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WT let out an exasperated sigh. “Stop worrying. No one is fool enough to cross me. Not even the damned state’s attorney general.”
“If you’re so powerful, why did you insist on me leaving eleven years ago? Why didn’t you let me stay and fight the allegations? If that’s all you thought they were?”
WT shook his head and angrily shoved away his plate.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the huge dining room was the click of Cherry’s silverware as she kept eating.
Carson wished he could walk away right now and not look back. But that was no longer an option. He would need a lot of money to leave the country. If WT wouldn’t pony it up, then he needed the ranch and the money he could get for it. He thought of his sister. He had to convince WT to give him the money so he could disappear.
“Dad?” The word came at a cost after refusing to call WT that for so many years. “Dad?”
His father turned on the only other person in the room. “Cherry. That your real name? It sounds like a stage name.”
Carson swore under his breath as he watched WT take off the gloves. WT would fight as dirty as he had to get what he wanted.
His father threw him a challenging look. But he was no longer that scared kid who’d been sneaked out of Beartooth in the cover of darkness. Ginny’s murder and a target on his back had changed him. Nor did he need to come to Cherry’s defense. She could take care of herself.
Cherry slowly licked her painted lips and turned her full attention to WT. She’d chosen a hot-pink low-cut top that barely covered her nipples and white capris that cupped her toned bottom. Her dyed blond hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head with stray tendrils curling down around her face. The fake eyelashes gave her a sleepy, half-soused look, but then again, it could have been the wine she’d consumed with abandon since they’d sat down to supper.
“I’m a dancer,” she said proudly, daring him to dispute it.
“A dancer?” WT repeated and added, “And I’m a high flier on the trapeze.”
Cherry smiled. “Carson told me that his great grandfather used to be in the circus but I didn’t know you—”
“He’s making fun, Cherry,” Carson said dryly.
She narrowed her eyes at WT. “Making fun of me?”
“No,” WT said. “My son. And by the way, my grandfather rode in a Wild West Show. Not a circus.”
Carson laughed and shot a wink to his fiancée.
At the head of the table, WT bellowed for Margaret to serve dessert.
CHAPTER FOUR
RYLAN TOOK OFF IN A dust devil of anger as Destry climbed into her pickup, her legs weak, her heart aching. Seeing Rylan again had sent her already spinning-out-of-control world even further into orbit. She couldn’t look as he drove on down the road toward the W Bar G. There was no stopping him, no way to call the ranch to warn her father and brother since she hadn’t grabbed her cell phone—not that she could get service often this close to the mountains. Nor could she beat him to the ranch.
She feared not only for Carson. Her father wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a trespasser. Especially a West toting a gun.
Running into Rylan like that had been a shock, one that still reverberated through her. She couldn’t tell if the trembling in her hands as she started her truck had more to do with anger—or fear. Or those old feelings that still lingered when it came to that tall, lanky cowboy.
There’d been other men in the years since Rylan had left, even one she’d been fairly serious about, but she’d always measured them against her first love and they’d always come up short.
But did she even know this Rylan? This man so full of rage and set on vengeance at any cost?
Unable to resist it any longer, she glanced in her rearview mirror.
To her surprise, she saw Rylan hit his brake lights up the road. She watched him in the mirror, waiting and praying he’d changed his mind about confronting her brother.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t understand what was driving him. But he was wrong about Carson. Her brother had loved Ginny.
For long minutes, they sat like that, both pulled off the road fifty yards apart. Both apparently debating what to do next.
“Please, Rylan,” she said under her breath, half plea, half prayer.
She let out the breath she’d unconsciously been holding as she watched him turn his pickup around and head back in her direction. She thought he might stop again, but he didn’t.
He didn’t even look at her as he roared past in a cloud of dust headed away from the W Bar G. He’d said everything he had to say, she thought as she watched him go, her heart in her throat.
What had changed his mind? Hopefully he’d realized after he’d calmed down that the stupidest thing he could do was go to the ranch gunning for Carson.
Whatever had changed his mind, she was thankful. Not that it took care of the problem. She knew Rylan was right. He wouldn’t be the only one riled up about Carson’s return. If Carson stayed here, he wouldn’t be safe.
She sat for a moment, then leaned over the steering wheel letting all the emotions she’d bottled up the past eleven years spill out. She cried for all that had been lost to her, to both their families. Finally, drained, weak with relief and regret, she sat up and wiped her eyes. She’d been strong for so long.
For years she’d told herself she could live without Rylan. She’d moved on with her life. She was happy. At least content. But seeing him, coming face-to-face with him, hearing his voice, looking into his eyes...
He’d always been handsome, but now his body had filled out. He was broader in the shoulders, his arms sinewy with muscle, his face tanned from working outside. There were tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, but if anything, they only made him more handsome.
His hair was still thick and the color of sunshine, his eyes that honey-warm brown that she’d gotten lost in from the first time she’d looked in them. Her heart had always swelled at the sight of him. She’d never stopped loving him—just as she’d promised. Today proved what her heart already knew. She never would.
