Redemption (17 page)

At the time, he hadn’t suspected Judge Hyett. It wasn’t until his sentencing that Jack noticed Chantell wasn’t in the courtroom. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Her father had never made a secret of the fact that he thought his daughter could do a whole lot better than Jack French, and Chantell was her daddy’s girl.

He tried to shove away the thought, telling himself it was enough to know who’d set him up—and why. He was a changed man, Jack reminded himself now. Well, at least he was trying to change. He’d known the first time he’d asked Chantell out what her father the judge was like. But that was back when he rode bulls and took crazy chances.

Jack was almost at the turnoff to the French place when he saw a flash of red in the distance. Earlier, when he’d driven by the café, he’d seen that Kate’s pickup was gone.

He’d come down a seldom-used road today, taking a longer way to his family’s ranch because he didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. In this part of the country, if the other driver recognized your rig, he would feel he had to stop, put down his window and visit for a while.

Slowing to turn down the road, he saw the red truck turn at the edge of the old Ackermann place and head west toward the hollow.

Swearing, Jack sped up, heading in the same direction the pickup had gone. He told himself it probably wasn’t even Kate. But somehow he knew better. What would she be doing going up that hollow, though?

When he reached the turnoff he could still see tracks through the tall weeds that had taken over the old road. He drove a little farther, parked in a grove of cottonwoods just off the main road and took off walking.

As he did, the land rose sharply from the valley floor toward the high, rugged peaks of the Crazies. He hadn’t gone far when he stopped to look back down the valley. He could see his family homestead in the distance. Even from here he could make out the old shotgun house with the dilapidated porch. The place needed a new roof. Hell, it needed to be torn down.

Before he’d left here in handcuffs, he had been living in a cabin out back that had once been a bunkhouse. It wasn’t much to write home about either.

He shook his head now, wondering why he didn’t just sell the place lock, stock and barrel to Hitch McCray.
You’ve been talking about going down to Wyoming and working on the Green River spread, to wrangle for a rancher who knows you and would hire you even though you are a felon. Why not do it? Why not put Beartooth and the past behind you?

Yeah, why not? he asked himself as he began to walk again. Now that he was a felon, his options as far as real jobs went had certainly narrowed. He shoved the thought away, knowing that going down that path could lead to nothing but trouble.

The afternoon light was intense. A low sun washed the scene in eerie golden light. He worked his way through the tall grass, feeling the ever-present Crazies looming over him. Snow gleamed on the high peaks from the latest snowstorm, the icy scent coming down on the breeze. Down here the snow had melted by the afternoon.

He hadn’t gone far when the trees became more dense. He spotted Kate’s pickup parked back in them. No sign of her, though.

That’s when he spotted where someone had cut the fence into the old Ackermann place. It didn’t take much to figure out where Kate had gone. But why the hell would she? Surely she’d seen the signs on the fence. Surely she would know how dangerous it was.

That’s when he heard a sound he recognized in an instant.

A shovel blade pinging off a rock. This land of glacial debris was riddled with rock just below the soil’s surface.

Someone was digging on the other side of the fence.

* * *

K
ATE SWORE AS
the shovel hit another rock. She stopped, leaned against the shovel and wiped her face with her shirtsleeve. Heat radiated off the stone foundation of the barn.

She eyed the hole she’d only started to dig. It wasn’t here. In a few moments the sun would dip behind the tallest peak of the Crazy Mountains and shine like a keyhole down into a long golden slant through the pines. Like the clue to the Lost Dutchman Mine, she thought.

Right now the last of the day’s sunshine was glaring off the side of the stone. She wished she’d brought water. With a sigh she took off her shirt, shedding down to just a tank top and jeans. She told herself she’d dig just a little farther to the west, then she had to get back to town because the quilt group was coming to paint tonight.

As she lifted the shovel and took a step in that direction, a shadow fell across the stone in front of her. The shovel came up with a jerk as, startled, she swung around, heart in her throat, ready to defend herself.

