Sinister (6 page)

“We were kids.” She let her thoughts fall away for a moment of intense focus as she drew blood from the cat’s neck. “There.” She managed to withdraw the needle and her hand before he could snap a paw at her.

In many ways the blaze at the Dillinger ranch eighteen years earlier still smoldered, its embers still hot enough to burn, its smoke black enough to always obscure the truth. Colton had left Prairie Creek soon afterward with hardly a word to Sabrina. She’d longed for him to come back for too many years to count.

Now, ironically, she hoped he stayed away.

 

 

From inside Mojave’s stall, Colton heard the door to the stable creak open, felt the cold rush of wind stream into the stables and heard a familiar tread on the old floorboards. He didn’t even have to look away from the hoof he was trimming to know that his father had arrived.
Great.

“About time you showed up,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

Mojave, whose testy disposition was renowned, snorted impatiently while Montana was rousted from sniffing at a hole in the floorboards. The dog growled, lifted his head and barked sharply.

“I’ve been expecting you.” Colt dropped the gelding’s foreleg and straightened to find Ira closing the door behind him. How many times had he been in a similar situation, alone with his father in a building that smelled of dust, urine and horses?

“Ricki called, did she?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures. You kids are thick as thieves.”

“Not kids anymore.” Colt was thirty-nine, Ricki not far behind. How old did you have to be for your parents to leave you alone? He traced the dorsal stripe of the gelding, patted him on his rump, and earned another disgruntled snort from Mojave. Colt slipped through the stall door and faced his old man.

“Always will be kids to me. That’s the trouble with you all. I can’t trust a one of you.”

The feeling was mutual. “You’re not talking me into coming to that farce of a wedding of yours, if that’s why you came.”

His father glanced over at the stall where Mojave was staring back at him. A couple of boxes over, Scarlet, a roan mare, nickered softly. As the old man scanned the row of stalls with a practiced eye, Colton rubbed the anxious mare’s neck.

“Nice herd ya got here,” Ira commented.

“They’ll do.” Colton opened the barn door.

“The bay. Your primary stud?”

“Rocky would like to think so. He’s the old man around here. Trouble is, he always acts half his age around the mares. His ego is a lot bigger than his . . .” His father’s eyes narrowed a bit as if he’d been waiting for a jab. Colton added, “But you didn’t fly up here to see the stock, did you?”

“Nope.”

Colt braced himself for the battle that was about to go down. “Let’s head inside and you can try to convince me to go down to Wyoming. I’ll make you coffee and tell you no. And you can fly home, feeling good that at least you tried.”

Ira made a sound of disgust.

Whistling to the dog, Colton left the lights on but secured the door. Ahead of them, Montana bounded along the path of broken and flattened snow leading to the house. Half a step behind, his old man followed through the bone-deep cold to the house, probably little more than a cabin by his father’s standards.

“You work this place alone?” Ira asked.

“Cub Jenkins is my foreman. I let him hire the crews when we need ’em.”

“Trustworthy?”

“No, Dad. I hire the biggest crook in the county. What kind of question is that?”

Irritated, Colt stomped up the two steps to the porch and opened the door. He’d owned this place for more than a decade, and his father had never bothered to visit. Even during the dark days after the accident, Ira had flown up for the funerals and stayed in a motel, not out of a sense of privacy for Colt but as a clear message that Ira’s world revolved around Ira’s ranch and he had no use for anything beyond Dillinger land.

As soon as Colton opened the door to the mudroom, Montana bolted inside and checked his empty food bowl parked in the kitchen. “You were fed,” Colton reminded the dog as he shed his coat and hat and hung them on a peg near the back door. “Want coffee?”

Ira shrugged out of his jacket and hung it and his Stetson on an empty peg. “Got anything stronger?”

In a cabinet over the refrigerator, Colt located a half-empty bottle of Jack. He handed it over with a glass he snagged from the dish rack. “Don’t tell me it’s ‘five o’clock somewhere,’” he warned. “I know that already.”

“Time, just another man’s restraints, another man’s measure. Means nothing.” As if to add emphasis to his theory, the old clock near the stairs counted off the half hour. Ira poured himself a stiff shot and held up the bottle for Colt to do the same.

