The New Deputy In Town

“Laney, I want you to meet the town’s new deputy sheriff, Nick Rogers.”

His handshake was firm, his skin warm and dry. His dark-eyed gaze made the already hot day sizzle.

“You’re new to the area?”

“I’m adjusting,” he said, never taking his eyes off her. He had the kind of face that she’d thought only existed in the movies. Rugged and yet as handsome as any she’d ever seen with dark hair and blue eyes. But it was the way he stood, his head cocked to one side, an air of confidence about him that drew her like a moth to flame.

“You should come to my cousin’s engagement party.”

He smiled. “Thank you, but I really couldn’t intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion,” Laney said. “That’s the way things are done around here. Haven’t you seen the baby shower and anniversary notices in the local newspapers, inviting the whole county? Welcome to small-town America.”

“A lot different from Houston,” Nick said.

“Everyone will be there. Wear your dancing boots.”

Nick met Laney’s gaze. “Save me a dance?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning journalist turned author, BJ had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense novel, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times BOOKreviews Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. BJ lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writer’s Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write to PO Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771, USA or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

BJ DANIELS

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This book is dedicated to

Chris and Jessica Kerr,

the cutest couple I know and the sweetest.

It’s a joy to know the two of you.

Chapter One

Her hand trembled as she opened the closet to find the baseball bat where she’d hidden it in the very back corner. After last time, she’d considered getting rid of the bat. Instead, she’d wiped off the splattering of blood as best she could and kept it.

She wasn’t stupid. She watched CSI and all the other forensics television shows. She knew about blood splatters, about DNA, about trace evidence.

But she also knew it wouldn’t be good to change anything. Ritual, she knew, was important. It should always be a Saturday night. She should always wear the same blue dress she’d worn the first time. She should always use the old baseball bat she’d found.

“I thought you were going out with friends?” called a voice from the living room. She could hear the TV. One of those reality shows was on. “It’s getting kind of late though to be going now, isn’t it?”

She bit down on her irritation. She was sick of being told what to do. Sick of other people’s expectations for her. She put the bat on the bed and reached for her blue dress. There was one little blood spot along the hem that she’d had trouble getting out. She frowned, worried that even one spot might be enough to change things. To ruin the routine. To jinx her.

She worried at the spot for a moment. Maybe she shouldn’t go into town tonight. But it was Saturday. There would be a band at one of the bars. There would be men who would get drunk and want to dance with her.

She thought of the smell of them, the feel of their sweaty hands on the blue dress, the sound of their breathing as they pressed themselves against her.

She put on the dress and picked up the bat. A woman on TV was gagging loudly as if unable to swallow something revolting.

She went out the back door, letting it slam. It was Saturday night. She was wearing her blue dress. She had the bat. And wouldn’t some man be surprised tonight.

Chapter Two

Sunday morning Laney Cavanaugh looked down at the book in her lap, then out at the country. She was having trouble keeping her mind on what was being touted the summer beach-book read. Maybe it required a beach.

This part of northeastern Montana couldn’t be farther from the shore. She could see from horizon to horizon, the rolling landscape awash with tall golden grass that undulated in the morning breeze. Etched against the horizon to the east was the dark outline of an old windmill. To the southwest was the faint smudge of the Little Rockies and the Bear Paw Mountains. In between was prairie, miles and miles of it.

“Boring, huh?” her sister said as she came out of the house, the screen door slamming behind her. “No wonder Mother hated it here.” Laci plopped down in the chair next to Laney’s with a huge sigh.

Laney didn’t hate it here. Coming here had always given her a sense of peace. She liked the quiet, the only sound crickets chirping in the grass or the closer buzz of a bee in the flower bed along the porch. At night sometimes the wind blew or rain fell in a monotonous drone that lulled her to sleep.

Today though, she felt restless. The July air seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something. She felt that same sense of anticipation inside her like the flutter of butterfly wings. Something was about to happen.

She didn’t share these thoughts with Laci, who would have made fun of her. “You are so dramatic,” her younger sister often said. “You should have been an actor or a writer or well, anything but an accountant.”

“I’m going to bake some cookies,” Laci said, shoving herself out of the chair. Her sister had never been able to sit still for long. It was only nine in the morning. Laci had already made them both breakfast including a blueberry coffee cake, a spinach-and-bacon quiche and smoothies. But then Laci wasn’t happy unless she was cooking.

“I’ve never understood why Gramps keeps this place,” Laci said as the screen slammed behind her.

Laney understood. This house was all they had left of their daughter Geneva. She and Laci had been born here. That was before their father had been killed in a car accident between here and the small Montana town of Whitehorse to the north.

The first settlement of Whitehorse had been nearer the Missouri River. But when the railroad came through, the town migrated five miles north, taking the name with it.

