“Jesus, Dan, how can you be so naive?” Cade had demanded the last time he’d been at the ranch. “You should know better. You dated her!” He and his two brothers had been leaning over the rails near the barn, watching the cattle gather under the overhang, red and black coats shaggy with the harsh winter, their breaths coming out in clouds as the animals lowed and filed inside for feed.
“Ancient history,” Dan had replied. “And besides—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know, all right? I did too.” Cade scowled darkly at the memory while Big Zed, three inches taller than his brothers and fifty pounds heavier, eyed them both narrowly. Cade continued, “The difference is that I got smarter for the experience!”
“Kinda,” Big Zed said. The oldest of the Grayson brothers, he was usually quieter than Cade, who was known to be explosive, or Dan, who didn’t run on Cade’s hot emotions but always had his say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cade demanded.
“Just what I said. You kinda got over her.” Zed shrugged a brawny shoulder. “And you kind of didn’t.”
“Shitfire, what do you know?” Cade grumbled, then kicked at a dirt clod that had stuck out of the snow. “I’m just saying you, brother”—he pointed a gloved finger at Dan—“better tread carefully.”
Of course Dan hadn’t taken any bit of his brothers’ advice. It didn’t really matter what Hattie’s motives were. It was the twins, McKenzie and Mallory, who were important. He’d never had any kids himself, and those two energetic eight-year-olds had burrowed deep into his heart.
So he’d agreed to the dinner. He’d even managed to buy some girl-type games at a toy store in Missoula and put them into red bags filled with green tissue paper and tied with gold ribbons. As was his usual routine, he’d included a check for each of Bart’s daughters in the cards he’d added to the bags. For college. He figured it was the least he could do.
He only hoped Hattie would keep her feelings about Bart’s suicide to herself, though he suspected that was wishful thinking because as recently as two weeks ago, she’d brought up the subject.
“Think about it,” she’d said to him. “Do you really think your brother would hang himself? That just wasn’t Bart’s style!” Her eyes narrowed on a distant point. “If someone had said he’d ridden a horse up to Cougar Ridge and used his own gun . . . then maybe I could buy it. Maybe. But that’s still a big if.”
“Hattie, the man was depressed.”
“Lots of people are,” she flung back at him, her eyes snapping fire. “That’s what Prozac is for!”
“Well, Prozac wasn’t exactly Bart’s style either,” he reasoned and she had suspended the argument. But it w
as going to be resurrected; he could feel it. His ex-sister-in-law was nothing if not dogged.
Glancing at his watch now, he scowled. Pescoli, and whatever it was that was so damned important that it had to be dealt with this morning, would be here soon and the fire in the woodstove needed stoking.
“We’d better get to it,” he said to the dog, then slipped on the boots he’d left near the back door. As soon as he opened the door, a cold wind swirled inside. Sturgis sprang onto the porch and, paws scraping loudly, took off like a streak. Squaring a Stetson onto his head, Grayson strode outside, his boots ringing across the porch. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the small stack of firewood near the door. Fair enough. He’d split some more.
After all, a little exercise sure wouldn’t kill him.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time was passing. Too fast. He didn’t have all day. It was Christmas morning. He had places to be, alibis to create.
And yet he waited.
Perched on the steep rise above Grayson’s cabin, watching smoke curl from the ancient chimney that was missing more than a few bricks, he bided his time. Impatiently. His gloved hands nearly caressed his rifle’s barrel as his gaze fastened on the ice-glazed windows where he’d seen the sheriff’s distorted silhouette pass by, though never linger.
Snow was falling more rapidly. Big, fat flakes nearly obscured his view, drifting with the wind. The snowfall was an impediment, yes, but also a cover.
He resisted the urge to look at his watch.
Dawn had broken, so he was already running late.
For crying out loud, would the man ever quit moving? Take a stand by one of the windows that faced this direction?
Okay, you bastard, come to Papa!
As if on cue, the back door to the cabin opened and Grayson’s black Lab shot across the porch, leaping over the steps into the snow.
The killer’s gut tightened a bit. The dog could be a problem. If the hound caught his scent and sent up a ruckus or even came over to investigate, Grayson would be warned and there was no shooting the animal. Yet. Gritting his teeth behind the rotting stump where he’d sought cover, he settled his rifle atop the uneven surface, sighted through it, and waited as the seconds ticked by.
Come on, come on . . .