Redemption

“Delbert French was one wild son of a bee in his day. He could ride anything and damned sure wasn’t afraid to try. But he couldn’t stay out of trouble for the life of him. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to Jack.”

“Sad what happened to ol’ Del,” another rancher agreed. “Wonder if his boy plans to keep the family place.”

Hitch McCray had spoken up. “Smartest thing Jack could do is clear out. His father never amounted to anything on that piece of land. I doubt Jack will take to ranching any better than his old man did. He’d rather be a saddle bum.” Apparently, it was no secret Hitch wanted to buy the old French place.

Kate remembered how the others had gone quiet with disapproval. Hitch was the youngest of the regulars. She got the feeling that they didn’t particularly like him but put up with him because of his mother.

“Jack has as much right to be here as anyone,” Taylor West had said into the silence. “He’s paid for his mistake. If he really was the one who took that bull to start with.”

“Why would you say that?” Hitch had challenged. “He was caught dead to rights.”

“If Jack did rustle that bull, he was either drunk or just foolin’ around,” Taylor said. “Either way, Judge Hyett went awful hard on him. I suspect if Jack hadn’t been dating Judge Hang ’Em Hy’s daughter he would have gotten off with jail time served.”

The table had gone quiet after that. Kate had finished filling the coffee cups and gone to pick up their orders. By the time she’d returned with their breakfasts, the conversation had moved on to the weather.

Overhearing the earlier discussion now made her more curious about the man who’d come to her rescue last night. She’d been angry that he’d thought she needed rescuing. She’d been taking care of herself for so long she resented any help. The last thing she wanted was to be beholden to any man—especially one like Jack French. And now the cowboy thought he’d saved her last night.

She’d seen how surprised he’d been when her attacker had taken off without a fight. What Jack hadn’t seen was the small gun she’d pulled. The other man had seen it, though. One look at her and the gun, and he’d hightailed it.

Kate shuddered inwardly at the memory. She’d hoped she would have more time before one of them showed up. But she couldn’t let it rattle her. She’d deal with it, the same way she’d dealt with everything else in her life. But it did make her all the more aware that she needed to speed things up.

Late last fall, she’d barely gotten settled in before winter had hit with a fury. She’d realized quickly that she would have to wait it out. But now that spring had finally come to the mountains, she wasn’t about to let anything stop her. Or anyone.

Kate watched Jack French and his friend Carson Grant meandering up the street. She saw Jack peer into the bed of her pickup, then turn to look back as if he knew she’d be watching. She quickly turned away. Across the street, she saw movement in the room over the general store and groaned.

Jack French wasn’t the only one who was too curious about her and her personal business. Nosy Nettie Benton had been spying on her for months.

CHAPTER THREE

NETTIE BENTON TURNED OFF the vacuum and surveyed the room. She’d been talking for years about turning the storage area over the Beartooth General Store into an apartment.

It had taken her husband leaving for her to do more than talk. Bob had been gone four months now after packing up his pickup and leaving for Arizona, with no intention of ever returning. Not that she would take him back if he did.

She hadn’t expected to hear from him, given the way he’d left, but a few weeks ago she’d received a postcard. It had a cactus in bloom on the front and the words Greetings from Arizona. She’d turned it over, easily recognizing the handwriting of her husband of thirty years.

Just wanted to let you know that I made it without any problems. Hope all is well with you. Sorry about everything— Bob

She’d stared at the scrawled words for a moment and then dropped the postcard into the wastebasket without another thought. She felt guilty enough that she hadn’t given him a thought all these months, let alone missed him. But she was through with Bob Benton and realized she had been for years.

Bob’s parents had given them the store as a wedding present. Well, they’d given it to her, since Bob had no interest in being a shopkeeper, or anything else for that matter.

She was the one who worked in the store seven days a week, short days on Sunday because she had to go to church first. She prided herself on having a general store that carried everything from canned goods to diapers, muck boots to fishing tackle.

Nettie also prided herself on knowing everything that was going on in the small community. Most days, with business slow, she would perch in the front window of the store and watch what life there was pass by. She learned a lot doing that and liked to brag that she knew more about the people of Sweetgrass County than they knew even about themselves.