The original settlement of Whitehorse was now little more than a ghost town except for a handful of ranches and a few of the original remaining buildings. It was locally referred to as Old Town.

Old Town Whitehorse had once been the home of horse thieves who’d been either hanged or forced out by the early settlers. Laney’s family had been one of the first to settle here, just miles from where the Missouri River wound a deep cut through the land.

This house and the early memories of their daughter were all Gramps and Gramma Pearl had. Titus kept the place up as if he believed that one day Geneva would return.

Laney and Laci visited each summer for the promised two weeks. Laney felt guilty that it wasn’t more, but both she and Laci had their own lives, Laci in Seattle and Laney in Mesa, Arizona. The house sat empty the rest of the time. Waiting for someone who was never going to return.

Laney tried to go back to her book, but her mind kept wandering. She found herself looking down the long dirt road. If anyone had been coming, she would have been able to see the dust cloud miles away.

Nothing moved. Huge cumulus clouds bobbed along in an ocean of blue as the sun rose higher and the day began to get hot. A cloud floated over, casting a dark, cool shadow over her. Laney shivered, sensing a change in the air.

An instant later she was startled by the unexpected thunder of hooves as her cousin Maddie came riding around the end of the house. Maddie leaped off her horse in a cloud of dust, her face flushed with excitement under her western straw hat.

“I heard you were here,” Maddie said as she bounded over the railing just as she’d done since she was a child. “Mother’s coming by later, but I couldn’t wait so I rode over,” she said as she gave Laney a hug.

“Got in last night.” Laney smiled in spite of herself as she looked at her cousin. Now nineteen, Maddie hadn’t changed that much from the gangly freckle-faced girl she’d been. She was tall and slim to the point of being skinny, with a mop of thick reddish-blond hair and light blue eyes. She wore a western shirt, jeans and boots.

“Where’s Laci?” Maddie asked excitedly. “Cooking, I’ll bet. Oh, what is that heavenly smell?”

From inside the house came the warm rich scent of chocolate-chip cookies baking even though it was way too hot to bake. As if that had ever stopped Laci.

“Who wants a warm cookie?” her sister called on cue from inside the house.

“Guess who!” Maddie called back laughing, then looked at Laney, her expression sobering. “I wish you lived here. I hate these short visits. They are never enough.” She gave Laney another hug, hanging on longer this time.

Laney sensed a small shudder in her cousin’s thin frame. She pulled back, taking Maddie’s arms to look at her, and felt her flinch. Shoving back Maddie’s shirtsleeve, Laney saw dark bruises, each spread evenly apart as if someone had grasped her too roughly.

“What is this?” What she wanted to say was “who did this to you?”

“You know me,” Maddie replied quickly, drawing her sleeve down over the bruises. “I’ve always been such a klutz. It’s nothing.”

It was something; Laney could feel it as Maddie flashed her a reassuring smile that didn’t quite ring true and hurried into the kitchen.

THE NEW DEPUTY SHERIFF, Nick Rogers, had been covering the weekend shifts until Sheriff Carter Jackson returned from Florida. So he wasn’t surprised when he got called out on another assault Sunday morning.

There’d been two assaults since he’d taken the job. The victims were men who’d been attacked outside one of the bars on a Saturday night when the place was packed and there was a live band. Which probably explained why no one heard a disturbance in the parking lot.

He found Curtis McAlheney at the bar nursing a beer. Nick slid up onto the stool next to him and ordered a cup of coffee since it was only nine-thirty in the morning.

Curtis had a split lip, a black eye, a broken nose and was stooped over as if his ribs were bothering him.

“Broken or cracked?” Nick asked.

“Cracked, but they hurt like hell,” Curtis said.

“You see your assailant?”

Curtis looked over at him. Thirty-something, he had thinning brown hair that stuck out the bottom of his John Deere cap. His eyes were small and brown, and his belly hung over his jeans into a T-shirt that proclaimed he was God’s gift to women.

“Assailant?” Curtis repeated. “Didn’t see no assailant—just some bastard with a baseball bat.”

“You see his face?”

Curtis shook his head regretfully. “It was dark. He hit me from behind, knocked me down then beat me up good. He was big, I can tell you that much.”

Nick nodded. This was pretty much the same description he’d gotten from the other men. Nick suspected the assailant was anything but big. A big man armed with a baseball bat would have done a lot more damage. “He rob you?”

Curtis looked sheepish. “I imagine he planned to. I think he came to his senses and took off before I got up and took that bat away from him and showed him what for.”

Right. The motive in all the cases didn’t appear to be robbery since nothing was taken but each man’s pride. The assailant had just attacked, beaten up the men and taken off.

“Before you left the bar, did you get into a disagreement with anyone?”

“Naw. I just had a few beers, danced a little.”

