Unforgiven

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“A little sweet, a darker meat than elk or deer. I’ll get you a package of steaks to try,” Bethany had promised. Behind her, she’d heard Clete banging around behind the bar, louder than usual.

It wasn’t until the bar had cleared out some that he’d called her over. “So you shot it yourself,” he’d said and offered her a drink.

She’d never been one to hold a grudge or turn down a free drink. Not to mention the fact that she’d had a crush on Clete since junior high. He’d been Beartooth’s claim to fame, a football player who’d played for the Grizzlies at the University of Montana. That is until he got hurt.

Bethany had always known she was going to marry him. She even did that silly thing all lovesick girls do, she wrote Mrs. Clete Reynolds and Bethany Reynolds so many times that she believed it.

When he’d gotten injured his sophomore year at U of M, he’d dropped out, come home and gotten a job bartending at the Range Rider.

“Just until the leg heals,” he would say. Everyone knew better. When the bar came up for sale, the owner sold it to Clete and carried the loan.

“So tell me about this moose,” Clete had said that day at the bar as he’d glanced up from one of the photos to look at her. There’d been only one other time that he’d looked at her like that, years ago at the Fall Harvest Festival when she was sixteen. She’d told him that day she was going to marry him and that he’d better wait for her to grow up.

But it had taken the moose to bring them together years later.

“You gutted it yourself?” he’d said.

It was so big that she’d had to crawl inside it.

The moose had gotten them dating. But it had taken the elk permit to get Clete to pop the question. It was almost an accepted thing, women giving up their tags so their men could hunt more, even though it was illegal. If you got caught.

Most things came down to simply that, she’d learned. Like affairs, she thought as she slipped into her Western shirt.

“That was amazing,” said the man on the bed.

She felt warm fingertips brush along the top of her bare butt and smiled to herself. Some men were breast men, others leg men. This one was all about her large, round butt and she loved it.

Clete had never appreciated her backside. Hell, he wasn’t all that wild about her other parts, either. Lovemaking with Clete had become so mechanical that Bethany could just lie there and think about anything else she wanted until it was over. At just barely thirty-two, she was in her prime and was glad at least there was one man around who appreciated that fact. This man had never thought she was too young for him.

“I’m glad you were able to get away today,” he said.

She finished snapping her Western shirt and stood. This was when she usually told him that she couldn’t do this anymore. If they got caught, they both had too much to lose, not to mention it was wrong.

Bethany always left him, swearing she wouldn’t go back. But after a day or two, she’d weaken. He made her feel as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He also was smart enough to know a woman didn’t want snow tires on Valentine’s Day, she thought as she again touched the tiny heart-shaped silver locket he’d given her. It felt cold against her bare skin.

“I have to work a double shift at the café tomorrow,” she said and groaned at the thought. She’d worked at the café through high school and thought those days were behind her once she married Clete. She’d been wrong about that, too.

“I’m sorry, Sweetie, but I’m going to be busy for a few days myself.”

She turned to look at him, a little surprised by his words. He always had more free time than she did. Lately, she’d felt as if he was losing interest in her and that scared her.

“Oh, and don’t forget to take that off before you go home, will you,” he told her, motioning to the locket resting against her skin.

The locket, like their affair, was their secret. “I won’t forget.”

* * *

DESTRY COULDN’T WAIT to ride horseback up in the high country above the ranch. She did her best thinking on the back of a horse. Or no thinking at all, which would have been fine with her this afternoon.

When she stopped by the house on her way to the barn, Cherry was lying by the pool.

“Is it always this quiet here?” Cherry asked.

“Always,” Destry said, looking toward the spectacular Crazy Mountains.

“Where do you shop?” Cherry asked.

“Nettie at the Beartooth General Store sells the essentials, food, supplies, even some clothing and muck boots.”

“Muck boots. You have a lot of use for those?” Cherry smiled up at her.

“Actually we do, especially in the spring and during a winter thaw when you’re out feeding the animals.”

“I can’t imagine,” Cherry said with a shake of her head. “Carson said there are grizzlies and they sometimes come down in the yard?”

Destry could tell that the thought had been worrying her. “Occasionally.” She didn’t add that this time of year bears were fattening up for the winter and stuffing themselves before going into hibernation.

Cherry sighed. “I have to tell you, this place gives me the creeps. It’s too...isolated.”

