Chapter Five
The drive north the next morning was like going home again for Dillon Savage. Except for the fact that he had no home. Which made seeing the land he knew so well all that much harder to take.
Not to mention that Jack wasn’t talking to him. She’d broken the news at breakfast.
“You all right?” he’d finally asked, over pancakes and bacon. She’d seemed angry with him all morning. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done recently that would have set her off, but then, given their past…
She’d looked up from her veggie omelet and leveled those icy gray eyes on him. “Tom Robinson was found near death yesterday evening on his ranch. Apparently, he stumbled across the rustlers. He’s in the hospital. His ranch hands found him—along with a spot in the fence where the barbed wire had been cut.” She’d stared at Dillon, waiting.
“I’m sorry to hear about Tom. I always liked him,” he had said, meaning it. But his words only seemed to make Jack’s mood more sour, if that was possible.
Tom Robinson was one of the few neighbors who still had his place. Dillon had often wondered how he’d managed to keep his spread when almost all the other ranchers around the W Bar had sold out to Shade Waters.
“If Tom was attacked by the rustlers, then they just went from felony theft to attempted murder,” Jack had pointed out. “But the good news is that when Tom regains consciousness, he’ll be able to identify them.”
“Good,” Dillon had said, seeing that she was bluffing. She had no way of knowing if Tom Robinson had gotten a good look at whoever had attacked him, let alone if it was the rustlers. “Sounds like you got a break.” She was staring at him, so he frowned at her. “What?”
“Come on, Dillon,” she’d said, dropping her voice. It was the first time she’d called him by his first name. “You and I both know you’re the leader of this rustling ring. Once Tom identifies who attacked him, your little house of cards is going to come tumbling down. Tell me the truth now and I will try to get you the best deal I can.”
He had laughed, shaking his head. “Jack, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not your man.” He’d grinned and added, “At least not for that role, anyway. I told you. I’ve gone straight. No more iron bars for me.”
She hadn’t believed him.
He should have saved his breath, but he’d tried to assure her she was wrong. “There’s a lot of injustice in the world. I’m sorry Tom got hurt. But Jack, if you think I have anything to do with this—”
“Don’t even bother,” she’d snapped, throwing down her napkin. Breakfast was over.
Since then, she hadn’t said two words to him.
He stared out his window. The golden prairie was dotted with antelope, geese and cranes, and of course, cows. This was cattle country and had been for two hundred years. Ranch houses were miles apart and towns few and far between.
It amazed Dillon how little things had changed over the years. He kept up on the news and knew that places like Bozeman had been growing like crazy.
But this part of Montana had looked like this for decades, the landscape changing little as the population diminished. Kids left the farms and ranches for greener pastures in real towns or out of state.
But as isolated and unpopulated as this country was, there was a feeling of community. While there had been little traffic this morning, everyone they passed had waved, usually lifting just a couple of fingers from the steering wheel or giving a nod.
There was so much that he’d missed. Some people didn’t appreciate this land. It was fairly flat, with only the smudged, purple outline of mountains far in the distance. There was little but prairie, and a pencil-straight, two-lane road running for miles.
But to him it was beautiful. The grasses, a deep green, undulated like waves in the wind. The sky was bluer than any he’d ever seen. Willows had turned a bright gold, dogwood a brilliant red. Everywhere he looked there were birds.
God, how he’d missed this.
He’d known it would be hell coming back here. Especially after his four-year stint in prison. He’d never dreamed he’d return so soon—or with Jack—let alone have a microchip embedded behind his left ear. Life was just full of surprises.
The farther north Jacklyn drove, the more restless Dillon became. He’d hoped the years in prison had changed him, had at least taught him something about himself. But this place brought it all back. The betrayal. The anger. The aching need for vengeance.
“I’m sorry, where did you say we were going?” he asked. Jack, of course, hadn’t said.
“Your old stompin’ grounds,” she said.
That’s what he was afraid of. They’d gone from the motel to pick up a horse trailer, two horses and tack. He couldn’t wait to get back in the saddle. He was just worried where that horse was going to take him. Maybe more to the point, what he would do once he and Jack were deep in this isolated country, just the two of them.
JACKLYN HAD HER OWN reasons for not wanting to go north that morning. The big one was that Sheriff Claude McCray had sent word he had to see her.
Claude was the last man she wanted to see. And with good reason. The last time she’d been with him they’d gotten into an argument after making love. She’d broken off their affair, knowing she’d been an idiot to get involved with him in the first place. She was embarrassed and ashamed.
When Dillon had asked her if she didn’t regret something she’d done, she’d thought of Sheriff McCray. Since the breakup, she’d made a point of staying out of his part of Montana.
But today she had no choice. And maybe, just maybe, the reason McCray wanted to see her had something to do with Tom Robinson and the men who had attacked him, given the fact that the sheriff had gone to her crime scene last night.