Same story Nick was getting from the others, although he suspected each had had more than a few beers.

“Well, if you think of anything else,” Nick said finishing his coffee.

“Has to be some bastard not from around here, ain’t that right, Shirley?” Curtis said to the bartender.

The bartender, a fifty-something stick of a woman, nodded. “No one around here would do something like that for no good reason.”

Nick suspected whoever the assailant was, he had a reason, one good enough for him anyway. Tossing money on the bar for his coffee and a tip, Nick left as his cell phone began to vibrate.

“Trouble down in Old Town Whitehorse,” the dispatcher said. “Alice Miller says someone stole her chickens.”

AS MADDIE RODE OFF, LACI PUT her feet up on the porch railing and sighed. “We need to have a party for her.”

Laney looked up from her book although she hadn’t been reading. She’d been thinking about her cousin.

Laci took a cookie from the plate she’d brought out earlier. They’d had cookies and lemonade on the porch and talked about old times, although Laney hadn’t been able to shake her worry for her cousin.

“An engagement party,” Laci said between bites.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Laney said. “Didn’t Maddie seem…different to you?”

Her sister shot her a look. “She’s lost a bunch of weight since last summer. Don’t all soon-to-be brides do that though?”

Maybe. “She’s too skinny, but that’s not what I’m talking about. She doesn’t seem…”

“Happy?” Laci started laughing. “Maddie could be the poster child for happy.”

“I felt like she was trying a little too hard,” Laney said. She’d seen her cousin when they’d gotten into town last night. Only Maddie hadn’t seen them. Laney had called to her cousin who was leaving the back way just as they were coming in the front. But their cousin obviously hadn’t heard them over the din of the bar as she left. “Like last night when we saw her leaving the bar. She wasn’t with her fiancé.”

Her sister groaned. “Maddie’s fine. I’m sure she wasn’t doing anything more than dancing with a few ranch hands just like we were. She left the bar alone, didn’t she?”

Laney nodded.

“See. Maddie’s just stretching her wings a little.”

Maybe, but Laney wasn’t convinced.

“Now help me with the engagement-party menu,” Laci said excitedly. “I want it to be something the town of Whitehorse has never seen. What do you think we should have to eat?”

“Don’t you think you should at least talk to Maddie about this first? Maybe she doesn’t want an engagement party.”

Laci laughed as she rose from her chair. “Who doesn’t want an engagement party? I’m going to start going through some of Gramma’s old recipes. I think I’ll do all desserts. What do you think?”

But she didn’t wait to hear what Laney thought. The screen door slammed. Laney stared out at the horizon, trying to put her finger on what was bothering her about Maddie. Maybe it was the way her cousin had talked about her fiancé, Bo Evans, as if she would die without him. Or the way she played with her engagement ring. Or the way she brushed off her original plans to attend college, even giving up a scholarship.

All of that Laney could chalk up to love.

All except the bruises on Maddie’s arm.

And Laney’s own feeling that something wasn’t right with her cousin.

She closed her book, glancing up the lane. That sense of nagging expectation washed over her again as if at any minute she would see someone coming down the road toward the house with bad news.

“Let’s take some cookies to the hospital for the nurses,” Laney said as she brought the plate and lemonade glasses into the kitchen to find her sister deep in an old cookbook. “I want to go visit Gramma.”

Laci looked up. “Do you mind going without me? I hate seeing Gram like that and I really need to get to work on this party. I’m thinking it should be next Saturday. I’m sure we can use the community center.”

Laney knew how hard it was for her sister to see their grandmother Pearl after her stroke. Gramma’s eyes were open, but she was unresponsive. It was questionable if she could even understand what they said to her. Or if she recognized her granddaughters at all.

Gramma Pearl had been in the hospital with pneumonia when she’d suddenly had a stroke. Gramps said she’d been upset about some things that had been going on in Old Town Whitehorse.

“I think we both should go see Gramma,” Laney said. “As it is, Gramps won’t be happy with us since we didn’t attend his church service this morning at the center. Maybe we can bribe him with some of your cookies because you know he’ll be with Gramma.”

Laci nodded although with obvious reluctance. “As long as you keep him from talking about Mother. I can’t bear it. He really believes Geneva will just come home one day as if nothing happened. Why can’t he accept that she’s gone and won’t ever be back? For all we know she’s dead.”

“He has to believe he’ll see her again,” Laney said although she agreed with her sister. Wherever Geneva Cavanaugh Cherry was, this was the last place she’d ever return.

DEPUTY SHERIFF NICK ROGERS had never been to Old Town Whitehorse before. He would have missed it entirely, if he hadn’t slowed down to let a dog cross in front of his patrol car and seen the sign barely sticking up out of the weeds beside the road.

