The Sheriff Of Heartbreak County

“I’ve given you my gun and my blood—what else can you possibly want?” she asked.

“Well, for starters,” the sheriff drawled as he folded his arms on his chest, “I’d sure like to know your real name.”

The world darkened. A rushing sound filled the inside of her head. Her voice caught, and then she said, “My…my name? I don’t know what on earth you mean.” But she’d waited that critical heartbeat too long.

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and his features suddenly hardened, formed the face of a man nobody would care to cross. “Oh, sure you do,” he said. “We both know you’re not Mary Owen. So that brings me back to my question—Who the hell are you?”

Dear Reader,

A few years back, in a book called An Order of Protection, I introduced a character named Mary Yancy LaVigne, a girl who falls for the wrong man, for all the wrong reasons—and for which sin she pays dearly by getting sent into lonely exile in the witness protection program. I knew even then that one day Mary Yancy would have her own story. It’s taken me until now to find a man special enough to make it up to her for treating her so badly.

I hope you’ll agree with me that Sheriff Roan Harley is such a man, worthy of both the love of a courageous and beautiful woman, and of the awesome land that spawned him.

Come join Roan and Mary now, as they strive to find the happiness, peace and everlasting love they both deserve. It’s a difficult quest, played out against a backdrop of majestic Rocky Mountains and wide Montana skies. Here’s hoping I’ve done both the story and its setting justice.

Warmest wishes,

Kathleen Creighton

The Sheriff of Heartbreak County

Kathleen Creighton

KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

has roots deep in the California soil but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old-timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today she says she is interested in everything—art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history, but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing, and now combines her two loves in romance novels. Her book The Top Gun’s Return won the 2004 RITA® Award for Best Long Contemporary Novel.

FOR GARY,

Who brought the butterfly

that sits on my shoulder

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Prologue

On Florida’s Gulf Coast…

The telephone was ringing. Joy opened her eyes and saw that it was morning. Beside her, Scott stirred, swore and stretched out an arm to pick up the bedside extension. He growled, “Cavanaugh,” then lay back to listen, responding from time to time with monosyllables, while Joy lay on her side and watched him, drinking in the newness and unimaginable sweetness of the miracle of him. Happiness lay on her like sunshine. Yancy was safe. And Scott loved her.

She thought, maybe my karma’s finally changed.

Scott cradled the phone, lay back on the pillows and reached his arm around her to pull her close. “That was Agent Harvey,” he said.

“About Yancy?” Joy craned to look up at him. “Have they finished questioning her? When can I see her?”

“Joy…” He enfolded her in his arms, and her heart began to thump against his chest.

“What’s wrong? Scott? When can I see her?”

His sigh lifted her like a boat on a swell. “Sweetheart… I’m sorry. I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.”

“Why? What—”

“Yancy’s going into the federal witness protection program,” he said softly. “Immediately. She’s a witness to the murder of the DelReys’ housekeeper and her husband. Plus, it seems Junior was really in love with her, and planned to marry her. He told her enough about the family business that she’s never going to be safe as long as any of the DelReys or their organization are running around loose. She’s got no choice, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t…” Joy swallowed, pain rushing into her chest and throat. “I can’t even…say good-bye?”

Scott shook his head, bumping her head with his chin. His voice was rusty with sympathy and compassion. “I’m afraid not. She’s already gone. They did it last night, right after she left you. It’s done.”

She was silent, weeping without shaking, without sobs. Scott held her, saying nothing, simply giving her his love…his strength.

Chapter 1

Ten years later, in Montana…

The body lay as it had fallen, arms outflung, eyes staring into the wide Montana sky fabled in story and song. Except for the hole in the center of his forehead the expression on the victim’s face was one familiar to all who knew him, an arrogant smirk that held no traces of fear or surprise.

Clearly, Jason Holbrook had not expected to die.

Not today, anyway, and for sure not like this, thought Roan Harley, duly elected sheriff of Hart County. Gunned down in his own driveway on a cool spring day like a mean and dangerous dog, which, come to think of it—and the sheriff knew he wasn’t alone in this opinion—described the victim pretty well.

