Montana (26 page)

Molly sighed and snuggled closer.

“Did you miss me, sweetheart?” he murmured, and gently nibbled at her ear.

Her immediate response gave him a world of hope. Rolling onto her back, Molly wound her arms around his neck. Then she did that thing with her tongue, tickling the hollow of his throat. Goose bumps spread down his arms and legs. “Oh, baby…” he whispered “I think we should talk, don't you?”

Not answering, she clung to him.

“On second thought we can talk anytime.” He eased his leg between hers and was about to kiss her full on the lips when it happened.

The willing pliant woman in his arms went stiff, then bolted up and shoved him away. “Where have you been? Oh, God, you were with another woman! I can smell her all over you!”

R
ussell Letson's heart stopped cold. He read the headlines again, certain there'd been some mistake. This couldn't be real! The agony was as fierce as anything physical, perhaps more so.

The paper said that Pearl was dead.

He covered his eyes with one hand in a futile effort to force the fog of pain from his mind. He needed to think, to assimilate what the words said and what he could make himself believe, make himself accept.

Again he read the article, which took up half the front page of the regular Wednesday edition. The
Sweetgrass Weekly
rarely had a murder to write about. Even a murder without a body was big news. The door to Pearl's house had been left open for several days, and when a neighbor had gone to investigate, she discovered the place had been ransacked. It was as though a tornado had been let loose inside, she'd said. Blood splattered the walls, and a deep crimson stain was found on the bed, leaking through to the mattress. So much blood. Dear God, had she suffered?

Bile rose in his throat, and thrusting the newspaper aside, he closed his eyes and drew in several deep breaths. To his amazement he felt tears in his eyes.
Sweet Jesus, please, don't let her have suffered.

He loved her. He'd known it long before he'd seen her eyes swollen shut and the bruises that marked her upper arms and neck. She'd rejected him, and the pain of that rejection had driven him away, even when he knew she'd lied. Almost everything she'd said to him that Sunday was a lie. What he'd never been able to figure out was why she believed it was necessary.

He'd hoped she'd see reason, but then he'd lost patience and ruined everything. The night he'd gone to her and treated her like a whore had killed any tenderness she might have felt for him.

Ashamed and defeated, Russell hadn't seen Pearl since. But his thoughts had been with her every minute of every day while he tried to sort out what to do next, how to approach her and ask her forgiveness. He'd planned to talk to her, convince her they could make a good life together, if she'd only give them a chance.

But he'd waited too long and now it was too late.

Pearl was dead.

In time someone would find her decomposed body, cast aside like so much garbage on the side of a country road. Perhaps her killer had had the decency to bury her somewhere. He prayed that was the case.

Dear Lord, not Pearl, please not Pearl.

Once he'd composed himself enough to reach for the phone, Russell dialed Sheriff Maynard's office to make a few discreet inquiries.

“Any leads?” he asked in a crisp professional tone, as if a murder case was a routine matter.

Maynard didn't sound pleased to hear from him. “None yet, but we'll eventually find whoever was responsible.”

Russell had never felt anything like this need, this all-consuming drive for justice. He'd gone into law for a number of reasons, none of which had much to do with justice, but in the blink of an eye that had all changed. The minute he'd read the headlines, justice—and punishment—took on the utmost importance.

“Then the killer left evidence behind?” Russell pressed, despite the lawman's obvious reluctance to discuss the case. They knew each other well, and Maynard owed him this.

“There's always evidence.”

“Who was her pimp?” Russell demanded. If anyone knew, it was the sheriff. He tried to sound as if the matter were one of casual interest. Asking these questions was bound to lead Russell to potential suspects. If he did nothing else in this life, he'd make sure that whoever murdered Pearl paid for his crime.

“Listen, Russell, I can't talk about this case. Not yet. You'll hear the details as soon as I have them. Now stop pestering me. I've got work to do.” He paused, then asked, “Why all the curiosity? How well did you know her, anyway?”

The last thing Russell needed was to become a suspect himself. “Every guy in town knew her, didn't he? You did yourself, right?” he asked, making light of his preoccupation with the crime.

The sheriff laughed. “Knew her intimately, you mean,” he joked. “Every cowhand in town slept with her at one time or another. Either that or he was a saint. The lady had a body and knew how to use it. That's what makes cases like this so damned difficult. My guess is that her john got a little too rambunctious and things went further than he intended.”

Russell stopped breathing to help prevent the mental picture of a man abusing Pearl from forming in his mind. It didn't work, and he was tormented with what her last minutes must have been like.

“I'll say this, though,” the sheriff murmured. “I don't think I've ever seen so much blood.”

“Is there any chance she could be alive?” He wanted desperately to believe there was a possibility Pearl had survived the beating and like an injured animal had run off to hide.

“I suppose there's a chance,” the sheriff admitted after a moment. “But my guess is she's dead. Hard to see how anyone could lose that much blood and survive.”

Russell's throat felt like he'd swallowed the cotton in the top of his vitamin bottle. It hurt to breathe. “Why would the killer take away the body?”

Maynard snickered as if to say the question was unworthy of a response. “Think about it. Physical evidence. Anyone with half a brain isn't going to leave a corpse behind at the scene of a crime. Not these days. Why give investigators an edge?”

Russell nodded, surprised he hadn't realized that himself. “Right.”

“I'll let you know more when I can.”

At this point Russell didn't care how much his curiosity left him exposed. “I want to know everything. Find the bastard. Do whatever it takes, but find the bastard.” His hand trembled as badly as his voice by the time he replaced the telephone receiver.

For two days Russell didn't sleep more than a few minutes at a time or eat anything at all. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Pearl as he had the last time they'd been together. Her eyes had been bright with unshed tears as she called out to him. Unwilling to listen, he'd turned his back on her and walked away. In those last moments he'd destroyed any hope of reconciliation.

