Murdered In Conard County

They can only solve the perfect murder

If they work together.

After a shot rings out in the night, park ranger Blaire Afton knows her hard-won serenity is in jeopardy. But when she’s faced with a murder with no motive and no clues, US forest ranger Gus Maddox agrees with her suspicion that this is no random crime. With their shared military past, Blaire and Gus become close. But will their need for each other hinder their quest for justice?

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practised her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times best-selling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Also by Rachel Lee

Cornered in Conard County

Missing in Conard County

Guardian in Disguise

The Widow’s Protector

Rancher’s Deadly Risk

What She Saw

Conard County Revenge Conard

County Watch

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Murdered in Conard County

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09430-6

MURDERED IN CONARD COUNTY

© 2018 Susan Civil Brown

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Publisher

Prologue

Three years earlier

“Have either of you ever heard of Leopold and Loeb? They thought they could commit the perfect murder.”

A large fire burned in the huge stone fireplace, casting dancing tongues of orange light and inky shadows around the cabin’s sitting room. The wood sizzled and crackled, adding its dry music to the light and occasionally loud pops that sounded almost like gunshots.

The log walls, burnished by the years, added weight to the entire scene. Trophy heads of bighorn sheep, elk and deer hung everywhere, beneath each a plaque memorializing a past hunter.

Clearly this was a hunting lodge, one of generous size, able to house a fairly large party. But its heyday was in the past and now only three men occupied it.

It seemed like the last place on earth three men would plot murders.

Dressed in camouflage, their orange caps and vests tossed onto a nearby chest, they sat in a semicircle of comfortable lounge chairs in front of the fire, sipping brandy from snifters. Two of them enjoyed fat cigars with a surprisingly pleasant aroma.

“It was really cold out there,” remarked one of them, a man with dark hair and a luxuriant mustache who appeared to be about thirty, maybe a couple of years older. He’d been the one who had asked the question about Leopold and Loeb, but having received no response, he dropped it. For now.

“Good for the deer, Will,” said the man nearest him. His name was Karl, and he looked like his Nordic ancestors, with pale hair and skin and frigid blue eyes. The deer he referred to had been field dressed and was hanging in a shed outside, protected from scavengers.

“Yeah,” said Jeff, the third of them. He had the kind of good looks that could have gotten him cast on a TV drama, but he also had a kink in his spine from a military injury and he didn’t quite sit or stand straight. He often endured pain but seldom showed it. “It’s probably already frozen stiff.”

“Like a board,” Karl agreed. “Thank goodness we have a sling on our side-by-sides.”

“And tomorrow maybe we’ll get an elk,” Jeff added. They’d won the drawing for a coveted license for an elk, and since they’d been hoping for one for years, this was no small deal.

Silence fell for a while, except for the crackling of the fire. Three men, looking very content, enjoying their hunting lodge after a successful day. Except one of them was not quite content.

Will spoke. “Do you two ever get tired of this hunting trip? Every year since we were boys, coming up here with our dads. Now just the three of us.”

“Something wrong with the company?” Karl drawled.

“Of course not,” Will answered. “It’s just that I was thinking we’ve been doing this so many years, and we’ve never gone home empty-handed. Not much of a challenge, is it?”

Jeff nearly gaped. They’d spent the better part of three days tracking the buck that was now hanging in the shed. “We almost missed that mature eight-pointer. He was smart.”

“We still got him,” Will pointed out.

Karl spoke. “The elk will be even more of a challenge. What do you want, Will? To stop making these trips? I thought we were doing it more for the time away together. Three guys, brandy and cigars, traipsing around in the woods on the cusp of winter... A lot of guys would envy us.”

“We aren’t a lot of guys. In fact, I believe we’re smarter than the average bear. All of us.”

“So?”

“So, how about we hunt a different kind of prey? Not to kill but for the challenge.”

“What are you talking about?” Jeff asked.

“You ever hear of Leopold and Loeb?” This time Will spoke more emphatically.

Both Karl and Jeff shook their heads. “Who were they?” Karl asked.