Colt shook his head. “If time means nothing, why the rush to get married? You’re not dying, are you?”

“Hope not.”

“Then why not slow down a little? What happened? You’ve got Viagra with an expiration date or something?”

“Funny.” Ira tossed back a swallow and walked through a dining alcove to the living area, where he warmed the back of his legs near the fireplace.

“Mom hasn’t been gone a year.”

“And she wouldn’t want me to waste time.”

“She also wouldn’t want you to do something stupid.”

“Rachel’s dead, son, and that’s that. I want to spend the rest of my years enjoying life.”

“And Pilar is gonna bring you joy?” Colt decided he did need a drink. He found another glass and poured himself a healthy shot.

There was a smug twinkle in Ira’s eyes. “She already does.”

Colton rubbed his eyes, as if he could wipe away the image of an old fool in bed with a sexy woman. “If things go south, it’s not so easy to undo a marriage vow. It’ll cost you.”

“I’m not a man who looks at the road behind him.” Ira pointed his glass at his son. “I keep my sights on what’s ahead. I thought I taught you to do the same. You can’t let regret eat away at you.”

Colton raked back his hair, staring at the fire. Regret was a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. It clouded his days and clung to his nights. Any man approaching forty was liable to have a tool belt full of regrets, but Colt’s was heavy enough to stop him in his tracks some days. Regret over lost love. Regret that he hadn’t been there to save his wife and daughter. Regret that he’d let an itch below the belt take him on a bender with Pilar all those years ago, producing a kid who was now a victim of his two irresponsible parents.

“Some things take time,” Colton said, eyes on the fire.

“Well, some things can’t wait for you to throw your damned pity party. Take a stand, son. Get your ass down to Prairie Creek and be a father. Show Rourke what it’s like to be a Dillinger.”

Rourke . . . a Dillinger.

Colt met his father’s measured stare. “Pilar told you.” “Of course she told me. We’re getting married. I know you’re the boy’s father. You think she’d keep that from me?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Colton pointed out coldly. “She let Chad die thinking the kid was his.”

“Again . . . you’re kicking up dust in the past. We gotta look at the future. You’re the boy’s father. What are you gonna do about it?”

Tossing back the whiskey, Colt felt the burn of his future. “Does he know?” Ira nodded and Colt ground out, “Goddammit.”

“Show up for the wedding. Smooth things over with Pilar, get to know your son.”

Unbidden, the image of his baby girl, Darcy, came to him—her soft, toothless smile, the light in her green eyes as she looked up at him, helpless and trusting ...

Colt felt sorely tempted to throw his glass in the fire, but he crossed to the counter and placed it down carefully, his nerves strung taut with rage. “I’m not gonna let you manipulate me.”

Ira shook his head and strode to the back door, reaching for his coat. “Don’t take this out on me. That boy needs to know his father and I’d like to see you at my wedding.”

Colton shoved the bottle of Jack into the cupboard and let the door bang shut.

“You know, son, there was a time when you couldn’t do enough for me.”

“Pilar’ll have you in the grave before the year is out.”

“At least I’ll die happy,” Ira came back. “Which is more than I can say for you, living like a hermit up here. When was the last time a woman even stepped foot in this place?”

Colt had no answer. His head hurt and there was a sour taste in his throat. His father knew that Colt was Rourke’s father and he still wanted to marry Pilar.

Ira paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Come on, son, let me buy you breakfast.” Casting a glance at the unwashed fry pan on the stove, he added, “Or lunch. Whatever you want. Your choice.”

“Nothing appears to be my choice.”

“The boy’s your son,” Ira repeated stubbornly. “That’s all I’m sayin’.”

“Pilar already asked me for child support.”

“That a problem?” Ira asked with a lift of his brow.

“Happy to support Rourke. Just thought it was kind of ironic that you’ll be supporting Pilar.”

“Let it go, Colton.”

Colton managed to keep himself from making another smart comeback. He had no use for Pilar, but Rourke was a different matter. Ira was right in that regard: he had a son, no matter how many ways he tried to deny it. That had been proven by a simple paternity test.

As if sensing him weakening, Ira wrapped one arm around Colton’s broad shoulders and urged, “Oh hell, make the trip to Wyoming. Do it for your old man.”