The bell over the front door of the store sounded below her. Nettie glanced out the window, saw Sheriff Frank Curry’s patrol pickup parked out front, then hurriedly checked her short, dyed-red hair in the mirror on the wall before she went down the stairs.

Her pulse jumped as it always did at the sight of the sheriff, who was standing just inside the door. She straightened, fighting a ridiculous grin, and did her best not to fuss with her new haircut.

“Mornin’, Lynette,” Frank said, tipping his Stetson. He was the only person who ever called her by her given name.

A big, broad-shouldered man, he looked as if he’d stepped out of an old Western movie with his thick, drooping mustache. Now in his late fifties, like her, he was even more handsome than he’d been when the two of them were young and in love. There were tiny laugh lines around his eyes, his face tanned from working outside when he wasn’t working for the law.

“Frank,” she said, still trying to hide how happy she was to see him. After all, legally she was still a married woman and, while Frank had done his share of flirting with her since Bob had left, he hadn’t even gone so far as to ask her out. The fact that she’d broken his heart thirty years ago seemed to have made him leery of going back down that particular trail.

“What can I get for you?” she asked as she watched him head for the cooler. He took out his usual orange soda and popped the top before taking a long drink. He smiled at her as he swallowed and reached for his usual candy bar.

“Just needed somethin’ cold,” he said.

She suspected he’d stopped in for more than orange soda and a candy bar. She hoped it was an excuse to see her. That she could be wrong, though, kept her from calling him on it.

“Warm for spring,” she said, glancing toward the front window of the store, with its view of the sharp peak in the distance that had given the town its name. Closer, she caught sight of the café across the street and Kate LaFond. The young woman was like a burr under her saddle and had been since the day she’d shown up in town.

Nettie was about to ask the sheriff if he’d checked up on Kate, something she’d asked him to do before Christmas. She imagined that he’d forgotten, given everything that had been going on back then.

But when he spoke, all thought of Kate LaFond vanished.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” Frank said as he moved to the counter. He put down his soda can and with obvious reluctance took a small plastic evidence bag from a pocket. “I need you to keep this just between you and me, Lynette. I’m going to need your word on that.”

She nodded, wide-eyed. He knew her too well. People considered her a terrible gossip, Frank included. But she would do anything for Frank. Even keep a secret.

He flattened what appeared to be an old photograph inside the bag and pulled a magnifying glass from his other pocket. “I know it’s hard to see through the plastic, but I’d prefer the snapshot not be handled too much.”

Her curiosity piqued, Nettie took the magnifying glass he offered her and leaned over the photo. As it came into view, dread filled her.

“You know those people?” Frank asked.

She knew he’d seen her reaction. She suspected he’d had much the same reaction himself when he’d gotten a good look at the photo. “Where did you get this?”

“Can’t say.”

The fact that it was in an evidence bag meant it was part of an investigation. Her pulse pounded as she took another glance at the faces in the photo, turned the bag over to look at the back of the snapshot, then handed him the magnifying glass.

“Well?” he asked.

“You know as well as I do it’s the Ackermann family.” She couldn’t imagine what he was doing with that photo, let alone what it was doing in an evidence bag or why he was warning her she had to keep quiet about it.

“Who else have you shown this to?” she asked. All that awful stuff had happened more than thirty years ago. Only residents as old or older than her and Frank would remember. But it wasn’t as if everyone else hadn’t heard about what had happened up there in the hollow outside town.

“You’re the only person I’ve shown it to.” He shook his head. “I was hoping you’d tell me I was wrong.”

“I just don’t understand why you’d be asking about the Ackermanns. They’re all dead.” She saw his expression and her heart fell. “Aren’t they?”

“I don’t know what this photo means, if anything. I just had to be sure I wasn’t wrong. I need you to keep quiet about this, Lynette. I’m serious.”

“You don’t have to worry about me saying a word.” She shuddered at the memory of what Frank’s father, who was sheriff back then, and his deputies had found up in that valley more than three decades ago.

“I knew I could trust you. That’s why I brought it to you,” he said.