“Two guys who thought they were smart enough to commit the perfect murder. Back in the 1920s. But they got caught in twenty-four hours.”

The other two men froze into silence.

“We’re smarter,” said Will presently. “Think of all the planning we’d have to do, a lot more than hunting deer or elk. And even without the murder it would be a helluva challenging game.”

Silence, except for the fire, reigned for a while. Then Jeff said, “You are talking about a game, not a real murder, right?”

Will waved the hand holding his cigar. “The game would be the planning and stalking. Just like when we hunt deer. The kill hardly matters at that point. We only follow through because we want the meat and the rack. You can’t hang a man’s head on the wall.”

That elicited a laugh from Karl. “True that.” Even Jeff smiled after a moment.

“The most challenging game of all,” Will continued. “How do we do it without leaving any evidence? How do we creep up on our prey?”

Karl snorted. “Men aren’t as smart as deer, Will.”

“But they’re almost never alone.”

After a bit, Jeff said, “Sorta like playing D&D when we were younger?”

“Like that,” Will agreed. “Plotting and planning and stalking. That’s all.”

Presently all the men were sitting easily in their chairs and began to toss ideas around. If nothing else, it was an entertaining way to spend an icy evening.

Chapter One

Blaire Afton slept with the window cracked because she liked the cool night breeze, and the sounds of animals in the woods. As park ranger for the state of Wyoming, she supervised a forested area with a dozen scattered campgrounds and quite a few hiking trails, most all the camps and trails farther up the mountain.

Her cabin was also the main office, the entry point to the park, and her bedroom was upstairs in a loft. The breeze, chilly as it got at night, even in July, kept her from feeling closed in. The fresh air seemed to make her sleep deeper and more relaxed, as well.

It also seemed to keep away the nightmares that still occasionally plagued her. Ten months in Afghanistan had left their mark.

But tonight she was edgy as all get-out, and sleep stubbornly evaded her. Maybe just as well, she thought irritably. Nights when she felt like this often produced bad dreams, which in turn elicited worse memories.

Sitting up at last, she flipped on the fluorescent lantern beside her bed and dressed in her park ranger’s uniform and laced up her boots. If sleep caught up with her finally, she could crash on the sofa downstairs. Right now, however, early coffee was sounding delicious.

There was absolutely no way she could make her boots silent on the open wooden staircase, but it didn’t matter. All her staff were home for the night and she could bother only herself. Right now, bothering herself seemed like a fairly good idea.

The electric lines reached the cabin, having been run up the side of this mountain by the state, along with a phone landline that extended out to all the campgrounds in case of emergencies. Neither was perfectly reliable, but when they worked, they were a boon. Especially the electricity. Phone calls about vacant campsites didn’t light up her life, nor did some of the stupid ones she received. Want a weather report? Then turn on the weather.

“Ha,” she said aloud. The good news was that she had electric power this night. She walked over to her precious espresso machine and turned it on. A few shots over ice with milk and artificial sweetener...oh, yeah.

And since she was wide awake and had the power, maybe she should check her computer and see if she had internet, as well. Monthly reports were due soon, and if she had to be awake, she might as well deal with them. Reports weren’t her favorite part of this job, and sometimes she wondered if some of them had been created by a higher-up who just wanted to be important.

When her coffee was ready and filling her insulated mug, she decided to step outside and enjoy some of the night’s unique quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was so different from the busier daylight hours. Tilting her head back, she could see stars overhead, bright and distant this nearly moonless night. The silvery glow was just enough to see by, but not enough to wash out the stars.

Sipping her coffee, she allowed herself to enjoy being out in the dark without fear. It might come back at any moment, but as Afghanistan faded further into her past, it happened much less often. She was grateful for the incremental improvement.

Grateful, too, that the head forester at the national forest abutting her state land was also a veteran, someone she could talk to. Gus Maddox guarded a longer past in combat than she did, and there was still a lot he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about. But he’d been in special operations, and much of what they did remained secret for years.

In her case, her service had been more ordinary. Guarding supply convoys sounded tame until you learned they were a desirable target. She and her team had more than once found themselves in intense firefights, or the object of roadside bombs.