“Tom,” he said gently to the deputy breathing heavily over his right shoulder, “if you’re gonna puke, I’d sure appreciate it if you’d find someplace away from the crime scene.”

“No, I’m good,” Deputy Tom Daggett said, a little too quickly and breathlessly for the declaration to be entirely reassuring. He glanced over at Roan, blushing right up to the band of his Stetson. “It’s just…I’ve never seen anybody shot dead before. Not like this. It’s…different, you know?” There was an audible swallow.

Roan did know. To be truthful, he hadn’t seen anybody shot dead before either, except for crime-scene photos in forensics classes he’d taken in college and a few refresher courses after getting elected sheriff. And his deputy had it right—all the car wrecks, hunting accidents and bar fights in the world didn’t do much to prepare a man for violent cold-blooded murder.

“In that case,” he said to Deputy Daggett, “hunker on down here. Tell me what you see.”

Frowning earnestly, the younger man squatted on his heels beside the body. “Okay, uh…you got two—” he coughed self-consciously. “I mean, the victim appears to have been shot twice—once in the head, and then here, in the chest. Right in the heart, looks like. From the, uh, condition of the, uh…the size of the exit wound in the back of the head…maybe a .38?”

“More likely a .45,” the sheriff said, nodding his approval. “Okay, so what do you think happened here, Tom?”

The deputy tilted the brim of his Stetson back and looked around, squinting in the bright morning sunshine. “I don’t know, seems pretty straightforward. Looks like the shooter was waiting for him when he came home. Ol’ Jase gets out of his truck, starts for the house, and bam.” He shook his head, his enthusiasm returning with his confidence, now he was over the worst of it. “The guy must have been right there in front of him—shot him in the chest first, then made good and sure with the head shot. Doubt Jase even saw it comin’.”

Roan shook his head. “Oh, he saw it, all right. Just didn’t believe it. And the head shot was first.” He stood up and waited for the deputy to do the same. “Look here—see this?” He pointed to some spatters on the door of the brand-new white Chevy truck parked just beyond the body. “That’s brain matter. So he was standing up when the bullet went through his skull. Then it went through the driver’s-side window, right here, see? Slug’s probably still in there, inside the cab. We’re gonna want to find that.” He glanced over at Deputy Daggett, who was looking a little green around the gills again, but controlling it manfully. “I’m thinking the shooter stood in front of him, face-to-face, like this—” he demonstrated, arm outstretched “—and shot him. From about three feet away.”

The deputy looked doubtful. “He’d have to be a helluva shot, wouldn’t he, to drill him dead center in the forehead like that with a high-caliber handgun?”

“Yeah, or a lucky one.” With a cool head and a steady hand.

Roan turned back to the body on the ground, his jaw tightening as he gazed down at what was left of Jason Edward Holbrook. Considering everything, he wondered why he wasn’t taking this more personally. He ought to feel something for the death of the man who was very likely his half-brother.

But, except for a profound sense of outrage and insult that such a thing could have happened in his jurisdiction, on his watch, he didn’t feel a thing. Not a damn thing.

“Then,” he went on grimly, “the shooter stood over him and fired a second shot into his heart at point-blank range—see this here? That’s powder residue. Also, considering the back of the victim’s skull was blown off, the shooter had to know he was already stone-dead, but he put that second shot in him anyway.”

The deputy gave a low whistle. “Takes a whole lotta mad to do something like that.”

Again Roan shook his head. “Not mad,” he corrected. “Hate. This wasn’t any crime of passion, not in the usual sense of that word. Whoever did this hated Jason’s guts, pure and simple.”

“Well,” Tom said, obviously pretty well recovered now from his former queasiness and sounding downright cheerful, “that’s not gonna narrow it down much.” Then, belatedly recalling the unwritten rule against speaking ill of the dead, he threw Roan an abashed look and, blushing again, muttered an apology.

An unfortunate characteristic for a deputy sheriff, that blush, Roan thought. For the kid’s sake, he hoped he’d grow out of it eventually—maybe by the time he started shaving regularly.