His words made her heart beat a little faster as he put both the evidence bag and the magnifying glass back in his pocket. She watched him finish his soda, seeing the weight of this on his broad shoulders.

“What’s that written on the back?” she asked.

He shook his head as he paid for the soda and candy bar. “It looks like hieroglyphics to me.”

“Or a map of some kind.”

He looked up at her, and for the first time, his gaze seemed to brighten. “A map? You know you really are an amazing woman.”

She wasn’t actually blushing, was she? Nettie quickly scooped up the money he’d put on the counter and busied herself putting it in the cash register.

“I’d better get going.” As he glanced toward the street, he let out a curse. “I promised you I’d check on your new neighbor.” The Branding Iron Café was directly across the narrow strip of pavement from the store. “I’m sorry, it completely slipped my mind.”

“You’ve had a lot on your plate with the Ginny West murder case.” The murder had gone unsolved for eleven years—until late last fall when some new evidence had surfaced.

“Still, that’s no excuse. I told you I’d do it and I will.” He frowned. “Did I see an Apartment for Rent sign in your front window?”

“You know I’ve been threatening for years to use that old apartment upstairs for something other than storage.” She and Bob had lived up there when they’d first gotten married, but only until their house on the mountain behind the store had been finished. “I know I can’t get much rent for it, but I thought I’d try. Would be nice to have someone living up there who can help keep an eye on the store,” she added quickly. She didn’t want him to think she needed the money. Nor did she want him to think she missed Bob.

“Good idea,” Frank said, but she could tell he was distracted. “Lynette, if you ever need anything—”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine, Frank.”

He smiled, the warmth in his eyes making her feel like a schoolgirl again. “Yes, you are fine. By the way, I like your new haircut.” Then he hesitated. “You won’t say anything about—”

“No.” She swallowed back the bad taste in her mouth at the mention again of the Ackermann family. She almost wished he’d never shown her the photograph. When she’d looked past the faces, she’d seen the cave behind the house, a thick wooden door covering the opening, and remembered what had been found in the cold, damp darkness behind it.

She shuddered, hugging herself, and said a silent prayer for all of them as she watched the sheriff leave.

* * *

JACK REINED IN his horse to look out across the wide, green valley. He breathed in the day, never more thankful than right now that he’d come back here. Next to him, the creek roared as it tumbled through large granite boulders. Farther away, calves bawled for their mamas in a field of tall, new green grass and wildflowers.

He loved helping with spring roundup on the W Bar G, gathering the cattle in order to tally the calf crop and getting ready to tag and brand. It was a big operation on this huge ranch. He’d been riding for two long days now, combing the breaks and coulees for cattle and heading them toward the central point where other riders kept the herd together until they could be moved down to the corrals for branding.

Each night he’d fallen dead asleep, saddle sore and exhausted, hearing the sound of lowing cattle even when he closed his eyes. The work had kept him from thinking about anything other than cows. But the spring roundup was now over, and he had to make a decision whether to stay on at the W Bar G, ranch his own place, or sell out and move on.

“You’re good with horses and cattle,” Destry Grant said to him now as they rode back down toward the main ranch house. “I need someone I can trust, and my ranch manager likes you. Not that Russell will go any easier on you than he does on the rest of the wranglers.”

He grinned at that as they dismounted. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Destry gave him a hug. “I’m glad you’re back. So is Carson.” Carson had been his best friend since they were kids. Jack had lied for him eleven years ago, knowing that Carson had nothing to do with the death of his former girlfriend Ginny West. He would do it again, since Carson was the closest to a brother he’d ever had.

But being under suspicion of murdering his girlfriend had been rough on his friend. Carson had enough to overcome after being raised by W. T. Grant, an overbearing, controlling father. Rest his soul in peace, Jack quickly added. W.T. had died late last fall, leaving the ranch to Destry instead of Carson.

“Carson’s doing okay, right?” Jack asked as they walked toward the big house her father had built.

“He’s not gambling and he’s paying back what he owes,” she said. “But I worry about him. I think he’s restless.”

