A Cowboy To Keep

Everett Ridland?

If so, Jack’d be there to greet them.

In the distance, aspens gleaming in the late-afternoon sun half hid a jagged bluff. Overhead, a mourning dove quieted as he approached. It sped off its perch in a flurry of gray, leaving only the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker to break up the forest hush.

Suddenly he was ten years old again, creeping through the mountains with his grandfather and Lance on one of their camping trips, committing to memory the slightest disturbances in the wilderness, identifying the passage of elk, black bear and deer, determining edible berries and roots, predicting weather and the direction of his quarry’s travel by the shadows, by the moss, by some kind of sixth sense that seemed bred into his family’s bones. The same knowledge, his grandpa insisted, that’d been passed on to him.

Too bad that sense hadn’t been with him two years ago, the night he’d caught up with Jesse, fresh out of rehab, at a pool hall when his mother insisted he bring his missing brother home. He winced. The painful memory slashed deeper than the knife that’d left a gash that had taken over a hundred stitches to close.

Absently running a hand over the raised scar, he halted at the edge of the woods and stared at the small campfire he’d spied earlier this afternoon. A mound of rocks were in a heap at the bottom of a steep bluff. The tracks ended.

So. A one-way trip by one man. The pile of rocks suggested the avalanche was an accident, but he had to be sure. He scouted the cliff, found his first foothold and began pulling himself up. His fingers scrabbled on scrub brush, roots and depressions as he hauled himself upward, his breath harsh in his throat. At last, he heaved himself over the edge and lay flat on his stomach for a moment, dragging in air.

A cigarette butt swam into view, not more than an inch away from his face. He blinked at it. Processed. Pushed to his knees and studied the distinctive filter. He picked it up and lifted it to his nose. Inhaled. It smelled darker, browner somehow, than other brands. Camel Filters.

And in a breath, he was back at that pool hall, Jesse’s knee banging against the underside of the hardwood table top at which they sat.

He’d looked thinner than ever, Jack recalled, despite their mother’s nonstop cooking all week since his baby brother had been released from rehab. And his eyes had been bloodshot. Telltale signs of another relapse, Jack remembered thinking, resentment swelling as he envisioned more heartbreak ahead. His family had already gone through a lot since Jesse’s addiction began in high school.

When Jesse had said he needed money for reasons he refused to reveal, Jack imagined the worst. He would forever regret how he’d shut his brother down, telling him he didn’t want to hear about anything that involved drugs. He was sick of being his brother’s babysitter.

His mother’s cries echoed in his ear as he sniffed the cigarette butt again. Camel Filters, the same kind he’d seen one of Jesse’s suspected killers smoking. Smiley had been caught with heroin, another connection.

He didn’t recognize the bond jumper in his picture. The thick dark of that long ago night and the men’s hoodies had concealed their appearances enough to make clear identification impossible. Smiley might be here with an accomplice, with Everett Ridland, and either man could be his brother’s assassin.

Adrenaline spiked his blood. Made his head swim.

Could this be this be the chance he’d been desperately seeking to finally make things right?

Jack shimmied back down the bluff, dusted off his pants and spun around at the sound of approaching footsteps. A man in his midthirties, his broad face mostly shrouded by a beard, appeared around a bend in the trail, a leather saddlebag slung over one arm. He pulled up short, doubt crowding his already pinched features so that he looked cross.

“Who the heck are you?”

Jack set his hands on his belt, easing his shirt back slightly, ready to grab his gun from his shoulder holster if needed.

“New wrangler. Jackson Cade.”

The stranger’s eyes skimmed down to Jack’s boots then rose. “Haven’t heard of you.”

“Dani hired me.”

Stroking his beard, the intruder pursed his lips and said nothing for a moment long enough to make some folks uncomfortable.

But Jack used the time to size up the man. From the bright red on his neck and arms, he must spend a lot of time outdoors. His worn boots looked broken in...so a lot of walking. He looked slightly heavy, with a barrel chest that’d be handy in pinning down a foe in a brawl, and short, powerful arms that’d land a good punch if you were stupid enough to stay within reach.

His boots resembled the size and shape of the prints, though Jack would need a closer look to be certain. What was more, he had the height and build to be one of the suspects.

“What’s your business here?” the man growled, with no pretense of welcome or friendliness. Just straight-up menace.

Well, good. Jack liked knowing where he stood.

“What’s yours?”

“I work here,” protested the guy, looking like he didn’t get challenged much.

“Well, so do I.” Jack lowered his head and met the guy’s stare dead on from beneath his brows, enjoying his new acquaintance’s deepening scowl and the way his eyes darted away, small fish scattering before a bigger predator.

Could this be the real person behind the Everett Ridland alias?

“I’m a groundskeeper and I’ve got to clear that out. This, uh, isn’t a safe place.”

Jack followed the man’s point to the pile of rocks left by the avalanche. His doubts about the rough man settled some. Seemed like a legitimate reason to be here. Still. He had to check.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam. Perkins. Not that it’s any of your business,” the groundskeeper huffed. “Now. I like to get on with my work.”

Jack nodded slowly, considering. Why didn’t he have any tools? He couldn’t outright accuse the guy of anything exactly and didn’t want to blow his cover. He’d run the name Sam Perkins by Lance later.

Out of choices, he said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

A few hundred yards down the trail, Jack doubled back, creeping through the thick new growth on the forest floor slowly, carefully, his breath a silent pull of air in his teeth. At last, he reached a vantage point, and peered around a tree.

What was Sam really up to?

But to Jack’s surprise, he was gone.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u48e3b601-4dcf-5d6b-adba-429c9629c524)

AFTER SCOURING EVERY inch of the internet for more on Jack, Dani finally admitted that she’d gone too far when she looked up his astrological sign.