She shook herself, refusing to let memory intrude on this night. It was lovely and deserved its due. An owl hooted from deep within the woods, a lonely yet beautiful sound. All kinds of small critters would be scurrying around, trying to evade notice by running from hiding place to hiding place while they searched for food. Nature had a balance and it wasn’t always pretty, but unlike war it served a necessary purpose.

Dawn would be here soon, and she decided to wait in hope she might see a cloud of bats returning to their cave three miles north. They didn’t often fly overhead here, but occasionally she enjoyed the treat.

Currently there was a great deal of worry among biologists about a fungus that was attacking the little brown bat. She hoped they managed to save the species.

A loud report unexpectedly shattered the night. The entire world seemed to freeze. Only the gentle sigh of the night breeze remained as wildlife paused in recognition of a threat.

Blaire froze, too. She knew the sound of a gunshot. She also knew that no one was supposed to be hunting during the night or during this season.

What the hell? She couldn’t even tell exactly where it came from. The sound had echoed off the rocks and slopes of the mountain. As quiet as the night was, it might have come from miles away.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone in her cabin started to ring.

Her heart sank.

* * *

TEN MILES SOUTH in his cabin in the national forest, August Maddox, Gus to everyone, was also enduring a restless night. Darkness had two sides to it, one favorable and one threatening, depending. In spec ops, he’d favored it when he was on a stealthy mission and didn’t want to be detected. At other times, when he and his men were the prey, he hated it. The protection it sometimes afforded his troops could transform into deadliness in an instant.

As a result, he endured an ongoing battle with night. Time was improving it, but on nights like this when sleep eluded him, he sometimes forced himself to step outside, allowing the inkiness to swallow him, standing fast against urges to take cover. He hated this in himself, felt it as an ugly, inexcusable weakness, but hating it didn’t make it go away.

The fingernail moon provided a little light, and he used it to go around the side of the building to visit the three horses in the corral there. His own gelding, Scrappy, immediately stirred from whatever sleep he’d been enjoying and came to the rail to accept a few pats and nuzzle Gus in return.

Sometimes Gus thought the horse was the only living being who understood him. Probably because Scrappy couldn’t talk, he often added in attempted lightness.

But Scrappy did talk in his own way. He could communicate quite a bit with a toss of his head or a flick of his tail, not to mention the pawing of his feet. Tonight the horse seemed peaceful, though, and leaned into his hand as if trying to share the comfort.

He should have brought a carrot, Gus thought. Stroking the horse’s neck, he asked, “Who gave you that silly name, Scrappy?”

Of course the horse couldn’t answer, and Gus had never met anyone who could. The name had come attached to the animal, and no one had ever changed it. Which was okay, because Gus kind of liked it. Unusual. He was quite sure the word hadn’t been attached to another horse anywhere. It also made him wonder about the horse’s coltish days five or six years ago.

Scrappy was a gorgeous, large pinto whose lines suggested Arabian somewhere in the past. He was surefooted in these mountains, though, which was far more important than speed. And he was evidently an animal who attached himself firmly, because Gus had found that when Scrappy was out of the corral, he’d follow Gus around more like a puppy than anything.

Right then, though, as Scrappy nudged his arm repeatedly, he realized the horse wanted to take a walk. It was dark, but not too dark, and there was a good trail leading north toward the state park lands.

And Blaire Afton.

Gus half smiled at himself as he ran his fingers through Scrappy’s mane. Blaire. She’d assumed her ranger position over there about two years ago, and they’d become friends. Well, as much as two wary vets could. Coffee, conversation, even some good laughs. Occasional confidences about so-called reentry problems. After two years, Scrappy probably knew the path by heart.

But it was odd for the horse to want to walk in the middle of the night. Horses did sleep. But maybe Gus’s restlessness had reached him and made him restless, as well. Or maybe he sensed something in the night. Prickles of apprehension, never far away in the dark, ran up Gus’s spine.

“Okay, a short ride,” he told Scrappy. “Just enough to work out a kink or two.”