Jack French.

She groaned inwardly. He stood, hands in his jeans pockets, looking only mildly curious. She wasn’t fooled for an instant.

“There are easier ways to get to China,” he said.

Caught. A half dozen lies leaped to her lips, but he didn’t give her a chance.

“I should have known the moment I saw all those lost-treasure magazines at your apartment,” he said with a shake of his head. “This explains what you’re doing in Beartooth. Has nothing to do with the café, does it?” He looked disappointed in her. “On top of that, you can’t read. This whole land used to be riddled with booby traps and minefields. The military came in and got rid of most of them, but it’s still dangerous and if there was any treasure here, believe me, it would have been found.”

She leaned on her shovel and said nothing. What could she say? He wouldn’t believe her even if she told him the truth. Then again, he just might. She thought about telling him everything, right there and then. Wouldn’t it be to her advantage to have Jack on her side? He was from here. And as strong as he looked, she didn’t doubt he could wield a shovel better than she could.

He looked at her as if waiting to see what nonsense she was going to come up with. The sun dipped behind the Crazies, the barn wall going dark, but banked heat still radiated off the stone base of the barn.

She could feel perspiration trickle down between her breasts. Jack’s gaze left her face to brush over her tank top, making her shiver as if he’d touched her. She felt her nipples harden under those blue eyes. Worse, she felt desire spark and run red-hot through her veins.

What had she been thinking? Tell Jack everything? Trust this cowboy? Given the way he was looking at her—and the effect it was having on her—she couldn’t imagine anything more dangerous.

“I think I’m through here,” she said, grabbing the handle of her shovel and pushing what little earth she’d turned up back into the shallow hole.

“I doubt that.” His voice sounded as rough as his thumb pad had been when he’d run it over her lip.

She saw her own need mirrored in his gaze and quickly looked away. As she walked past him, she feared he would touch her—and feared he wouldn’t. It had been so long since any man had made her want like this.

Just the thought of his touch... When he didn’t stop her, she closed her eyes for a moment, telling herself she’d just dodged a bullet.

But as she opened them and kept walking, she couldn’t deny the ache inside her. She wanted Jack French and that made him all the more dangerous. She told herself she’d narrowly avoided a disaster by not baring her soul to him only moments ago. Kate knew that with Jack French, she’d be baring a whole lot more than her soul.

* * *

J
ACK STOOD NEXT
to the barn, listening to the sound of Kate’s pickup engine as she drove away. He cursed at how close he’d come just now. It had taken everything in him not to drag her into his arms. But he’d known that if he touched her just then, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

He shoved away the image of the two of them, her back against the barn wall, him—

“What is wrong with you?” She wasn’t the first woman who’d made him crazy. But she was the first who he’d felt such an attraction to that he couldn’t seem to keep away from her.

With a curse, he realized that the old Jack would have taken her right there against the barn wall. He wished now he had. Maybe then he could get her out of his system.

He recalled the look on her face when he’d come up on her, startling her. She’d turned with the shovel in her hands. Surprise and determination written all over her face. She’d been ready to defend herself. He counted himself lucky that he hadn’t been whacked with a shovel blade upside his head.

Or worse, shot with the pistol he’d seen tucked into the waist of her jeans.

His thoughts, though, had been more on the way her tank top stuck to her perspiring skin than her hitting or shooting him. He didn’t even want to think about the way her jeans hugged her long legs or cupped that amazing behind.

As he glanced around, he saw other places someone had been digging on the property. Kate. The fool woman. He kicked with his boot at the dirt she’d dislodged, sending a few clods flying into the air.

The woman was a damned treasure hunter. He shook his head as he recalled the stacks of treasure magazines he’d seen in her apartment. She’d bought into the legend of Ackermann’s gold cache. Which meant he was right about what she was doing in Beartooth. And worse, she was going to be disappointed—
and eventually would leave.