Now he'd have to live with that for the rest of his life, and he didn't know if he could.

Although he made a pretense of working, if anyone had asked him what he'd done, Russell wouldn't have been able to say. He'd been in the office all week, but he'd written no letters, prepared no legal briefs, talked to no clients. He'd had his secretary cancel his appointments. For hours each day he sat and stared into space. His secretary seemed convinced he had the flu. He let her believe what she wanted; it saved him from having to invent excuses.

The buzzer at his desk pulled him out of his reverie. “Yes,” he said, resenting the intrusion.

“Mr. Sam Dakota's here to see you. He says it's urgent.”

Russell wearily rubbed his face. Instinct told him to send the man home; he was in no shape to offer legal advice. “Tell him I'm already booked solid.” A complete lie, but that should let Roberta know how much he wanted her to turn the rancher away.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Letson, but he insists on speaking to you personally. He's very persistent and says it's of the utmost importance.”

Russell's head drooped slightly, the weight of the decision almost more than he could bear. “Send him in,” he said finally. He'd listen to whatever was troubling Sam, then advise him to hire another attorney.

The door opened and his secretary let Sam into the office.

Russell gestured toward the chair on the other side of his desk, and Sam took a seat. He seemed nervous, sitting on the edge of the cushion and holding his hat with both hands. The first thing Russell noticed was how pale the rancher looked—but then he suspected he wasn't exactly the picture of health himself.

“What can I do for you?” Russell asked when Sam didn't immediately speak. For someone who'd been hell-bent to talk to him, he was taking long enough to get down to it.

“I wasn't sure where else to go or who to call,” Sam told him with obvious reluctance. “I don't trust the sheriff, and the bartender and four or five others at Willie's are bound to have seen me and what the hell—” He leaped to his feet and walked over to the window. “I have a feeling deep in my gut that I'm going to end up charged with the murder of that poor woman.”

Russell felt his blood stir for the first time since he'd read the newspaper headline. “Murder?”

Sam turned around to face him. “I swear by everything I hold dear that I didn't lay a hand on her.”

Russell's blood wasn't only stirring, it was surging in his veins. “You were with Pearl the night she died?” His voice rose with each word, although he spoke slowly and clearly.

“I spent time with her,” Sam admitted, “but not the way you think.”

“Then explain it to me.” His voice was cold, hard, as he stared at the other man, seeing him in a new light.

“Molly and I argued,” Sam was saying. “She found out about my prison record.” He lowered his head.

Russell's gaze narrowed as he studied the man closely. Maynard had told him about it shortly after Walt hired Dakota, but it surprised him that Molly hadn't known.

“Molly—I should've told her, I know that now. I admit I was wrong to go through with the wedding without disclosing my past.” His eyes met Russell's. “I love my wife.”

The regret on Sam's face told Russell the truth of his words. “Get back to the part having to do with Pearl,” he instructed, not wanting Sam to get sidetracked by his marital problems.

“I met Pearl a couple of months earlier,” Sam explained, again with a certain reluctance, “but not, uh, on a professional basis.”

Had Pearl entertained other men the way she had him? Russell wondered. A rush of jealousy set his nerves on edge. Loving her the way he had made the thought of anyone else sharing that special closeness intolerable. He'd loved her and she'd loved him. What she'd done with her clients had nothing to do with the feelings between them.

“I met her the night Molly and I got married.”

“You were with Pearl on your wedding night?” This was beyond real. Dakota honestly couldn't expect Russell to believe that!

“I met her at Willie's,” Sam explained, his expression tightly controlled, revealing none of his thoughts. “Molly and I…” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “Let me just say that Molly and I didn't see eye to eye on a certain issue and I left the hotel in a huff.”

“And drowned your sorrows in a bottle of beer at Willie's.”

“Something like that,” Sam admitted. “That's where I met Pearl.”

His gaze roved about the room in an agitated way that might have suggested guilt, but Russell could see that Sam was genuinely distressed. His attorney's instinct told him Sam wasn't the one who'd killed Pearl; if it turned out he was wrong, Russell figured he'd save the courts a lot of trouble and expense and see that justice was carried out himself.

Dakota continued with his story, explaining how Pearl had sent him back to his wife. Russell's heart tightened when he realized what a generous thing she'd done for a stranger.

“You'd never seen her before that night?” he asked.

“Never.”

Russell believed him. He stared openly at the rancher; Sam's own gaze didn't waver, which he considered a good sign.

“What did you do with her the night she was killed?”

“I gave her a ride home.”

“Why?” He couldn't quite keep the suspicion out of his voice. What man played taxi driver for a hooker unless he had an ulterior motive?

Sam braced himself. “I know it sounds incredible, and I can't think of a single reason for you to believe me, but I swear this is the truth. I met her at Willie's again and she seemed a bit down. So because she'd been kind to me, because I liked her, I asked if there was anything I could do for her, and she asked for a ride home.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Two unsavory characters came into the tavern and she didn't want them to know she was there.”

“Did you get a good look at either of them?”

Sam shook his head sadly. “The lights were dim, and I paid more attention to shielding Pearl than to studying their faces.”

“Did anyone see the two of you leave together?”

“Four, possibly five others.”

Russell sat back and tried to absorb what he'd learned. “What about outside the tavern?”

“A couple of guys in the parking lot, but that's about it.”

Again Russell paused, mentally picturing the setup at Willie's. He hadn't been in there in months. Willie's was where Pearl had sought out customers, and knowing that, he'd avoided the place. Not that he'd ever gone there much.

“Has Sheriff Maynard questioned you yet?”