One Hot Forty-Five

“You’re going to love this,” she said, “but I think Frank married me because I was so normal.”

“Funny,” he said. “You know you really don’t seem like a woman who is running from killers.”

“Because I made one little joke?”

“Little is right.”

“Oh, I would have bet you had no sense of humor in your line of work.”

“I’m a lawyer, not an undertaker.”

“Right, you bury people alive.”

“Could we discuss the reason you’ve kidnapped me instead of my chosen profession, please.” He was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. Snowflakes thick as cotton were blowing horizontally across the road, obliterating everything.

Dede had slowed the pickup to a crawl and now leaned over the steering wheel, straining to see.

“This is insane,” he muttered under his breath. “You don’t even know where you are.”

He’d been watching the compass and temperature gauge in the pickup. The temperature outside had been steadily dropping as she drove south toward the Missouri Breaks—into no-man’s-land—and the road was nearly drifted in.

If she planned to hook back up with Highway 191 south, she’d missed the turn.

“Dede—” He’d barely gotten the word out when a gust of wind hit the side of the pickup as the front of the truck broke through a large drift. The drift pulled the tires hard to the right.

Lantry felt the front tire sink into the soft snow at the edge of the road. Dede was fighting to keep the snow from pulling the pickup into the deeper snow of the barrow pit, but it was a losing battle.

Snow flew up over the hood and windshield as the truck plowed into the snow-filled ditch.

Lantry had seen it coming and braced himself. The pickup crashed through the deep snow, coming to an abrupt stop buried between the road and a line of fence posts and barbed wire.

He heard Dede smack her head on the side window since the pickup didn’t have side air bags.

The only other sound was that of the gun clattering to the floorboard at his feet.

Chapter Three

Violet wasn’t surprised to find the front door of the farm house unlocked. No one in these parts locked their doors—except when she was on the loose. Had her mother left the door open on purpose?

She gripped the knob as she pushed gently and the door swung in, the scents of her childhood rushing at her like ghosts from the darkness.

The brightness of the falling snow beyond the open curtains cast the interior of the house in an eerie pale light, making it seem even creepier, the memories all that more horrendous.

She stood for a moment, breathing hard in the dim light, then fumbled for the light switch. The overhead lamp came on, chasing away the shadows, forcing the ghosts to scurry back into their holes.

Violet moved quickly down the hall toward her old room and turned on the light. She hadn’t expected her mother would keep her room exactly as it had been. She’d anticipated that Arlene might have boxed up her stuff and pushed it into a corner.

The room had been turned into a playroom for a child. Violet stared. She could tell that her mother had decorated the room. As she caught the scent of baby powder, she felt tears flood her eyes.

The realization hit her hard. Her mother had gotten rid of her—and her things. Arlene had never planned for her oldest daughter to come home again.

Violet swallowed the large lump in her throat only to have it lodge in her chest. There was nothing here for her.

“DEDE?”

She was slumped over, hands still gripping the wheel.

“Dede?”

She lifted her head slowly, looking a little dazed as she shifted her gaze from the snow-packed windshield to him. “What happened?”

“We went in the ditch. Shut off the engine. The tailpipe’s probably under the snow. The cab will be filling with carbon monoxide.”

She took a hand off the wheel to rub her temple. It was red where she’d smacked it on the side window. Fumbling, she turned off the engine, pitching them into cold silence.

“Dede, you need to get these handcuffs off me.”

She didn’t move.

“We can’t stay here. I saw a mailbox back up the road There must be a farmhouse nearby. If we stay here, we’ll freeze to death. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Her gaze went to her lap. He saw recognition cross her expression as she realized the gun was gone. She raised her eyes to him and saw that he’d managed to free the plastic cuffs from his belt, unsnap his seatbelt and retrieve the gun from where it had fallen on the floorboard. He’d stuck the gun in the waist band of his jeans.

“I wouldn’t have shot you,” she said quietly.

“I guess we’re about to find out.” He held out his cuffed wrists to her. “There’s a hunting knife under the seat. I need you to cut these off. Unless you want to die right here in this barrow pit.”

She met his gaze, held it for a moment, then reached under the seat, pulled the knife from its leather sheath and cut the plastic cuffs. Lantry rubbed his wrists, watching her as she put the knife back. She looked defeated, but he’d seen that look before and knew better than to believe it.

He tried his door. Just as he suspected, it wouldn’t move. Snow was packed in around the truck. Dede’s side, he saw, would be worse since snow was packed clear up past her window.

“We’re going to have to climb out my side through the window. But first …” He turned to dig through the space behind the seats for what little spare clothing he carried. This was his first winter in Montana.

His stepmother, Kate, had lived here her first twenty-two years and knew about Montana winters. She’d told him numerous times to take extra clothing, water, a blanket and food each time he ventured off the ranch.

He wished now that he’d listened to her. All he had was a pair of snow pacs that he kept in the car in case he went off the road and a shovel in the bed of the truck in case he had to dig himself out.

There was no digging the pickup out of this ditch, es pecially in this blizzard. But at least his feet would be warmer in the pacs than in his cowboy boots.

He tugged off his boots and put on his pacs. All the time, he could feel Dede watching him, that desolate look in her eyes.

“You’re going to turn me in,” she finally said.

He looked up at her from tying the laces on the pacs. “We can figure things out once we get to the house back up the road.”

He dug around behind the seat again and found an old hat with earflaps and a pair of worn work gloves. “Here, wear these. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.” He glanced at her Santa suit. The feet on it were plush black fake fur with plastic soles.

“Give me your feet,” he said. She eyed him with suspicion but did as she was told. Even with the thick fabric of the costume, he was able to slip his boots over it, making the cowboy boots fit well enough to get her to the house back up the road.