Dark Paradise (52 page)

J.D. rode the pharmacist's yellow mare down across the wash above Little

Snake Creek. The mare picked her way along uncertainly, awkward with the

unaccustomed weight of a man on her back. Her small ears flicked forward

and back. She leaned on the bit. Automatically, J.D. dickered with the

reins, moving his hands gently, just enough to get her to soften her

mouth and bring her nose back an inch.

His mind wasn't on the job. He hadn't gone on this ride for the benefit

of the mare. He'd saddled her only because his work ethic wouldn't allow

him to do much of anything that wasn't productive in some way.

What about Marilee?

Time spent with her might have been productive had she shown any sign of

offering him the chance to buy Lucy's land. But then, the idea of

prostituting himself went against his ethical grain. It was a no-win

deal. If he went to bed with her for the purpose of gain, he was nothing

but a gigolo. If he went to bed with her for any other reason, he was

asking for trouble he swore he didn't want.

The point was moot. He wouldn't be going to bed with her again.

He made a sour face and shifted his weight back in the saddle as the

mare negotiated her way down the last slope to the creek bottom. Life in

general was turning out to be a no-win deal. He'd gotten nowhere in his

attempt to put together an offer for the Flying K. A call to set up an

appointment with Ron Weiss, vice president of the First Bank of Montana,

had netted him condolences on Will's unprecedented losing streak at

Little Purgatory.

Bryce was probably sitting back laughing at his futile attempts to keep

the property out of Bryce's hands, biding his time and counting his

money. With Samantha in his camp, he had to be thinking ownership of the

Stars and Bars wasn't that far off.

And now Will was leaving - had in fact already left.

J.D. had watched him drive out of the yard in Tucker's old International

Harvester pickup. He had always expected him to relinquish his claim to

the family land and move on to greener pastures. Now that the day had

come, J.D. felt neither relief nor triumph, but a sick hollowness in the

pit of his stomach. Old guilt revisited. Remorse for losing something he

thought he had never wanted in the first place.

They were family, and there was a strong obligation there. But he had

taken that sense of duty as a license to badger and bully and preach. He

treated Will more like a screw-up ranch hand than a brother. Only he

couldn't fire Will for his drinking or for not showing up to work or for

gambling away ranch money or for playing them into the hands of their

biggest enemy or for totaling his pickup, which brought him back

full-circle to the drinking.

Marilee thought Will needed help, that his drinking was out of control.

J.D. had viewed it as a nuisance. This was rugged country with rugged

people. Drinking was part of a cowboy's life. Too big a part in too many

cases.

Alcoholism was a problem in the ranching culture. The stress, the

loneliness, the code of manhood, all contributed. He'd seen Will drunk

more times than he could count, and all he had ever done was ride the

kid about wrecking his truck or being late to work.

The guilt dug its teeth a little deeper and gave him a shake. The truth

pulled on him. The lead weight of accountability. He had come out here

to escape the burden of his responsibilities, not put them under a

microscope.

He had come out here to lose himself in his first love the land.

This stretch along the Little Snake was a favorite spot - when there

weren't half a dozen city idiots in their Orvis vests and waders fly

fishing. Luck was with him for once. He could see a red Bronco parked

some distance downstream, but no sign of its owner. Probably someone

hiking in the woods, looking for morels. He might stop and pick a few

himself on the way home. Tucker could fry them up a feast of fresh trout

and wild mushrooms for supper.

This little valley and the slopes on either side belonged to the Bureau

of Land Management. Once upon a time the McKeevers of the Boxed Circle

spread had owned the grazing lease, but the McKeevers had sold out in

ninety-one to a network news anchor who didn't raise anything but a few

head of horses a year, and the lease had gone back to the BLM. J.D. had

considered trying for it, but an environmental group had taken up the

"Preserve the Little Snake" banner for fly fishermen and weekend hikers

from Bozeman and Livingston, and the small amount of grass hadn't been

worth the trouble of a fight.

He still liked to ride over here when he got a chance. It was secluded,

unspoiled for the moment. The Little Snake, which was actually a small

river, wound between columns of cottonwood and aspen. Fed by mountain

runoff, it ran fast this time of year, and was cold and clear and

studded with boulders. Along the banks the grass grew in a lush strip

dotted with wildflowers.

Wooded slopes rose sharply beyond. It wasn't uncommon to see mule deer

drinking from the creek, their black-tipped tails flicking nervously.

He'd seen bears here more than once. The Absarokas were thick with

grizzlies and black bear. The encroachment of man pushed them deeper

into the wilderness areas every year, but conflicts with ranch stock and

tourists still happened from time to time.

He rode the yellow mare to the edge of the water at a shallow spot and

urged her to step in. She arched her neck and blew through her nostrils

at the water rushing past. J.D. spoke to her and coaxed her, urging her

forward with his legs. She lifted a foreleg and pawed at the water,

splashing herself, then moved tentatively forward, her attitude telling

J.D. she wasn't too sure about this idea, but she trusted him not to get

her into trouble.

When she was standing knee-deep in the water and had relaxed enough to

bob her head around, checking out the scenery, he reached into the

tubular boot he had strapped to his saddle and extracted the components

of his fishing rod. The mare looked back at him with curiosity, but

stood quietly as he assembled the rod.

