Winsor, Linda (11 page)

"I
appreciate it." Shep reached out to shake Clyde's hand. "So, what
were you going to do on the radio, leave that message with
her?"

"Not
much chance of that," Clyde grunted turning to leave. "I was just
gonna give you a heads-up that I was comin' out." He winced as he slipped
into the driver's seat. "I'm gettin' too old for this."

"You
still got a few years left in you." Stepping up to the car, Shep closed
the door and peered through the half-open window. "I'll see you at eight
sharp tomorrow. I doubt she'll be going anywhere if I have the Jeep." Not
as afraid of horses as she was.

"Yeah,
well, you mind you take care of yourself and watch your back, just in case them
DEA are right about the folks she's involved with." Clyde gunned the big
engine of the police car.

Stone
still, Shep watched as his visitor turned around and headed out the main
street, the same way he'd come in. He didn't like being used, which was exactly
what that city gal was doing. If he hadn't followed his professional instincts
and called Washington, he might not have found out until it was too late. Shep
started for the house. Maybe God sent an answer to his quandary after all—
hands
off.

The
white porcelain backsplash was spattered with the charred debris Deanna cut
away from what was left of her culinary attempt. Shep was inclined to have it
out with her then and there, but knowing that if she lied before, she'd lie
again held him in check. That and the tear-glazed eyes she raised to him as he
approached her checked his raw impulse.

"I'm
here under false pretenses," she announced in a voice so small it begged
for reassurance.

Shep
stopped in midstep. Had she heard his conversation with Clyde?

"I
can't cook worth butkus!" Deanna slam-dunked the biscuit she was working
on into the garbage can next to the gas stove. "I usually ordered out or
ate salad, but how hard can it be to make a biscuit?"

Following
her glance to the table, Shep spied the large bowl of greens decorated with
pepper rings and fancy cucumber slices. "I like salad," he ventured
cautiously, uncertain yet as to which of her personas was going to
prevail—Alice in Despair or Valkyrie of the Burned Biscuit. More disconcerting,
neither resembled the pepper spray packing mama, who'd stood him off yesterday,
or the indignant sleepyhead, who'd held him at bay with a pillow this morning.

"I
just got distracted and forgot the time." She sniffed, rubbing her nose
with the back of her hand.

Burned
never looked as cute as it did on Deanna's upturned, forlorn face. He reached
for a towel and mopped some of the charred crumbs she'd been scraping off her
nose. "Don't fret. The salad, the meatloaf, and those..." Shep
grasped for an identification of the shriveled bits surrounding the lump of
meat with clotted ketchup topping. "Vegetables," he decided,
"will be just fine."

"I've
never been a homemaker." Deanna sounded like her entire life had been a
failure. "But I can cook with a book. I mean—" She grabbed a paper
napkin and blew her nose. "If you can read, you can cook, right?"

"That's
what I've found." Shep was glad the Feds were coming to save him. He just
hoped they came before he forgot how mad he was.

"But
I can clean," she went on, "and I'm very good at organizing."

"You
wouldn't be successful if you couldn't... organize, that is." Now
that
was
intelligent. "Look, you just have a seat and let me finish up here, soon
as I wash up a bit."

"But
dinner will be cold."

Like
that could make it worse. Shep fought down a chuckle. "Just put it back in
the oven. It'll stay warm from the residual heat."

He
started for the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head. Maybe she'd left
ketchup in the bottle to get dinner down.

"Are
you too disappointed?" she called after him with a crescendo of emotion in
her voice.

"Nope,
don't sweat it. I've seen worse than that."

Shep
closed the bathroom door behind him and looked at the mirror. "You're a
lying son of a gun," he accused the twin staring back at him. He hadn't
seen a meal done quite to that extent, even when Tick overturned a fry pan of
fish in the campfire.

And
he
was
disappointed. But the latter had nothing to do with food, he
realized, flipping the water on at the sink. It had to do with deceit and all
the past it dragged up.

Shep
lathered and rinsed his hands and arms, then buried his head under the lukewarm
flow, rinsing away the dust as vigorously as he mentally dismissed the
memories. Giving his squeeze-dried hair a dog shake that splattered the mirror,
he reached for the clean towel on the back of the bathroom door, when he caught
a whiff of an unfamiliar scent.