“He just needs a good woman,” Margaret said, and smiled at Jack as he and Destry reached the kitchen. “Welcome back.” Margaret had been W. T. Grant’s closest friend as well as the cook and housekeeper. When he’d died, he’d left the house to her, since Destry preferred to live in the old homestead down the road, until her upcoming wedding to Rylan West.

Rylan was in the process of getting a home built for them. The W Bar G and the West Ranch, where Rylan worked with his father, adjoined, so they were building on a site in the middle.

“You two aren’t trying to line Carson up, are you?” Jack asked, seeing that they were.

“Lisa Anne Clausen has had a crush on him since grade school,” Destry said and crossed her fingers. “They’d be good together.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure Carson is ready. Just saying...”

Carson seemed to be doing fine, though, Jack thought as he drove toward Beartooth and his cabin. It made him proud that his friend was finally taking responsibility for himself and his actions. It was his gambling and the murder charge that had made W. T.

Grant cut his son from the will. Carson got to live in the big house as long as he was employed. Fortunately, he seemed to have taken to ranching after years of fighting it.

The long days on the W Bar G had also kept Jack out of trouble and away from the Branding Iron Café. Which meant he hadn’t seen Kate LaFond again. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. As he pulled up in front of his cabin, it was early, but he was tired and couldn’t wait to lie down and put his boots up.

The knock at his door what seemed to be only a few minutes later brought him out of a deep sleep. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He’d come into the cabin and collapsed on the bed still fully dressed after the long day in the saddle.

He rose now and padded to the door, thinking Carson must have stopped by for some reason.

When he saw the sheriff darkening his doorway, Jack felt that old, familiar fear he’d grown up with. The law at your door was never a good thing.

“Sheriff Curry,” he said, fighting to fully wake up. Whatever the sheriff wanted, Jack figured he needed his wits about him. “Is there a problem?”

“Sorry if I woke you,” the sheriff apologized.

“Been working spring roundup,” he said, but figured the sheriff probably knew that. Sheriffs tended to keep track of ex-cons, and Frank Curry had watched him grow up so probably took a special interest.

“I heard you’re on the W Bar G now.” Frank pulled off his hat. “Just need a minute of your time, Jack. I’ve got something here I was hoping you might be able to help me with. Mind if I come in for a moment?”

Jack stepped back, wondering what the hell this was about. He turned on another lamp and offered the sheriff a seat.

“I won’t be staying that long. If you’d just take a look at this...” He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket. Inside was a coiled thin rope. Even from a distance, Jack could tell it was hitched out of horsehair. He’d watched enough of the inmates at Deer Lodge making everything from reins and ropes to belts and hatbands.

Hitching involved twisting three or four strands of dyed horsehair into what were known as pulls. The pulls were used with cotton cord and a wood or metal rod to hitch the horsehair in a circular pattern. A series of hitches created a variety of colorful patterns, most commonly diamonds and spirals.

What amazed Jack was how long it took—a couple of hours to do only an inch of hitching. When finished, the cord or rod was removed. The item was then soaked in water and clamped between two heavy plates of steel to dry.

A lot of the inmates sold what they made, getting as much as four to eight thousand dollars for bridles. Belts, hatbands and quirts were cheaper, because they were faster to make.

“Do you recognize the pattern?” the sheriff asked. “Is it one from Montana State Prison?”

Jack took the bag and held it under the lamplight. The colors were brighter and the pattern different from ones he’d seen in prison. “It’s not from Deer Lodge,” he said and handed it back. “At least it isn’t like any I saw up there.”

The sheriff nodded. He put the bag back in his pocket. “You do any hitching while you were up there?”

Jack laughed. “I was working the prison ranch, so I kept plenty busy. I’ve watched a lot of guys hitch, though. Takes more patience than I have.”

“Well, thanks for your time.” He started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, while you were up at the state pen, did you happen to run across Cullen Ackermann?”

The infamous Ackermann. The sheriff had asked the question casually enough, but it still put Jack on guard. “I made a point of staying away from crazy old cons—especially that one.”

Frank Curry nodded. “Was he still preaching revolution and the Armageddon of this country as we know it?”

Jack nodded, a little surprised by the sheriff’s interest. But, then again, Cullen Ackermann was Beartooth’s most infamous charismatic crazy, even though he’d never been considered a true local since he wasn’t born here.