The day was beautiful as she drove out of Lewistown pulling the horse trailer. Behind her, in her rearview mirror, she could see the Big Snowy Mountains and the Little Belts. Once she made it over the Moccasins and the Judiths, the land stretched to the horizon, rolling fields broken only occasionally by rock outcroppings or a lone tree or two.
Jack stared at the straight stick of a road that ran north, away from the mountains, away from any town of any size, and dreaded seeing Sheriff Claude McCray again—especially with Dillon Savage along.
She’d never forgive herself for foolishly becoming involved with someone she occasionally worked with. Not a good idea. On top of that, she’d gotten involved with Claude for all the wrong reasons.
Jacklyn turned off the two-lane highway onto a narrow, rutted dirt road. As far as the eye could see there wasn’t a house or barn. Usually this open land comforted her, but not this morning, with everything she had on her mind. She felt antsy, as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She’d called the hospital before she’d left the motel. Tom Robinson was in critical condition. It was doubtful he would regain consciousness. She was angry and sickened. She liked Tom.
Selfishly, she’d wanted him to come to in the hopes that he could ID at least one of the rustlers. With just one name, she knew she could put pressure on that individual to identify the person running the ring. Dillon Savage.
She glanced over at him. She’d give him credit; he’d seemed genuinely upset over hearing about Tom. But was that because he’d known and liked the man, as he’d said? Or because his little gang of rustlers had gone too far this time and now might be found out?
He didn’t look too worried that he was going to be caught, she thought. He was slouched in the seat, gazing out the window, watching the world go by as if he didn’t have a care. Could she be wrong about him? Maybe. But there was something going on with him. She could feel it.
“So we’re heading to the Robinson place,” Dillon said, guessing that would be at least one of their stops today.
“After that we’re going to the W Bar.”
He could feel her probing gaze on him again, as if she was waiting for a reaction.
But he wasn’t about to give her one. He just nodded, determined not to let her see how he felt about even the thought of crossing Shade Waters’s path. He hadn’t seen Waters since the day Jack had arrested him.
The truth was she’d probably saved his life, given that Shade had had a shotgun—and every intention of killing Dillon on the spot that day.
“Waters know you got me out of prison?” he asked.
“Probably the reason he wants to see me.”
Dillon chuckled. “This should be interesting then.”
“You’ll be staying in the pickup—and out of trouble. Your work with me has nothing to do with Shade Waters,” she said in that crisp, no-nonsense tone.
He smiled. “Just so I’m there to witness his reaction when you tell him that. Unless you want to leave me at the bar in Hilger and pick me up on your way back.”
She shot him a look. “Until this rustling ring is caught, you and I are attached at the hip.”
“I do like that image,” he said, and grinned over at her.
She scowled and went back to her driving. “Any animosity you have for Waters or any other ranchers, you’re to keep to yourself.”
“What animosity?” he asked with a straight face. “I’m a changed man. Any hard feelings I had about Shade Waters I left behind that razor wire fence you broke me out of.”
She gave him a look that said she’d believe that when hell froze over. “Just remember what I said. I don’t need any trouble out of you. I have enough with Waters.”
“Don’t worry, Jack, I’ll be good,” Dillon said, and pulled down the brim on his hat as he slid down in the seat again. He tried not to think about Tom Robinson or Shade Waters or even Jack.
Instead, he thought about lying in the bathtub last night at the motel, bubbles up to his neck. And later, sprawled on the big bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince himself he wasn’t going to blow his freedom. Not for anything. Even justice.
The bath had been pure heaven. The bed was huge and softer than anything he’d slept on in years. In prison, he’d had a pad spread on a concrete slab. A real bed had felt strange, and had made him wonder how long it would take to get used to being out.
How long did it take not to be angry that normal no longer felt normal? Maybe as long as getting over the fact that someone owed him for the past four years of his life.
SHERIFF CLAUDE MCCRAY wasn’t in, but the dispatcher said she was expecting him, and to wait in his office.
Ten minutes later, Claude walked in. He was a big man, powerfully built, with a chiseled face and deep-set brown eyes. He gave Jacklyn a look that could have wilted lettuce. His gaze turned even more hostile when he glanced at Dillon.
McCray chuckled to himself as he moved behind his desk, shaking his head as he glared at Jacklyn again. “Dillon Savage. You got the bastard out. What a surprise.”
She met his eyes for only an instant before she looked away, not wanting to get into this with him. Especially in front of Dillon, given what Claude had accused her of nearly four years ago.
“You’re obsessed with Dillon Savage,” McCray had said.
“Excuse me? It’s my job to find him and stop him,” she’d snapped back.
“Oh, Jacklyn, it’s way beyond that. You admire him, admit it.”
“Wh-what?” she’d stammered, sliding out of bed, wanting to distance herself from this ridiculous talk.