It
wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it wasn't perfumy like a bathroom lotion or
cleanser. Shep smelled the towel. That wasn't it. Confounded, he sniffed like a
bloodhound homing in on the scent until he reached the door itself where it was
strongest.

That
city gal had to have scrambled more than his wits, because if Shep didn't know
better, he'd swear he smelled butter.

***

By
the time Shep returned to the kitchen, Deanna had pulled herself together. She
forced an overbright smile and shrugged.

"Sorry
I went all wimpy on you. I'm not really a crybaby. I just wanted to make it up
to you for your taking me in and turning Hopewell into a shelter where I can
regroup my thoughts."

"It's
no big deal, Deanna."

She
turned away hastily and took the meatloaf out of the oven. "I promise I'll
do better tomorrow. You'll have a meal fit for a king."

This
time tomorrow Shep wouldn't be grappling for words to put her mind at ease.
Deanna Manetti would be in the custody of the DEA. "Any idea what you'll do
when you get your car fixed?"

"Go
back to New York, I guess." She thumped the meatloaf she put on the table
with her finger and wrinkled her nose. "Better get a sharp knife. It's
kind of dried out."

"I'm
sure it's nothing ketchup and applesauce can't fix."

Shep
took a carving knife from the drawer by the stove and plied it to the meatloaf.
"Though I've sawed through firewood that wasn't this hard," he added
with a quirk to his mouth.

His
humor put a smile on heretofore trembling lips. "You're a good guy,
Shepard Jones," Deanna said. "I'd begun to think that even God had
forsaken me when your horse ran me off the road. I had nowhere to run. And then
along came you—oo—oo."
She mimicked the song they'd heard on the
radio.

Deanna's
choice of words in describing her plight was a direct hit, striking a painful
chord from his past. After Ellen broke their engagement, he hadn't been able to
run home to the high country fast enough, crippled knee and all. It was just
the place he needed to heal, both physically and spiritually.

"You
can't outrun God, especially here in Big Sky country. That old saying head for
the hills' works for all God's creatures, man included." Heaven knew he
told it straight. "The wilderness always has been a refuge for saint or
sinner." Man, he was starting to sound like Reverend Lawrence. "What
I mean is that the farther you are from the distraction of life in general, the
easier it is to feel God's presence. That's why David—even Jesus—got away
sometimes, you know. Just to feel closer. And take my word for it, up there on
the mountain top, surrounded by God's untarnished creation, it's hard not to
think of Him."

"Yeah,
if one of God's creatures doesn't eat you before you can pray to be
saved."

Not
even Deanna's half smile could hide the sense of loss and desperation Shep
witnessed in her eyes. Beyond the wet glaze that some women could produce at
will, her very spirit cried out to his kindred one.

In
that instant, Shep not only knew her pain, he knew this was no criminal. She
was just a frightened, lost, and lonely soul— and that spooked him more than
looking into the cold conscienceless void of a hardened assassin. On the brink
of a leap he wasn't sure he wanted to take, Shep put the knife on the side of
the platter as though its slight weight might carry him over.
Lord, I can't
do this.

"I'll
get the ketchup." Deanna turned stiffly to the refrigerator, unaware that
she'd offered reprieve. "I mean," she said to the interior, "I
thought I was happy
with
all that distraction. Now I'm not so sure. This
enough ketchup?" She held up a half bottle of the red save-anything sauce.

Ketchup
was good. Glad to be returning to neutral ground, he breathed a little easier.
Maybe his luck would last until tomorrow, when choice was removed from his
hands. "For starters. But I'll get the
piece de resistance."

In
their effort to sidestep each other, Deanna heading for the table and Shep for
the cupboard, they nearly collided.

"Yo,
cowboy, this kitchen ain't big enough for the both of us."

Montana
wasn't big enough for the two of them. As though she were toting a loaded
six-gun instead of a ketchup bottle, Shep bypassed Deanna and fumbled through
the cabinet for a jar of... What was he looking for?