Pulling herself together, she turned the pickup around and headed back toward the ranch. Thoughts of Rylan aside, she just prayed that this new evidence would prove that Carson was innocent.
* * *
AS RYLAN HEADED home, he thought about the first time he’d laid eyes on Destry Grant. She’d come riding up with the W Bar G’s ranch foreman at a neighbor’s branding on a horse way too big for her. She would have been five at the time to his six. He recalled how serious she’d looked.
What stuck in his mind was that she’d stayed at the branding all day, cutting calves into the chute as if she was ten times her age, and later, when one of the cowboys’ hats had blown off and spooked her horse, she’d gotten bucked off and hit the ground hard. Her face had scrunched up, but she hadn’t shed a tear. She’d climbed the fence to get back on her horse and ridden off.
He’d never seen anyone so determined.
What chapped his behind now, though, was that she hadn’t changed one iota when it came to that stubborn determination and pride. He hated that, when it came to her brother, she just refused to see the truth.
He’d left eleven years ago because he couldn’t bear being around her with his sister’s death standing between them. He’d always rodeoed, but after college, he’d joined the pro circuit. It had been exactly what he’d needed—traveling from town to town across the country, never staying in one place too long. If he needed company, there were bronco and bull riders to hang out with, and if he felt in need of female attention, there were always buckle bunnies and rodeo groupies who were up for a good time.
The rodeo had helped him heal. He’d felt badly about bailing on his family, but his mother and father had two sons at home and he’d kept in touch. The only people he hadn’t wanted to hear anything about were the Grants. Especially Destry.
His family had welcomed him back with open arms and the ranch was large enough that there was plenty of room as well as work. Not that he’d have moved back into his childhood room at the ranch, even if his mother hadn’t turned it into her quilting room.
He’d moved into an old cabin on a stretch of land adjacent to the W Bar G until he could decide what he wanted to do next. The cabin had a roof he could see daylight through and that required a bucket or two when it rained, and often at night he heard mice gnawing on something under the floorboards.
Still, it was better than most of the places he’d slept in while on the rodeo circuit, and he was home.
If only he didn’t feel in such limbo. He’d saved nearly every dime he’d made rodeoing so he had options. But he feared moving ahead meant dealing with the past, something he’d put off all these years.
He swore under his breath, as frustrated with the situation between him and Destry as he’d been eleven years ago. He’d known seeing her again would be difficult. Difficult? He laughed to himself at how that word didn’t come close to adequately describing their encounter.
It hurt like hell. Like being bucked off a horse and hitting the ground with such force that it stole his breath for what seemed like forever. After that initial impact with the ground came the pain in his chest, an ache that radiated through his entire body, and for long moments, he was unable to move or breathe. A small death. Just like seeing Destry after all this time, a moment he would never forget.
And just like getting bucked off a wild horse and being anxious to ride another time, he couldn’t wait to see her again.
As he pulled up to his cabin, he saw his father’s pickup parked out front. Taylor West climbed out of the truck as Rylan cut his engine. One look at his father’s face and he knew he’d heard that Carson Grant was back.
“Where have you been, son?” he asked as Rylan got out. Taylor West was a large man, his blond hair graying around the temples. Years ago he’d been asked to do some modeling. A cowboy through and through, he’d turned down the offer, married his high school sweetheart, Ellie, and settled down to bring a daughter and three sons into the world. Rylan couldn’t have asked for better parents or a more stable family—until his sister, Ginny, was murdered.
His parents were both strong and, with the help of his brothers, had somehow managed to survive the tragedy. Probably better than Rylan the past eleven years.
“Son?” Taylor asked again.
“Just went for a ride,” Rylan said, a half-truth at best.
His father studied him for a long moment. “I know you heard the news.”
He nodded and shifted on his boots as he felt that old aching anger settle in his belly. “If there’s new evidence, then why isn’t Carson Grant already behind bars?”
His father shook his head. “These things take time. The sheriff—”
“The sheriff? Frank Curry isn’t going to—”
“Frank told me he’s just waiting for the new evidence to be run through the crime lab.”
His father was often too trusting. “And how long is that going to take?” Rylan demanded.
“We have to give Frank a chance. The sheriff mentioned that they have more resources than they did eleven years ago and that a lot of cold cases are being solved now because of it. All the evidence is being reviewed. They need enough to convict.”
Rylan grasped on to hope. “It has to be enough that they can nail the son of a bitch.” He hated to think, though, what Carson’s arrest would do to Destry. Her brother could be facing the death penalty.
“Frank Curry is hoping he can keep a lid on this community until then,” Taylor said. “Son, I need your word that you won’t do anything to make this any worse.”
Rylan thought about earlier, sitting on the narrow track of dirt road, the wind whistling in his side window, his heart pounding after coming face-to-face with Destry again. He didn’t have to tell his father that he’d been running for years from the past. Or that he didn’t think he could live with himself if he let his sister’s murderer remain free.