“He’s the only one who’s ever eluded you this long,” Claude had called after her. “You’re making a damn hero out of him.”
She had been barely able to speak, she was so shocked. “That’s so ridiculous, I don’t even— You’re jealous of a cattle rustler?”
He’d narrowed his eyes at her angrily. “I’m jealous of a man you can’t go five minutes without talking about.”
“I’m sorry I bothered you with talk about my job,” she’d snapped as she jerked on her jeans and boots and looked around for her bra and sweater.
Claude was sitting up in the bed, watching her, frowning. “I’d bet you spend more time thinking about Dillon Savage than you do me.”
She’d heard the jealousy and bitterness in his voice and had been sickened by it. He’d called her after that, telling her he’d had too much to drink and didn’t know what he was saying.
For all his apologies, that had been the end of their affair. She’d caught Dillon a few days later and had made a point of staying as far from Sheriff Claude McCray as possible, even though he’d tried to contact her repeatedly over the past four years.
Now, as Claude settled into his chair behind the large metal desk, she noticed that he looked shorter than she remembered, his shoulders less broad. Or maybe she couldn’t help comparing him to Dillon Savage. They were both close to the same age, but that was where the similarities ended.
“What’s the world coming to when we have to get criminals out of prison to help solve crimes?” McCray said as if to himself, looking from Dillon to Jack.
“Is there anything new on the Robinson case?” she asked, determined to keep the conversation on track.
“Why don’t you ask your boyfriend here,” McCray quipped.
Dillon was watching this interplay with interest. She swore under her breath, wishing that she’d come alone. But she didn’t like letting Dillon out of her sight. Especially now that the stakes were higher, with Tom Robinson critical.
“Sheriff, I just need to know if you have any leads. I understand you went out to the crime scene last night.” She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying how stupid it was to go out there in the dark and possibly destroy evidence. “I’m headed out there now.”
“Don’t waste your time. There’s nothing to find.”
She would be the judge of that. “What about the Drummond place?”
Claude was shaking his head. “Wasn’t worth riding back in there for so few head of cattle.”
Bud Drummond might argue that, she thought.
She rose from her chair, anxious to get out of Claude’s office. She’d thought about not even bothering to come here, but he’d sent word that he wanted to see her. She should have known it wasn’t about the Robinson case.
Her real reason for coming, she knew, was so he wouldn’t think she was afraid to face him. Perish the thought.
“If Tom Robinson dies, it will be murder,” McCray said, glaring at Dillon. “This time you’ll stay in prison.”
Dillon, to his credit, didn’t react. But she could see that this situation could escalate easily if they didn’t leave. Claude seemed to be working himself up for a fight.
“We’re going,” Jacklyn said, moving toward the door.
The sheriff rose, coming around the desk to grab her arm. “I need to speak with you alone.”
Jacklyn looked down at his fingers digging into her flesh. He let go of her, but she saw Dillon leap to his feet, about to come to her defense.
That was the last thing she needed. “Mr. Savage, if you wouldn’t mind waiting by the pickup…” She had no desire to be alone with Claude McCray, but if she was anything, she was no coward. And he just might have something to tell her about the investigation that Dillon shouldn’t hear.
Dillon frowned, as if he didn’t like leaving her alone with McCray. Obviously, she wasn’t the only one who thought the man could be dangerous.
She indicated the door and gave Dillon an imploring look.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” he said as he opened the door and stepped out, closing it quietly behind him.
“That son of a bitch.” The sheriff swore and swung on her. “He acts like he owns you. Are you already sleeping with him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. What was it you had to say to me?”
He glared at her, anger blazing in his eyes. “If you’re not, it’s just a matter of time before you are. You’ve had something for him for years.”
“If that’s all you wanted to say…” She started for the door.
He reached to grab her again, but this time she avoided his grasp. “Don’t,” she said, her voice low and full of warning. “Don’t touch me.”
He drew back in surprise. “Jackie—”
“And don’t call me that.”
He stiffened and busied himself straightening his hat, as if trying to get his temper under control.
What had she ever seen in him? She didn’t want to think about why she’d ended up with McCray. And it wasn’t because she hadn’t known what kind of man he was. She’d been looking for an outlaw during the day and had wanted one at night, as well.
Too late she’d realized Claude McCray was a mean bastard with even less ethics than Dillon Savage.
“Was there something about the case?” she asked as she reached for the doorknob.
He glared at her for a long moment, then grudgingly said, “My men found something up by where the rustlers cut the barbed wire of Robinson’s fence last night,” he said finally. “I’m sure it’s probably been in the dirt for years and has nothing do with the rustlers, but I was told to give it to you.” He reached toward his desk, then turned and dropped a gold good-luck piece into her palm.
“You have any idea who this might belong to?” she asked.
“Someone whose luck is about to turn for the worst,” McCray said cryptically. “At least if I have anything to do with it.”