Colton stepped free of his father’s grasp but not the emotional net he’d cast. Ira had woven that too well. No, Colt wouldn’t go for the wedding, but he would go for Rourke.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll go. For Rourke. And get that shit-eatin’ grin off your face,” Colton growled, “or I might change my mind.”

Wisely, for the first time in creation, Ira did as he was told.

First the storm had dumped ten inches of snow over the region and then the wind had raced through, blowing the powdery white stuff into drifts against buildings, fence posts, farm machinery and you name it. Sheriff Sam Featherstone’s boots crunched through the snow’s crust a week afterward, as he walked up to the abandoned car and slid the thin metal strip of the Slim Jim between the window and rubber seal. The vehicle had been left at Big Bart’s Buffalo Lounge since before the storm swept through and it was now half-buried in snow. Sam worked the Slim Jim and suddenly the lock popped open.

“Looks like you’ve done this before,” Bart O’Day said, his breath a cloud of white.

“Once or twice.” Sam unlocked the rest of the Honda Civic, which sat listing toward its flat tire. He opened the glove box on the passenger side. “Says it’s registered to an Amber Barstow, Sacramento.” The name and address matched the information that had come up when he ran the license plate back at the precinct.

“That’s good, right?”

“Not good or bad, just consistent.”

Bart, the owner of the bar and grill on the outskirts of Prairie Creek, had called the sheriff’s department about the car and Sam was checking it out. The wind had died down, leaving a vista of white snow and blue sky from the wide-open stretch of land that hooked off the interstate. It was so clear today that the purple and black shale fingers of the mountains seemed to rise up from the field beyond Bart’s parking lot. On days like this, you just had to take a breath and appreciate the fact that you were in God’s country.

“You say the car’s been here a week?” Sam asked again.

“More or less.” Bart shifted from left foot to right, his belly zipped so tight into a red jacket that it seemed a small pin might pop it. “I figured it was just a flat that happened during the bad snow. You know how people walk away from a vehicle and come back with friends when the storm clears. But no one’s claimed it.”

“There’s no stolen vehicle report for this Honda.” Sam jotted down the girl’s name on a piece of paper. “And this Amber Barstow didn’t leave a message with any of your staff that she’d be back to pick it up?”

“Not a word.”

Sam handed Bart the slip of paper. “If we’re lucky, she bought something at your place and used a credit card. Can you check your receipts for the day that you noticed the car left here, maybe a day or two before, see if you find her name?”

“That might take a while, Sam.”

“It’d help us pinpoint the time when the car was abandoned.”

“I’ll get Shelly on it.” Bart started toward the building, then turned back. “What you gonna do with the car, Sam?”

“Probably get Bud to tow it into town. Unless you want to add it to that rust heap out at your place?”

Bart waved him off. “My wife says one more old junker and she’s divorcing me for sure. But I’d like it out of here. With holiday travel, the lot fills up sometimes.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

An abandoned vehicle was generally not cause for alarm, but something about this one tickled the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck. He gloved up and checked out the car, leaving things where he found them.

It appeared that Amber Barstow was on a road trip. There were two spent coffee cups in the holder, an empty pack of cigarettes on the passenger seat, and—most telling—a suitcase full of clothes and toiletries in the trunk. No purse, but the blister pack of birth control pills in the travel case showed that the last pill had been taken on a Friday.

Today was Thursday. That would place the girl here Friday or Saturday, depending on what time of day she took her pill. The makeup case had been so full, Sam had found it hard to stuff everything back in. All the tan-colored lotions and creams. Plastic packs of eye shadow and blush. Lipsticks and a bunch of pencils in red and brown for God knew what. As he replaced the pill pack and tucked the shiny silver cosmetic bag away, he felt like a voyeur. Even after eleven years of police work, it felt wrong going through a strange woman’s possessions. A violation of privacy, and Sam valued privacy. Still, gathering evidence and putting it all together—assembling the puzzle—that was what kept his head in the job.

So. No purse or cell phone, but a fat suitcase of women’s clothes and a good stock of makeup. Most women wouldn’t go too far without their belongings, say if a friend had picked her up here. Clearly Amber Barstow intended to reclaim her car. So where the hell was she?

