be staying that long. If you’d just take a look at this...” He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket. Inside was a coiled thin rope. Even from a distance, Jack could tell it was hitched out of horsehair. He’d watched enough of the inmates at Deer Lodge making everything from reins and ropes to belts and hatbands.

Hitching involved twisting three or four strands of dyed horsehair into what were known as pulls. The pulls were used with cotton cord and a wood or metal rod to hitch the horsehair in a circular pattern. A series of hitches created a variety of colorful patterns, most commonly diamonds and spirals.

What amazed Jack was how long it took—a couple of hours to do only an inch of hitching. When finished, the cord or rod was removed. The item was then soaked in water and clamped between two heavy plates of steel to dry.

A lot of the inmates sold what they made, getting as much as four to eight thousand dollars for bridles. Belts, hatbands and quirts were cheaper, because they were faster to make.

“Do you recognize the pattern?” the sheriff asked. “Is it one from Montana State Prison?”

Jack took the bag and held it under the lamplight. The colors were brighter and the pattern different from ones he’d seen in prison. “It’s not from Deer Lodge,” he said and handed it back. “At least it isn’t like any I saw up there.”

The sheriff nodded. He put the bag back in his pocket. “You do any hitching while you were up there?”

Jack laughed. “I was working the prison ranch, so I kept plenty busy. I’ve watched a lot of guys hitch, though. Takes more patience than I have.”

“Well, thanks for your time.” He started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, while you were up at the state pen, did you happen to run across Cullen Ackermann?”