Destry thought about what her brother’s fiancée had said as she prepared for her trip up into the mountains. She’d noticed that Carson had spent little time with Cherry and suspected he was seeing her differently against the Montana backdrop. Cherry was like a fish out of water—and clearly unhappy being here.

Inside the big house, Destry followed a familiar, alluring scent as she walked down to the kitchen to find Margaret making fried pies. A dozen of the small crescent shaped pies were cooling on a rack next to the stove. Against the golden brown of the crusts, the white frosting drizzled over them now dripped onto a sheet of aluminum foil.

“You’re just in time,” Margaret said, smiling, as she lifted two more pies from the hot grease and put them beside the others.

“They smell wonderful.” Destry picked up a still warm pie and took a bite. The crust was flaky and buttery and delicious. She licked her lips, closing her eyes as her taste buds took in the warm cinnamon apple filling and sweet icing.

“Do they meet your satisfaction?” Margaret asked with a smile as Destry groaned in approval.

“I swear they’re the best you’ve ever made,” she said between bites.

Margaret laughed. “You always say that.”

Even with fried pies cooling nearby, Carson sat at the counter in the kitchen with nothing but a cup of coffee in front of him, looking miserable.

“Why aren’t you out by the pool?” she asked.

“I’m showing Carson around the ranch,” their father said as he wheeled into the kitchen. “He’s been gone so long he doesn’t know anything about the operation. I planned to take him out first thing this morning, but apparently he went fishing.”

Carson grunted as he stared down into his cup. “And didn’t catch a darned thing.”

WT ignored him, shifting his gaze to Destry instead. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

“Riding up to collect the rest of the cattle from summer pasture,” Destry said as she poured herself a half cup of coffee.

“I thought we had ranch hands for that,” her father said.

She merely smiled. It was an old battle between them. He made little secret of the fact that he didn’t like her actually working the ranch. But she’d always loved calving on those freezing cold nights in January when she could see her breath inside the barn. There was nothing like witnessing the birth of a new calf, branding to the sound of bawling calves, the feel of baking sun on your back or riding through cool, dark pines gathering cattle in the fall.

He had the idea that marriage would change her. It often amazed her that her own father didn’t know her at all.

“On your way out you might tell your brother’s fiancée that at this altitude she’s going to get burned to a crisp out there,” WT said to her.

“Don’t bother,” Carson said. “Cherry likes to find out things on her own. Anyway, she can take care of herself.”

As her father and brother left, Destry grabbed a couple of Margaret’s famous fried pies, wrapped up a couple for Russell Murdock, their ranch foreman, and finished her coffee. She was on her way out when the phone rang.

She picked it up to save Margaret the effort. “W Bar G, Destry speaking.”

The voice on the other end of the line was low and hoarse. It could have been a man or a woman’s. “You tell that brother of yours we don’t want the likes of him around here.”

“Who is this?” she demanded, but the caller had already hung up. As she returned the receiver, she saw Margaret looking at her and knew it wasn’t the first time someone had called threatening Carson.

“People who call making threats hardly ever do anything more,” Margaret said, turning back to her fried pies. “I’d be more afraid for anyone who tries to come on this ranch. Your father’s been carrying his .357 magnum since your brother came home.”

So he’d been expecting trouble. That made her all the more worried for her brother. She scooped up the pies, said goodbye to Margaret and headed for the barn. Since his accident, her father had put in a paved path down to the barn, even though he no longer rode.

As she saddled up, she promised herself that for a few hours, she was going to put all of her worries aside. She loved the ride up into the high mountain meadows and the feel of the horse beneath her. So many ranches now used everything from four-wheelers to helicopters to round up their cattle, leaving the horses to be nothing more than pasture ornaments.

She much preferred a horse than a noisy four-wheeler. Her horse Hay Burner, a name her father tagged the mare, was one she’d rescued along with another half dozen wild horses from Wyoming.

Destry had fallen helplessly in love with the mare at first sight. She was a deep chocolate color with a wild mane and a gentle manner. She’d taken well to cattle and cutting calves out of the herd.

As Destry rode out to join the ranch foreman and the ranch hands for the ride up into the Crazies, she breathed in the scent of towering pines and the smell of saddle leather.