Sam checked up on Amber, and by the time he was walking into the restaurant, he had learned that Amber Barstow had not been reported missing, and he had the photo from her driver’s license on his iPad, ready to show around.

The lunch rush was winding down in the restaurant, so Bart’s wife, Shelly, who worked as the primary waitress, was able to take a minute and look at Amber’s photo.

She stuck her pen behind her ear and frowned. “Face doesn’t ring a bell, but I do like your iPad. It’s so slender.” She held the device up so that Bart could see it from his spot at a table in the back, where he was going through rubber-banded stacks of receipts. “See this, honey? Mm-hmm. This is what I want for Christmas!” Shelly handed it back to Sam. “I’ve been hinting around, but he’ll probably just get me some earrings or perfume again.”

“You don’t recall this woman?”

“Mmm . . . no . . . ask Carol or Jane.”

Sam was about to check with the other waitresses when Bart let out a hoot. “I got it. Amber Barstow,” he hollered, holding a receipt high in the air and motioning Sam to the bar. Sam let out a slow breath and walked over to Bart, not liking that he’d shouted out the woman’s name.

“She was here Saturday, right?” Bart asked. Sam was scanning the receipt as they moved down the dim corridor. “Maybe she came to hear the band. You know, we have live music on Saturday nights.”

“It says her server was Grady,” Sam said.

“Well, just your luck. Grady’s working now.”

Bart clapped Sam on the back as they stepped up to the bar to talk with the wiry man with the gold tooth and pale eyes. Grady Chisum was not Sam’s favorite citizen. The man had been at the center of dozens of barroom brawls before he decided to clean it up and malinger on the other side of the bar.

It took Grady no time to recall the woman. “Amber,” he said, almost with an “aha” attached to it.

“You know her,” Sam said.

“Nah. She just came in that one night. She in trouble?”

“That’s her Honda Civic outside, the one with the flat tire,” Sam said.

“I just want her to get the car out of my lot,” Bart said, holding the receipt up to Grady’s face, which he turned away from.

“Irish coffee with a green drizzle on top,” he said as he hung the glass he’d been drying in the overhead rack. “Yeah, that’s her. Dark hair. She was kind of quiet, kept to herself most of the time. She checked out a guy at the bar, but I don’t think they hooked up or anything.”

“She was alone?” Sam asked.

“Yup. And so was the other guy. Didn’t recognize either of ’em. He had a dark jacket and a black Stetson. I can’t remember what she was wearing, but she was shivering when she came in. It took her a while to unzip the jacket and relax.”

“Did they leave together?”

Grady squinted. “Don’t think so, but I’m paid to pour, not to babysit.”

Sam went back outside to talk with Bud Thomas the tow truck driver. Since the car’s owner wasn’t a missing person yet, he wasn’t going to voucher all the possessions in the car, but he didn’t want the vehicle going all the way over to county impound. “Just take it back to town,” Sam told the driver. “Leave it in the lot behind the precinct.”

“Will do,” Bud said, his breath steaming the cold air.

By the time he rolled into the lot back at the precinct, the muscles in the back of Sam’s neck sang with tension. He cut the engine to his county-issued Jeep and rotated his neck far enough to hear his vertebrae crack. The neck ache was chronic. Like the Jeep, it came with the job. Lately, the department was on overload. They were down two deputies, one from retirement, the other a pregnancy, and he was having some difficulty getting anyone qualified to take the jobs.

The holiday season was always stressful and seemed to bring out the worst in some people. Domestic violence reports were on the rise, along with the usual traffic accidents, power outages, drunk drivers, poachers and fights. But he had a niggling fear about the abandoned vehicle. He sincerely hoped Amber Barstow was all right.

Locking the Jeep remotely, he walked through the back entrance of the low-slung cinder block building housing the sheriff’s department. The smell of floor wax and burnt coffee greeted him, and he hadn’t stepped five feet into the common lunch area when Naomi Simmons, a secretary for the department, chased him down.

“The furnace is on the fritz again,” she said, perpetual scowl in place. “All the front offices are freezing.” She was bundled in her down jacket and scarf and dabbed at her red nose with her tissue.