He had ridden her only half a dozen times, but she was naturally

sensible and bright. She would make the pharmacist's daughter a good,

safe mount. She brought her head up the first time he cast, and danced a

little as he reeled it in, her muscular body tense beneath him. But when

she saw that this process was not so different from having a rope thrown

from her back, she relaxed again.

The true test would come when he hooked a trout.

J.D. relaxed as well. He cleared his mind as he found his rhythm with

the rod. The sun shone down, warm on his back. The water chuckled and

hissed as it rushed on its way to the Yellowstone River. The air was

sweet with the scent of the grass, sharp with the vaguely metallic

undertone of the water. The cottonwood and aspen leaves quivered and

chattered. The reel whined as he cast, clucked when he cranked the line

back in to try again. A kestrel hovered over the far bank, beating its

blue wings furiously as it waited for the perfect second to drop on its

prey in the grass below.

Nothing was biting. J.D. reeled in and waded the mare across to the

opposite bank. She climbed out and they moved downstream sixty yards.

This time when he asked her to step down into the stream, she didn't

hesitate. He patted her and talked to her, then took up his rod and

started fishing again. An hour passed this way. When he couldn't get a

nibble in one spot, they would move down to another, crossing from bank

to bank, sometimes walking downstream in the shallows. He had no desire

to run into the owner of the Bronco, but the best spots happened to be

downstream. J.D. figured he would try his luck until someone came along,

then they would start back for home. The ranch was an hour's ride and

the afternoon shadows were already growing long.

As they moved closer, he recognized the truck. Miller Daggrepont's name

and the titles he had bestowed on himself were emblazoned across the

driver's side door in three lines of gold gay-nineties-style lettering:

MILLER DAGGREPONT, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW, DEALER IN Antiques. He

wouldn't hike up a mountain to hunt for mushrooms unless they were lined

with gold. He was a fisherman, but there was no sign of him along the

banks of the Little Snake.

J.D. frowned, more at Miller's imposition on his thoughts than out of

any concern for the lawyer's whereabouts. Thoughts of Daggrepont brought

thoughts of the land Marilee had inherited, and, therefore, brought

thoughts of Marilee, and he flat-out didn't want to think about her.

They were through. He should never have gotten tangled up with her in

the first place.

He cast his line, flicking it at the edge of a brackish spot in a bend

of the creek. Here the bank had eroded away over the years, creating a

marshy pool that filled with water every spring and during hard rains.

Rushes and cattails grew in profusion. More than one lunker had been

caught browsing at the border between the pool and the stream.

J.D. snapped his wrist and swore as his fly went sailing into the tangle

of growth. Thoughts of Marilee had broken his concentration. She was a

pretty distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. He had too much trouble

brewing in his life as it was; he didn't need to add a woman to the mess.

He snarled to himself as the image of those big, deep eyes glittering

with pain rose up to haunt his memory. He had hurt her and it bothered him

more than he ought to have let it. She was nothing but trouble, butting

her little upturned nose between him and Will, toying with the likes of

Evan Bryce, snooping around Del, looking for clues to a mystery that had

already been solved as far as the court was concerned.

He jerked back on the line, hoping it would come free without a lot of

trouble. It didn't. He tried reeling it in slowly, but succeeded only in

tightening the line against whatever the fly had snagged.
 
He waded the

mare across to the other bank, let her climb ashore, and stepped down

off her. Reins in one hand, rod in the other, he moved toward the marshy

spot, wishing the mare were far enough along in her training to

ground-tie reliably.

He decided to take his chances as he reached the stand of cattails

without freeing the damned line. If he had to wade out into the muck, he

didn't want her with him.

The bottom was soft and muddy, and she would likely become frightened as

her footing sank beneath her. Fear could spoil a young horse as quickly

as mistreatment. He dropped his reins and backed away from her, scowling

at her as she started to follow. He took an aggressive step toward her.

She stopped and tossed her head, ears pricked as she watched him turn

back toward the bank.

Reeling in more line, he stepped off into water thigh deep, flushing a

blue-winged teal out of its cover. The duck flew up with an angry

squawk, wings pummeling the air like a fighter shadow-boxing. Glancing

back over his shoulder, J.D. checked to see that the mare hadn't

spooked. She watched him with interest, and he maintained eye contact

for just a second to let her know he hadn't forgotten her. As he waded

forward, his left knee connected unexpectedly with something solid, and

he lost his balance. His right foot slipped in the mud and he went down

. . . landing squarely across the body of Miller Daggrepont.

"Jesus, I've hauled dead cattle out of rivers easier than this." Deputy

Doug Bardwell sloshed through the reeds, waist-deep in water, trying to

get a better hold on the body. "Hey, J.D., you wanna throw a rope around

him and drag him out with that yellow mare?"

Quinn brought his head up from examining the footprints in the soft

ground of the bank and glowered at his deputy. "Peters, get in there

with him and haul the body out the other side of the slough. I don't

want any more tracks on this bank than we already got. Look at this

mess," he grumbled, turning back to his task. "God knows how many people

been out here since it rained, tramping up and down."

J.D. was hunkered down beside him, frowning at the ground. "I reckon