Meadowlarks sang from the thick groves of aspens as white cumulous clouds bobbed along in a sea of clear blue. The air felt cool and crisp with the sharp scent of the pines and the promise of fall in the changing colors of the leaves. Overhead, a bald eagle circled looking for prey. Nearby a squirrel chattered at them from a pine bough.

“Everything all right at the house?” the ranch foreman asked as Destry rode beside him.

Russell Murdock had let the others ride on ahead of them. He’d been a ranch hand when she was young and had worked his way up to foreman. He’d been with the W Bar G longer than anyone except Margaret. Destry considered them both family.

In his late fifties, Russell was a kind, good-natured man with infinite patience with both the ranch hands and WT. He’d been the one who’d dried her tears when he’d found her crying in the barn when she was a girl. He’d picked her up from the dirt when she’d tried to ride one of the ranch animals she shouldn’t have. He’d also been there for her when Carson had left and Rylan had broken her heart.

“It’s an adjustment for Carson,” she said.

Russell smiled over at her. “He’s staying?”

She met the older man’s gaze. They’d been too close over the years for her to lie to him. “WT thinks he is. I guess it will depend on this new evidence in Ginny West’s murder investigation.”

Russell nodded knowingly. “You know there’s talk around town...”

“I’ve heard. I’m hoping as long as Carson stays on the ranch there won’t be any trouble.”

Russell looked worried but said no more as the trail rose up through a mountain pass and the sound of lowing cattle filled the air. Once they reached the ridge, the foreman rode on ahead to catch up with the others.

Destry lagged behind to stop and look at the view of the ranch. She heard someone ride up beside her.

“Quite the spread, wouldn’t you say?” Lucky leaned over his saddle horn and looked to the valley below. “I heard your brother is back. Does that mean he’s going to be running the place now?”

Pete “Lucky” Larson had been with the W Bar G since he and Carson graduated from high school together.

“You’d have to ask him,” Destry said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Kind of hard to ask him since I haven’t seen him. Wouldn’t you think he’d at least ask me in for a drink? After all, we go way back.”

She glanced over at the cowboy. Pockmarked with a narrow ferretlike face, Lucky made her a little uneasy lately. It was the way he looked at her, as if he thought she needed being brought down a peg or two.

“I figure if Carson is running the place, he’ll want to give me a nice raise, don’t you think? I know I’ll never get to live like your old man, but I’d like to live better than I do.”

Ranch hands on the W Bar G were well paid. Lucky was probably overpaid, if the truth were known. “Carson’s been pretty busy,” Destry said. “But if you think you’re due for a raise, you should take it up with Russell. He’s the ranch foreman.”

“Is that right?” His gaze brushed over her like a spider web, making her want to brush it off. “Carson’s busy, huh? Not too busy to be asking around about a poker game, though. You should tag along to the next game. Maybe you’ll get lucky,” he said with a wink. “From what I’ve seen, you don’t get out much.”

“But you’re going to have more time to get out,” Russell said, startling them both since they hadn’t heard him approach. “You can collect your pay, Lucky. I’ve put up with your lip as long as I’m going to.”

“I was just visiting with the boss lady,” Lucky said and looked to Destry. “Isn’t that right?”

Destry looked at him and felt a shudder. Was it possible Lucky had been in the woods behind her house watching her? “Like Russell said, collect your pay. I think you’d be happier on some other ranch.”

“You’re making a big mistake, Boss Lady,” Lucky said as he reined his horse around and shot her a furious look.

* * *

NETTIE WATCHED AS Sheriff Frank Curry pushed back his Stetson and kneaded his forehead for a moment before glancing up. Hands on her hips, she scowled down at him from the back doorway of the store. He’d taken his sweet time getting out here, and for a good ten minutes, he’d been stumbling around in the pine trees behind the store. What was the fool doing? Certainly not figuring out who’d broken into her store.

Frank had weathered well for his age, sixty-one, only three years older than herself. He even still had his hair, a thatch of thick blond flecked with gray. He no longer wore it in a long ponytail like he had when he’d roared up to her house on his motorcycle and asked her out all those years ago.

While his hair was shorter, he now wore one of those thick drooping mustaches like in all the old Westerns. His shoulders were still broad, and he looked great in the jeans he wore with his uniform shirt and cowboy boots.

“You’re not going to catch whoever broke into my store by wandering around out there in the woods.”