He started to turn to the road for the walk back to his pickup when he spotted something Kate had dropped in her hurry to escape. He reached down at the edge of the barn foundation and picked up a single glove, knocked off the dust and pocketed it.

That was when he noticed something else Kate had dropped. Leaning down, he picked up a discolored scrap of paper and saw that it was freezer paper, the kind used to wrap meat.

“What the hell?” he said to himself as he unfolded it and saw what he was holding in his hands. One side was a slick, waxy surface. On the papery side, someone had drawn what looked like a map.

* * *

K
ATE DROVE BACK
to town as if the devil himself was chasing after her. What she was running from, though, were her own feelings. Although she couldn’t wait to get away from Jack.

He was going to ruin her plans. He’d already complicated them. She’d let him get too close and now he’d caught her digging in Ackermann Hollow.

She shoved down on the gas pedal as if she could outrun the crazy thought that had come to her. Why didn’t she just give in to this mad desire? Jack French was the kind of cowboy who, once he got what he wanted, would hit the trail so fast all she’d see was his backside riding away.

The idea definitely had its appeal in more ways than one. She thought about the fortune-teller. It was true. Jack was in danger as long as he was around her. Better to cut those ties quickly, since it was only a matter of time before those men who’d come looking for her a few nights ago returned.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that they
had
come back. Only now they were waiting for her to do the dirty work for them.

Distracted with those thoughts, Kate was all the way back to town and parked behind the café before she realized that one of her gloves was missing. She reached for her long-sleeved shirt, which she’d discarded earlier when the day had gotten too hot.

Under it she saw the single glove and made a hurried search of the pickup cab only to realize she’d lost more than a glove. Suddenly panicked, she felt the open pocket of her shirt and realized it was empty.

Her heart lodged in her throat and for a moment she couldn’t catch her breath. “No!” She searched the cab again, but it was fruitless.

The map must have fallen out when she’d grabbed up her shirt, which meant it was still out there by the old barn. She reached to start the truck and go back, but realized there wasn’t time. The quilters would be here soon to start painting.

Unless she could call Cilla and get them to change the night.

Racing up the stairs, she hurried inside her apartment to the phone. She mentally kicked herself for being so careless and for letting Jack get to her yet again. As she started to look up Cilla’s number, another thought slowed her movements.

What if Jack—

The sudden pounding on the door startled her. She hurriedly reached for her gun. With a curse, she realized that in her haste she’d left it in the pickup. Jack French was going to get her killed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“
M
S.
L
A
F
OND?”
S
HERIFF
F
RANK
Curry knocked again. He’d checked her pickup hood on the way in. It was still hot, the motor beneath it ticking softly. She hadn’t been home long.

The door finally opened. Kate LaFond stood peering around the edge of it. Her hair was in disarray, her clothes dusty and the knees of her jeans were caked with fresh dirt.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.

“I just got home from a hike and was about to climb into the shower.”

“Looks like you took another spill,” he said, motioning to the crusted dirt on her jeans.

She smiled. “You have to be half mountain goat to hike in the Crazies. Can this wait?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I won’t keep you long.” He stepped into the apartment, realizing it was the first time he’d ever been here. Claude hadn’t been one to hold social get-togethers. He probably saw enough of people down in the café on a daily basis.

The apartment had the same overall footprint as the café, only this space had been divided into a small living room, kitchen, one bedroom and a bath, from what Frank could tell. The walls were bare, the rooms sparsely furnished. He got the feeling Kate wasn’t planning to stay long. Or maybe she just hadn’t gotten around to really settling in.

“Do you mind?” he asked, motioning to the small dinette set and the two chairs. He pulled out one and sat down.

She looked uncomfortable and nervously brushed a lock of her hair back from her face as she sat down. “If this is about the café again—”

“I suppose it might be, in a way,” he said. “Here’s my problem. A fisherman finds a murdered man down by the river about twenty miles from here. At first there doesn’t seem to be any connection between the man and Beartooth or you. But then I find out that earlier the night before, the man had been asking about you outside the Range Rider.”