Taylor West knew his son. He’d been the one to pull Rylan off Carson the day of Ginny’s funeral when the Grants had had the audacity to show up.
“You’ve got to let the law handle this,” his father said now.
“And if the law doesn’t?” Rylan asked.
“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Rylan studied his father for a long moment. “I’ll wait to see what the sheriff comes up with.”
His father laid a big hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, son. I can’t lose another one of you.”
* * *
SHERIFF FRANK CURRY dragged the evidence box marked Ginny Sue West over to his desk and lifted the top. Until recently, it had been years since he’d reviewed the material. He’d had to force himself to put it away. The case had kept him awake at night.
He’d read through the report dozens of times. Everything had been pretty straightforward. Local girl Ginny West had been struck in the head with a blunt object before her body had been dumped beside the road a couple of miles from town.
She’d still been alive at the time. In the shallow ditch where she was found, there was evidence of where she’d tried to crawl out. But her injuries had been significant. She’d died of the blows she’d sustained before her body had been found.
There were no defensive wounds, which led him to believe she’d known her killer, and that’s why she’d gotten into a vehicle with him. That didn’t narrow down the suspects since Ginny West would have felt safe getting into a vehicle with most anyone in the county.
The ranch pickup Ginny had driven into town had been found behind the Range Rider bar. Originally, Frank had thought she might have met with foul play because of something that had happened in the bar earlier that night.
However, no one remembered seeing her. Which had led him to believe she’d never gone inside the bar. Whoever she’d run into in the parking lot behind the bar had made sure of that. Which could explain why her purse was found in the pickup.
The main suspect had been Ginny’s boyfriend who’d she’d broken up with about a week prior to her murder. Several locals had seen Carson Grant arguing with Ginny in public. It hadn’t helped either that Carson was WT Grant’s son or that Carson had been in some minor scrapes growing up. People in this community never forgot.
Carson, who’d sworn he’d been on the ranch all night, also had an alibi. And there was no evidence to prove he’d had a hand in Ginny’s murder. The town was convinced, though, and Frank thought it had been smart of WT to send Carson away.
Now, with the new evidence and Carson back in Beartooth, if there was any chance of closing this cold case, then Frank was taking it. But the last thing he needed was another murder on his hands, though.
He had asked the lab to put a rush on the tests. It was a long shot, but if he could get some DNA evidence, they could all move on with their lives. And if there was nothing on the barrette... At the very least it had gotten Carson back to town. Now he just had to hope talk of new evidence would force the killer to make a mistake and out himself.
His instincts told him that even with his suspicions about Carson Grant, this case wasn’t as cut-and-dried as everyone thought.
CHAPTER FIVE
CARSON LEFT THE HOUSE after dinner on the pretense of going for a walk. Cherry had turned in early. He couldn’t help smiling when he thought about her and WT at dinner. He wished he was more like her. She could handle WT with one hand tied behind her.
Margaret, the housekeeper and cook, had put a box of his old clothes in the bedroom he and Cherry shared. He’d found a pair of his Western boots and put them on, along with some worn jeans and a flannel shirt. When he looked in the mirror, it gave him a shock. He’d expected to see the twenty-year-old he’d been, but his face gave away an unmistakable regret.
He’d left the house, unable to bear another moment with his father. He hadn’t gone far down the road when he saw Destry go roaring past in one of the ranch pickups.
The fact that she was just now coming back didn’t bode well. Something told him the cows she’d gone to rescue from the road weren’t the only problem she’d run into. Did it have something to do with him?
He’d known his being back here would be trouble for her. He loved his sister and hated what he’d put her through already. Now it was about to get worse. Destry would be collateral damage, but he had little choice. All of this had been set in motion long before she was even born.
It wasn’t far to the homestead house as the crow flies, but over a mile by road. After he started down the mountain, he spotted the barn and corrals on the mountain just out of sight from the house. Nearby was the airstrip and hangar where the plane was kept.
Not far into the walk, he regretted not driving. The wind felt cold. Either that or his blood had thinned. It wouldn’t be long before snow would blanket the ground, and stay there through April, even May.
Down the road in the fading light of day, he caught sight of the old house where he and Destry had grown up.
“So you were born...poor?” Cherry had asked.
“My father had been dirt poor, as WT called it. He was doing okay by the time I came along and even better when Destry was born. We weren’t rich, by any means. We lived in the old homestead. He hadn’t built the new place yet or had his plane accident.” Funny, but Carson recalled those years more fondly than he’d expected he would.
“WT made some good investments, bought up any land that came available—and usually cheaply since this was before Montana property went sky high. As they say, the rest is history,” he’d told her.
Cherry had been impressed. “Well, that’s good for you,” she’d said.
Was it? If WT still lived in the old homestead house and the ranch was small as it had been when he started, would he be so dead set on his son taking the place over? Carson doubted it.
And wouldn’t things have been different when Ginny West was murdered? WT couldn’t have afforded to send his son away for eleven years. Carson would have had to stay—no matter the consequences.