An internal kink. Or a thousand. Gus had given up wondering just how many kinks he’d brought home with him after nearly twenty years in the Army, most of it in covert missions. The grenade that had messed him up with shrapnel hadn’t left as many scars as memory. Or so he thought.

He was tempted to ride bareback, given that he didn’t intend to go far, but he knew better. As steady as Scrappy was, if he startled or stumbled Gus could wind up on the ground. Better to have the security of a saddle than risk an injury.

Entering the corral, he saw happiness in Scrappy’s sudden prance. The other two horses roused enough to glance over, then went back to snoozing. They never let the night rambles disturb them. The other two horses apparently considered them to be a matter between Scrappy and Gus.

Shortly he led the freshly saddled Scrappy out of the corral. Not that he needed leading. He followed him over to the door of his cabin where a whiteboard for messages was tacked and he scrawled that he’d gone for a ride on the Forked Rivers Trail. A safety precaution in case he wasn’t back by the time his staff started wandering in from their various posts. Hard-and-fast rule: never go into the forest without letting the rangers know where you were headed and when you expected to return. It applied to him as well as their guests.

Then he swung up into the saddle, listening to Scrappy’s happy nicker, enjoying his brief sideways prance of pleasure. And just like the song, the horse knew the way.

Funny thing to drift through his mind at that moment. A memory from childhood that seemed so far away now he wasn’t sure it had really happened. Sitting in the car with his parents on the way to Grandmother’s house. Seriously. Two kids in the back seat singing “Over the River” until his mother begged for mercy. His folks were gone now, taken by the flu of all things, and his sister who had followed him into the Army had been brought home in a box from Iraq.

Given his feelings about the darkness, it struck him as weird that the song and the attendant memories had popped up. But he ought to know by now how oddly the brain could work.

Scrappy’s hooves were nearly silent on the pine needles that coated the trail. The duff under the trees was deep in these parts, and he’d suggested to HQ that they might need to clean up some of it. Fire hazard, and it hadn’t rained in a while, although they were due for some soon to judge by the forecast. Good. They needed it.

The slow ride through the night woods was nearly magical. The creak of leather and the jingle of the rings on the bridle were quiet, but part of the feeling of the night. When he’d been in Germany he’d learned the story of the Christmas tree. The idea had begun with early and long winter nights, as travelers between villages had needed illumination to see their way. At some point people had started putting candles on tree branches.

Damn, he’d moved from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a matter of minutes and it was July. What the hell was going on inside his mind?

He shook his head a bit, then noticed that Scrappy was starting to get edgy himself. He was tossing his head an awful lot. What had he sensed on the night breeze? Some odor that bothered him. That could be almost anything out of the ordinary.

But the horse’s reaction put him on high alert, too. Something was wrong with the woods tonight. Scrappy felt it and he wasn’t one to question an animal’s instincts and senses.

Worry began to niggle at him. They were getting ever closer to Blaire Afton’s cabin. Could she be sick or in trouble?

Maybe it was an annoying guy thing, but he often didn’t like the idea that she was alone there at night. In the national forest there were people around whom he could radio if he needed to, who’d be there soon if he wanted them. Blaire had no such thing going for her. Her employees were all on daylight hours, gone in the evening, not returning until morning. Budget, he supposed. Money was tight for damn near everything now.

Blaire would probably laugh in his face if she ever guessed he sometimes worried about her being alone out here. She had some of the best training in the world. If asked he’d say that he felt sorry for anyone who tangled with her.

But she was still alone there in that cabin, and worse, she was alone with her nightmares. Like him. He knew all about that.

Scrappy tossed his head more emphatically and Gus loosened the reins. “Okay, man, do your thing.”

Scrappy needed no other encouragement. His pace quickened dramatically.

Well, maybe Blaire would be restless tonight, too, and they could share morning coffee and conversation. It was gradually becoming his favorite way to start a day.

Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot, ringing through the forest. At a distance, but he still shouldn’t be hearing it. Not at this time of year. Not in the dark.

“Scrappy, let’s go.” He touched the horse lightly with his heels, not wanting him to break into a gallop that could bring him to harm, but just to hurry a bit.