“Call maintenance and—”

“I did. You know what Mel told me? ‘I’ll get to it.’ You know what that means.
When
will he get to it? That’s what I’d like to know. Hopefully sometime before the New Year!” She was really getting worked up now, and Sam figured the influx of adrenaline might be just what she needed to get her blood flowing again.

Gary Rodriguez, one of the deputies, was seated at a round table, immersed in the newspaper, but he looked up at Naomi, then looked down again quickly, as if he wanted to make sure he stayed out of the line of fire.

“You want me to talk to Mel?” Sam asked.

“Like that’ll do any good, but yes.”

“Get him, or someone from maintenance, on the line for me,” he agreed. The last thing he needed was to handle this detail himself, but he couldn’t have the staff freezing, either. He needed a little patience here, a trait the Shoshone were known for, though Sam often felt he’d been shortchanged in that department.

Naomi stormed to the coffee counter, tried to fill a cup from the carafe marked
HOT WATER
and found it empty. “Fan. Tas. Tic.” Jaw set, she filled her cup at the sink and slid it into the microwave. As her mug twirled to the right temperature, she scoured the basket of tea bags and grumbled about there not being any peppermint.

Sam grabbed a cup of black coffee and wound his way through the rabbit warren of hallways to his office, the largest in the building, but by no means plush.

He’d barely sat down when his phone rang and Naomi connected him to the lackluster Mel Gervais who promised to “get right on it.”

“Sheriff?” he heard as he was hanging up.

He glanced up.

Katrina Starr, Prairie Creek’s youngest detective, stood in the doorway to his office. Petite, barely five-foot-three, she was an intense woman, who was far too serious for her twenty-eight years. “That detective from Sacramento called back while you were gone.”

“Any word on Amber Barstow?”

“He got a call from her parents this morning, and they filed a missing person’s report.” Katrina frowned. “Amber Barstow is officially missing.”

 

 

Colton zipped his duffel bag closed and told himself he was making a big mistake. Despite all his vows to the contrary, he’d decided to return to Wyoming, not for the wedding, but to try and connect with the son he’d never officially met. He couldn’t imagine how Rourke would respond to a face-to-face with the absentee father who’d sired him. Probably not well. In fact, if Colton had been told that he wasn’t Ira’s son, but the progeny of a love ’em and leave ’em cowboy, he probably would have spit on the pretender.

The old man had taken off yesterday on the private plane he’d hired, but Colton had decided against flying with him. The quarters would be too damned tight, and he’d needed to square things up before he headed south. He left Jenkins in charge of the stock and there were plenty of ranch hands available to help out. Jenkins had also agreed to put out food and water for Montana, who now followed his every step. That dog did not like the sight of a duffel bag.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, kneeling down to scratch the shepherd behind his ears. “I won’t be gone long.” Montana whined and looked up at him with accusations in his dark eyes. The dog
knew
Colton was lying. Whining, wagging his tail, he begged to be let in on the adventure.

“Now don’t look so pathetic,” Colton said, then caved. “Okay, you’re right. This might take a while.”

Sensing that his mission was accomplished, the dog took off, claws clicking frantically as he raced to the front door.

Colton shouldered his bag and followed after the excited mutt. “Yeah, I know,” he said as he reached for his jacket. “I’m a sap.”

Montana barked expectantly as Colton shrugged into his coat, reminded himself to call Cub to let him know that Montana was taking the trip with him, slapped off the lights and walked outside into a rush of bone-chilling cold.

He had a long drive ahead of him, but the distance wasn’t the difficult part. Nope. Even with the weather he could probably make it in a little over eight hours. It was what was on the other end that was the problem.

When he’d fled to Montana, he’d been escaping all the pain and blame and family bullshit of Prairie Creek. That place had closed around him like a noose, choking the living breath out of him.

And now? With Margo and Darcy gone, he could see that his time in Montana was coming to an end, too. He had to get out of Margo’s kitchen. He’d given up trying to sleep in the bed they’d shared. And Darcy’s room? Although Ricki had packed a lot of stuff up for him when she’d visited the previous spring, he’d stayed away from the bedrooms at the back of the house. He was on his way out, that was a given, and had been ever since he’d lost them.

His next move? That was still up in the air.

He was damn sure it wasn’t Prairie Creek.