A
jar of applesauce caught his eye. Yes, that was it.

Lord,
just help me make it through the night,
Shep prayed as he returned to the table.
And maybe when the setting sun coming through the kitchen window didn't bathe
her in its angel aura, he'd be just fine.

***

An
overcast sky cast a cryptic gray cloak over the morning skyline of the city
From the penthouse view of Ontario Imports, the high-rises appeared as stark
and still as tombs against it. Below, tiny humans and miniature vehicles
worked, silent as maggots in the asphalt bowels of the city streets.
Insignificant in the overall scheme of things.

Seated
at an oriental desk of carved teak, a man in a tailored gray suit turned from
the vista. Fifteen years ago, Victor Dusault was one of them. Today he sat in a
god's seat, silver wings distinguishing his once pitch black hair at the
temples like medals of honor. At his command, the drugs his men smuggled into
the country were turned into money, and money, after being laundered through
some of his legitimate corporate investments, into power.

A
soft, gliding sound drew his attention from the outside world to a glassed-in
cage that took up one entire wall of his suite. Ama, a gift from one of his key
Mexican associates, slithered off a length of dead log and over the floor of
the habitat toward the feeding door, where a small white rabbit quivered,
frozen to the spot.

It
was a natural law. Power begat power. The strong drew it from the weak. Dark
eyes narrowed in anticipation, the man waited for the nine-foot boa to make its
kill when the phone rang. With little more than an annoyed glance away from the
cage, he turned on the speakerphone.

"Yes?"

"We
found the woman," a voice crackled on the other end of the line.

Now
this news was worth distraction. Swinging his leather chair about-face to the
desk, he folded his hands in satisfaction. "Where?"

"She's
taken up with an ex-U.S. Marshal near a hole-in-the-wall called Buffalo
Butte... still in Montana," the answer came. "The Marshal became
suspicious of her behavior and called an old buddy to check up on her story.
One thing led to another."

Victor
smiled, an unnatural expression that strained the taut set of his mouth.
"It's always nice to have the authorities help us out."

"We
aim to please."

"You
know the procedure. Don't kill her until she tells you where Majors put the
money." Majors was an idiot to trust anyone, much less a woman. There was
no room for trust in female characteristics, not in fickle, frivolous, or fun.
A half smirk settled on Victor's mouth. But then, what could one expect from a
peon who double-crossed a powerful man like himself?

The
position to which Victor had elevated Majors as CEO of Amtron Enterprises
simply proved too tempting. His only regret was that he couldn't personally
show others, who might think of getting away with a similar scheme, what happens
to anyone who disappoints Victor Dusault.

"My
guess is she'll lead us to more than the money."

Victor
tapped impatient fingers on the corner of his leather desk pad, waiting for his
informant to continue.

"Someone
else is very interested in her whereabouts besides us and the
authorities."

The
tapping stopped, his fingers fisting. "I don't have time for word
games."

"Majors
is alive," the caller answered hastily. "His body wasn't in the
charred vehicle."

This
was better news than finding the money. Money Victor could replace. The
opportunity for revenge came only once. "Sloppy of him," he said,
masking his delight with indifference.

C.
R. Majors was such an amateur minor player; he hardly deserved Victor's
personal attention. A pro would have at least put another body in there to buy
time. Call it an alternative answer to the homeless problem. "So she
outsmarted him, eh?" Deserving or not, the double-crossing little twerp
was going to get his full attention for as long as it took for a bullet to
close the distance between Victor's gun and Majors' head. As for the Manetti
woman—

"Not
quite." The eagerness on the other end of the phone line reflected
Victor's own. "We found a tracking device on her car, and it wasn't one of
ours. If it were, she'd either be singing at the top of her voice or no longer
with the living. It
had
to be Majors. I say we wait and catch the
proverbial two birds with one stone."

"You
say?"
He hated working with government agents. They had trouble recalling where the
bulk of their paycheck came from.

"I
think.
I meant to say I think. It's your call, sir."

"Just
sit on this little love nest until both birds are home. My team and I will be
waiting for the word."

Astonishment
echoed in the caller's voice.
"You're
coming across yourself? What
if it's a setup?"