“I suppose he found an audience up there before he died,” Frank said.

“He definitely had his followers in prison,” Jack said. “Young, anti-government wannabe survivalists were big fans of his. A few of them bought into what he was selling.” To fill the silence that followed, he added, “I think most of them were more interested in Ackermann’s cache of gold he allegedly hid before he got sent up.”

“That tale still circulating, huh?” The sheriff shook his head and looked as if he wanted to ask more, but apparently changed his mind. “Well, you have a nice night.”

Jack followed him out onto the small porch in front of the cabin and watched until the patrol pickup headed toward Big Timber, then he went back inside. He hadn’t asked where the sheriff had gotten the rope or why he wanted Jack’s opinion on the hitching pattern. Nor had he asked about the dried blood that stained the horsehair in the evidence bag.

Jack had learned a long time ago not to ask questions where he didn’t want to know the answers.

* * *

NETTIE WAS STOCKING groceries, trying to keep her mind off what the sheriff had shown her, when the girl came into the store. It had taken Nettie a few moments to get to her feet from down on her knees. Most of the time, she didn’t feel her age—it was easy to tell herself that she didn’t feel a day over thirty.

That was, until she tried to get up from where she’d been sitting on the floor and her body reminded her that she was hugging sixty. It was an odd feeling. Her life had always been ahead of her. Now most of it was behind her.

The girl had stopped just inside the door and turned to look out the front window. She was a skinny little thing with long, pale blond hair that fell most of the way down her back.

As if deep in thought, the girl didn’t seem to hear Nettie’s approach. Which, of course, made Nettie wonder what she found so interesting out the window.

Looking past her, Nettie followed the girl’s gaze to where three men stood talking in front of the post office up the street. She recognized two local ranchers. The third man was Sheriff Frank Curry.

“Can I help you?”

The girl jumped and spun around, eyes wide. She was pretty, with big, dark eyes, and older than Nettie had first thought, still somewhere in her late teens, though.

“I’m sorry,” Nettie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But she had, and badly.

It took a moment for the girl to catch her breath and speak. “I’m here about the apartment?”

Nettie studied her. She’d hoped to get a man, preferably one who could watch the place. With her house on the mountain behind the store, Nettie lived far enough away that she wouldn’t hear if the store was being burglarized during the night. Last fall a grizzly had broken the back window. Thankfully, something had scared the bear away or it could have gotten in and made one devil of a mess.

“I was hoping to rent it to a man,” she said.

The girl’s disappointment was almost palpable. “It’s just that there aren’t any other places to stay in Beartooth.”

That was because few people had any reason to come here, Nettie almost said. Big Timber was only twenty miles away and had a lot more amenities.

Nettie glanced from the girl to her small, newer model compact car parked in front of the store. “I would need first and last month’s rent and a deposit.” She named a number, a little higher than she’d originally planned to ask. She figured that would put an end to it.

“Okay,” the girl said. “I have cash.”

Cash? “How long were you thinking of renting the place?”

“I’m not sure. I’d be happy to pay for six months in advance if you’d consider me,” she added quickly.

Six months? “Mind if I ask what brings you to Beartooth?”

The girl brushed a lock of hair back from her face and lifted her chin almost as if in defiance. “I’m applying to art school in the fall and I need somewhere to work on my portfolio.”

It sounded reasonable. Even possibly true. So why did Nettie feel as though the girl had practiced it?

“I really would appreciate it if you would consider renting to me,” she said, pleading in her tone.

All red flags. “Shouldn’t you see the apartment first?”

“Yes, of course.” The girl was visibly nervous, but Nettie reminded herself that she was young. This was probably her first apartment. No doubt her mother and father would be paying the rent and for her art school, as well. So Nettie wouldn’t have to worry about bounced checks anyway.

“Come with me,” she said. “There is a private entrance outside up the stairs, but you can also get to the apartment through here.” She led the way, with each step telling herself to pass on this girl.

But curiosity had always been Nettie Benton’s downfall. And there was something about this girl—and her desperation to live in Beartooth.