Tom Daggett was right, though, about there being no dearth of people who might have entertained the notion of taking a shot at Jason Holbrook, one time or another. But for some reason, nothing he could put a finger on, just a gut feeling, Roan didn’t think this was going to be some jealous husband or boyfriend. Something about the killing…facing him like that…and then that second shot at point-blank range…this was payback, was what it was. Vengeance.

And more than that: Whoever had meted it out to Jason Holbrook had wanted him to know beyond any shadow of a doubt who was killing him and what he was dying for.

Holding off the shiver that wanted to run down his spine, Sheriff Harley took his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on, then let his gaze sweep the area, taking in the long graveled driveway that slanted down through the pine trees from the paved road to the huge two-story log house Jason’s dad had had built against the mountainside in the style of a Swiss chalet. He turned back to Daggett. “No sign of a weapon?”

Tom shook his head. “Didn’t see one in the immediate vicinity. Thought I oughta wait for you before I started looking.”

“Good call. Stay away from the truck, too. And the body, it goes without saying—at least until the coroner gets here. Where’s the school-bus driver that called it in?”

“She had a load of kids to deliver. I told her somebody’d be over there at the school later on to get her statement. Uh…Sheriff?” Roan nodded for him to proceed, and Daggett did, looking uncomfortable. “You planning on calling in the state guys on this?”

“Already did,” Roan said. “They’re on their way.”

Then for a while he and the deputy just stood there, neither of them saying anything, both of them trying not to look at the body of Jason Holbrook cooling in a puddle of his blood, staring up at the blue Montana sky. It was a bright, beautiful spring morning, but Roan felt like a big black cloud was parked right over his head, the heaviness of it pressing down on him and the first rumblings of thunder already growling in the distance.

“Sheriff?” Tom looked over at him, uneasy again, thumbs in his hip pockets, kind of scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “You gonna break the news to the senator?”

Reflexively, Roan folded his arms on his chest. He’d been giving that some thought himself. “That’s not something you want to hear over the phone,” he said, shaking off guilt, wondering if he was being a little too eager to pass the buck. Talking to Senator Holbrook wasn’t something he enjoyed doing even at the best of times. Which these sure as hell weren’t. “I’ll call the Washington PD, get them to send somebody to tell him in person.”

Tom let out a breath like a tire going flat as he took off his hat and ran a hand back over his short blond hair. “Well, hell. No matter how he finds out, when he does, I expect the you-know-what’s goin’ to hit the fan.”

Roan favored his deputy with a lopsided grin. “I expect you’re right about that. Be nice if we had a suspect in hand by the time it does, don’t you think? You got any bright ideas where to start looking for one?”

Trying not to look thrilled to be asked, Tom hooked his thumbs in his belt while he gave it some thought. Then he puffed out his chest and squinted at the pine-studded horizon. “I’m thinkin’ Buster’s Last Stand—you know, over on the highway?—might be a good place to start. That’s where Jase normally spends…uh, spent his evenings. Somebody in there might know if he ticked off anybody in particular last night. Worse than usual, I mean.”

Roan clapped him on the back. “Good call. Probably too early right now—best to wait for the evening crowd to assemble before we hit there though.” He nodded toward the highway where a van had just turned off onto the lane and was barreling toward them at highway speed, crunching gravel and sending up a cloud of dust. “Here’s the coroner. I’m gonna want you to stay and keep an eye on things for me, Tom. Pick up all the info you can from Doc Salazar and the major-case detectives when they get here, and don’t let that bunch from Billings intimidate you, you hear? I want a full report—don’t leave out any details. Once everything’s squared away here, get on over to the school and get the bus driver’s statement.” He heaved in a breath and squared his shoulders. “Meanwhile, I’ll head back to the shop and get the ball rolling on notifying next of kin. After that…”

Well, he didn’t like to think what his life was going to be like after that and for the foreseeable future, but he figured he ought to do what he could to prepare for the inevitable flood of media and law-enforcement out-of-towners. He imagined it was going to be a while before Hartsville settled back down to its quiet and peaceful small-town ways.

One thing, Roan thought as he went to greet the county’s coroner and deputy medical examiner, he sure didn’t envy the person whose unhappy duty it was going to be to inform Montana’s senior senator of the violent death of his only son.