Whitehorse. Population 50.

He truly doubted that, given the age of the sign.

Nick had driven five miles through rolling grassland and open sky. He’d heard this land called the Big Open. He could well understand why.

And after all that way, he’d arrived in Old Town Whitehorse. Well, what was left of the original Whitehorse. There were a few buildings. No store. No gas station. No bar. Just what appeared to be a community center, an ancient abandoned gas station and a few houses still standing.

He could make out the trees and roofs of a few farms or ranches not far from town, but this whole place felt more like a ghost town than anything else.

One big old house in particular reminded him of a haunted house he and his friends used to throw rocks at when he was a kid. He stared at the two-story house. It sat apart from the others. The paint had peeled and it appeared kids had broken out most of the upstairs windows. The lower ones were boarded up. The mailbox out front had fallen over, but he made out the word Cherry as he drove past.

He rolled his window down and breathed in the smell of fresh-cut hay. He couldn’t help but laugh at himself. He’d been looking for a place to escape. Literally. And he’d found it in Montana. No one would ever look for him here—let alone find him. At least if he hoped to stay alive.

If Whitehorse wasn’t the end of the earth, then Old Town definitely was. He’d heard someone joke the first night he’d gotten into town that “Whitehorse isn’t the end of the earth, but you can see the fires of hell on a clear night.”

Nick had been to hell. Maybe that was why he’d felt at home here right off.

Alice Miller lived in a big white ranch house west of town. As he pulled into the yard, two blue heelers with spooky white eyes came out to bite at his tires.

The house was sheltered by rows of trees that had to stand over fifteen feet tall. Past the house and trees, the country ran south through open prairie to what appeared to be a thin line of green. The Missouri Breaks.

He could understand why Old West outlaws had made this isolated, underpopulated country their hideouts. It had worked for Kid Curry and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. At least for a while.

Nick was counting on it working for him.

At least for a while.

He eyed the barking dogs. He had a healthy respect for ranch dogs since arriving in Montana and waited until an elderly woman in a housedress and apron opened the front door and called off the dogs before he got out.

Alice Miller was petite with serious blue eyes and bobbed gray hair. She led him around the back of the house to a chicken coop.

“There you are,” she said as if that should clear things up for him.

He looked into the empty coop. Yep, things were clear as mud. “How many chickens did you have?”

“A dozen layers, four roosters and three old stewing hens.”

“Nineteen chickens and they were all gone this morning,” he said.

She nodded and waited as if she expected him to produce them like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat.

“That’s a lot of chickens to disappear,” he remarked. When he’d found this job, he’d been amazed at the kind of calls a deputy sheriff in Whitehorse, Montana, had to deal with. Dog at large, owner warned. Drunken disturbance at rodeo, citizen given ride home. Missing resident, found two doors down.

As a big-city cop, he’d dealt with every crime imaginable. At least he thought he had. But he’d never been called out to investigate nineteen missing chickens.

He was out of his league and he knew it.

“What do you think happened to them?” he asked Mrs. Miller.

She cocked her head and looked up at him as if he might be pulling her leg. “Clearly someone stole them.”

“How do you know a coyote or something didn’t come in and eat them all?”

“You see any feathers?”

Actually, he did. There were feathers all over the chicken coop.

“You see any blood, any bones?” she asked with growing impatience. “Where are you from anyway?”

“Houston.”

“Where’s your Texas accent?” she asked.

“I wasn’t born there. My father was in the military. We traveled all over.” It was the story he’d come up with. It made things simpler. And safer.

Mrs. Miller let out a little huff sound and put her hands on her hips. “Aren’t you going to look for fingerprints? Tracks? Something?”

Fingerprints? She couldn’t be serious. As for tracks, it had rained the night before. There were lots of tracks, all appearing to have been made by her dogs.

“I got wash to do,” she said and headed for the side yard.

He circled the chicken coop, feeling like a fool. He’d never tracked anything in his life. This was nothing like chasing a convenience-store robber down an alley and over a couple of fences.

To his surprise, he found some tracks that looked out of place. He squatted down next to one of the prints. The sun had already baked the surface of the yard. The print was that of a boot. A small one. A kid’s.

Nick walked around to where Mrs. Miller was hanging sheets and towels on a clothesline.

“Who all lives here?” he asked.

“Me and my husband. He’s out cutting hay. Why?”

“You have any grandchildren, any children who have been over to visit in the last day or so?”

“No. What does that have to do with my chickens?”

“No neighbors with kids?” he asked.

Alice Miller wrinkled her brow. “There is that boy, his aunt and uncle are renting the farm next door.”

Nick pulled out his notebook and pencil. “What do these chickens look like?” He glanced up when she didn’t answer and saw her expression. “Okay, would you be able to recognize them if you saw them again?”