His only acknowledged son, anyway.

Fridays were always busy at Queenie’s “We Pamper You Like Royalty” Beauty Salon and Boutique. Tucked between Betty’s Art Gallery and Framing and the law offices of Andrews & Klein on Second Street, half a block off Main and just a block down from the courthouse, it was a handy place for any of the downtown crowd with interesting plans for the weekend to drop in on their lunch hour for a wash and set. Its new proprietor, Mary Owen, generally stayed late on Fridays to accommodate the high-school girls gussying up for date night. And, of course, Miss Ada Major, the clerk of the court, who’d had a standing five o’clock Friday-evening appointment for a wash and set since roughly the Reagan administration.

Honoring Miss Ada’s Friday five o’clock was, in fact, one of the conditions Queenie Schultz, the shop’s former owner, had made Mary agree to when she’d sold the business to her six months ago—that, and a promise to do up Miss Ada’s hair real nice for her funeral, in the event the lady ever did decide to depart this mortal coil. To be truthful, that second condition had made Mary shudder a bit, and of course Queenie, being down in Phoenix, Arizona, enjoying the heat and sunshine, probably wasn’t ever going to know whether Mary actually stuck to that part of the bargain or not. But it wasn’t Mary’s nature to break a promise, and besides, at the rate Miss Ada was going, it didn’t look like the issue was going to come up any time soon.

If there was anything Mary Owen had learned in her thirty-seven years it was that life was full of surprises, so there wasn’t much point in looking too far ahead or worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet. She knew from hard experience how things could change in the blink of an eye.

“How are you doing today, Miss Ada?” Mary asked as she settled the tall, dignified lady into the chair and gently snapped a drape around her sinewy neck.

“Why, just fine, dear, thank you for asking.” The circles of rose-pink blush on Miss Ada’s cheeks crinkled with her smile. Keen hazel eyes highlighted in tissue-papery cobalt blue met Mary’s in the mirror—then went wide with horrified sympathy. “Well, my goodness me, what on earth did you do, hon?”

Mary’s teeth scraped over the tender bulge on her lower lip—a reflex she couldn’t help—but her voice was smooth as she replied, “Oh, it’s nothing, just me being stupid and clumsy. I forgot to leave the porch light on last night, and I tripped going up the front steps in the dark. Are we doing color today, Miss Ada?”

Miss Ada interrupted her little gasps and cries of commiseration and glanced at her own reflection in the mirror just long enough to murmur, “No, no, dear, I think another week, don’t you?” Her gaze flew upward past her determinedly auburn curls to home in once more on the vivid marks on Mary’s face. “Did you put some ice on those bruises? And I know you don’t wear makeup, but you know, a little dab of pancake and some face powder would do wonders.”

“Oh, like I said, it’s nothing, really,” Mary said cheerfully as she tilted the chair back and settled Miss Ada’s neck on the lip of the wash basin. “Just a little embarrassing. So…have you been having a good week? Anything exciting going on over at the courthouse?”

Keeping her blue lids firmly closed, Miss Ada gave a hoot of laughter. “Oh, well, today there’s nobody talking about anything but what happened to Clifford Holbrook’s boy. You heard about that, I suppose?” She sighed heavily, then went on without waiting for Mary’s answer, her forehead wrinkling in distress. “It is a shame—a terrible thing. My heart just goes out to Clifford. He always was a good boy—I was tempted to vote for him in the last election, even if he is a Republican—but that son of his—that Jason…it’s hard to know, isn’t it, how a child from such a nice family can turn out so wrong?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary murmured the all-purpose response she’d learned in a former life from a dear Southern friend, warming her fingers in the stream of water and ignoring the deeper chill inside her. “How’s that, Miss Ada? Is that gonna be too hot?”

“No, no, dear, it’s fine. Well, I suppose Clifford did the best he could, with his wife being in such delicate health most of the time. But that boy always was a bully.” She sniffed, then added, “Still and all, nobody deserves to die like that. Shot dead right in his own driveway. Makes you wonder if any of us is safe anywhere nowadays.” She gave a genteel shudder.

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary watched her fingers massage moisturizing shampoo over Miss Ada’s scalp.

“A good thing we’ve got a decent sheriff in this county,” Miss Ada said with a sniff, her festively painted features settling into stern and uncompromising lines. “Roan Harley—now there’s a fine young man. A real fine man.” She opened her eyes and aimed them upward. “Have you met our sheriff yet, Mary?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t believe I have—except to see him driving by, maybe.” She wrapped a towel loosely around the old lady’s head and raised the chair to its upright position.

Miss Ada pulled one knotted, blue-veined hand from under the drape to touch away a drop of water that had taken the liberty of trickling down her forehead, then gave one of her little hoots of laughter as she met Mary’s eyes in the mirror. “Well, I suppose that is a good thing, isn’t it? Not that I expect you’d have any reason to fear the law.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mary agreed as she began to divide Miss Ada’s sparse wet hair into quadrants, twisting each segment loosely and securing it with a clip.

Miss Ada’s face seemed to droop with sadness as her eyes shifted focus to something only she could see, and she spoke more to herself than to Mary. “Oh my, that poor man has had more than his share of trials and tragedies to bear, yes he has….”

“Ma’am?” Mary said politely, only half listening, her mind already numbing with the tedium of winding thin strands of Miss Ada’s hair onto the old-fashioned rollers she favored.

The old lady’s eyes snapped back to Mary’s, light kindling in them now as she prepared to enjoy the kind of harmless gossip people are wont to indulge in with their hairdressers. “The boy didn’t exactly have a happy beginning, you know. No, he didn’t. His mother—Susan Roth, her name was, a perfectly lovely girl—never married, and to be unwed and pregnant in a small Western town…well. You can imagine. You had to admire her, though, she held her head up. Never let her son feel ashamed, either. She worked hard to support herself and the boy—I have an idea the father, whoever he was, might’ve helped out some—and she managed to put money away for Roan’s college. He applied for scholarships and won several—he was a very bright young man. He was going to become a lawyer—that was his mother’s fondest wish. But then she got sick and died suddenly.”

Normally it was Mary’s habit to let this sort of gossip flow in one ear and out the other, but for some reason she was finding this particular story hard to ignore. She made murmurs of sympathy, and Miss Ada sighed.

“Yes…it was sad. Roan came home to bury his mother and never did go back to the university. Instead, he stayed on, married his childhood sweetheart, enrolled in the state law-enforcement academy—I believe he’d had a minor in criminology, or forensics, or some such thing, in college. Anyway, he became a deputy, and when Jim Stottlemyer retired, ran for sheriff and got himself elected first try. Youngest sheriff in the history of the county, and I must say, it was the legal profession’s loss and Hart County’s gain. Roan’s been a fine sheriff.” She paused for another sigh. “It should have been one of those and-they-lived-happily-ever-after stories, but it wasn’t. No, indeed. Roan Harley’s troubles were just beginning.”

“Really? What happened?” Mary turned the chair in order to reach the other side of Miss Ada’s head, and Miss Ada’s eyes met hers directly instead of in the mirror. Mary was startled to see a sheen in them that could only be tears.

“I’m sorry, dear,” the elderly clerk of court said with a halfhearted smile. “Oh my. It’s been four years, but it’s still hard to talk about it. Seems like it happened just yesterday, yes it does. It was such a terrible tragedy, the kind of thing a small community like this never does get over.” She paused, lifted a hand and absently patted the neat row of curlers that marched down one side of her head.

“Well, now…I told you Roan married his childhood sweetheart. Erin Stuart—she’d been a classmate of Roan’s, all the way back to kindergarten, I believe. And her dad, Boyd Stuart, he’d befriended the boy, too, knowing he was growing up fatherless. Roan looked up to Boyd and respected him as he would a father, and Boyd…well, you could tell he loved Roan like a son. In fact, Boyd was so tickled when Roan married Erin, he signed over the deed to his ranch to the newlyweds and moved into the ranch foreman’s cottage.” Miss Ada chuckled, then took a quick breath as if it were a shot of whisky she was tossing back to fortify herself before going on.