Книга - Odd Man Out

Odd Man Out
B.J. Daniels


Would She Stand By Her Man…or Suspect him of Murder?Ever since J. D. Garrison had broken her adolescent heart when he'd skipped town years ago, the radio and the supermarket tabloids had been Denver McCallahan's only link to the man who'd become country music's "brightest star." That is, until her uncle Max got murdered….Suddenly J.D. was waltzing back into her life…sweeping her off her feet and warning her not to trust his best friend, Pete, the one man who'd helped dry her teenage tears.The two men Denver loved most were now accusing each other of murder! One had stood by her…the other had broken her heart. Would Denver choose the right man?









Odd Man Out

B.J. Daniels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Kathrina,

who showed me the way,

and Kitty and Judy,

who read every word along the way.

Special thanks to Neil and Dani.










Cast of Characters


Denver McCallahan—She was determined to find her uncle’s killer—no matter how dangerous it was.

J. D. Garrison—A country music star, he’d come to help Denver, but could she trust him?

Pete Williams—All he wanted was Denver, but how far would he go to have her?

Max McCallahan—Someone killed Denver’s uncle because he was getting too close to the truth.

Sheila Walker—The reporter had a nose for news but she was making the wrong people nervous.

Cal Dalton—He had an eye for Denver and every reason to want her stopped.

Maggie Jones—She feared she knew who killed Max McCallahan, and knew him too well.

Taylor Reynolds—Was Max’s old friend staying around to help or was he after Max’s woman?

Davey Matthews—The teenager wanted to be a private eye, but snooping wasn’t good for his health.

Deputy Sheriff Cline—Did he have his own reasons for not wanting Max’s killer caught?




Contents


Prologue (#ue2dea532-5229-5e5f-9edd-791a256b8bf8)

Chapter One (#u0a1c0c98-574f-5cf0-ba9d-f910c658199f)

Chapter Two (#uf98d9979-a71e-5c0b-b0d1-c909439cd848)

Chapter Three (#u05ce3e65-3ba5-5bf8-9018-8bbbcadf8cb3)

Chapter Four (#u2eac56bb-e02e-5ede-a681-c71487dc6f2c)

Chapter Five (#ue9464e54-787f-5a15-bb84-80d7028667dc)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Rain pelted the tops of the parked cars like rocks hitting tin cans. Rivulets of the icy stuff ran off the brim of J. D. Garrison’s gray Stetson as he hung back in a stand of snowy pines on a hillside overlooking the tiny Fir Ridge Cemetery. Hidden from view, he eyed the funeral service taking place beneath the swollen dark clouds covering the valley below. He’d been away far too long. He hunched deeper in his sheepskin coat, his head bent against the cold wetness of the Montana spring day, as he wished it hadn’t been death that had brought him home again.

Half the county had turned out for Max McCallahan’s burial even in the freezing downpour. Snatches of the service reached J.D. on the hillside. He had to smile at the priest’s portrayal of the old Irish private eye. Max must be turning in his grave to hear such malarkey. Too bad the good Father didn’t just tell the truth—that Max had been a big, loud, red-faced Irishman and damned proud of it. That he’d loved his ale. And that, if the need arose, he hadn’t been one to back down from a good brawl. The truth was, the devil had danced in the old Irishman’s eyes most of the time. But there’d also been another side to Max, a gentle, loving side, that a young girl had brought out in him.

As the priest led a prayer, J.D. studied that young girl—Max’s niece, Denver McCallahan. She was no longer a girl but she would always have that look because of her slight build. She stood under the dripping canopy at the edge of the grave, a large black felt hat hiding most of her long auburn hair and part of her face. Her manner appeared almost peaceful.

J.D. wasn’t fooled. He knew Denver’s composure was an act. Max had been her only family; she would have killed for him. J.D.’s jaw tensed under his dark beard as the tall cowboy beside Denver slipped an arm around her shoulders. He’d have recognized the man anywhere, not only because of his blond hair and his arrogant stance, but by his trademark—the large, white Western hat now dangling from the fingers of his right hand. J.D. swore, surprised by his reaction. He didn’t like seeing Denver in the arms of his childhood friend, Pete Williams.

J.D. looked up as an older woman joined him in the seclusion of the pines. She wore a worn wool plaid hunting jacket, Max’s, no doubt, jeans, a flannel shirt and boots.

“I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” Maggie said as she stepped into his arms. He hugged her to him, feeling her strength. Sturdy. That was what Max had called her. Sturdy, dependable Maggie. She’d been Max’s friend, his lover, his confidante. Although they’d never married and had lived in separate houses, Maggie had been the love of Max’s life.

Maggie stepped back, brushing a wisp of graying brown hair from her face, a face that belied her fifty-five years. She glanced at the cemetery below them, her expression as grim as the day. Dark umbrellas huddled around the grave like ghouls. Denver moved closer to drop a single bloodred rose on her uncle’s casket. Even from the distance, J.D. could see that she’d grown up since he’d been gone. A lot of things had changed, he thought, watching her with Pete.

“Shouldn’t we be down there at the funeral?” J.D. asked, still surprised that Maggie had suggested meeting here instead.

“Max knew how I felt about funerals,” she said softly. “And I’d prefer Denver didn’t know you’re back in town yet.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Why is that?”

“There’s something you need to know before you see her.” Maggie took a breath and let it out slowly. “Denver’s in trouble.”

He almost laughed. Ever since they were kids, Denver McCallahan had been in some sort of trouble; blame it on her fiery spirit, but it was one of the things he’d always admired about her. “What kind of trouble?” The moment he said it, he could guess. “She’s heard the rumors you told me about Max being involved in something illegal and she’s determined to clear his good name, right?”

“You know Denver. And while she’s at it, she intends to bring his killer to justice, as well.”

That didn’t surprise him in the least. “And I suppose you want me to keep her out of trouble while she’s doing all that?” He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Maggie met his gaze and he glimpsed an expression in her eyes that startled him. Anger. Cold as the granite bluffs in the distance. “I’m asking a lot more than that, J.D. I want you to keep her away from Pete Williams.”

“You can’t be serious.” The rain fell harder, dimpling the spring snow’s rough surface. He stared at her with a puzzled frown, and realized she was serious. “Why would I do that?”

“I know things about Pete—” She looked away. “You just have to keep him away from Denver.”

“You’re asking the impossible.” He’d been gone for nine years and he hadn’t left on the best of terms.

Maggie pulled her jacket around her. “Denver knows I’ve never liked Pete. She won’t listen to me.”

J.D. watched Denver lean into Pete Williams’s embrace as the two stood alone beside the grave. “Denny won’t—” he stumbled on the childhood name he’d always called her. “Denver wouldn’t appreciate any interference in her life from me.”

“Oh, J.D., you know how she’s always felt about you.”

“She had a crush on me when she was sixteen, Maggie! Believe me, it didn’t last.” He remembered only too well how angry Denver had been that afternoon at Horse Butte Fire Tower when he’d told her he was leaving town. And how hurt. She’d been like a kid sister to him. He’d never forgiven himself for hurting her.

“If anyone can handle her, it’s you,” Maggie argued.

“I’m not sure there’s a man alive who can handle Denver McCallahan.” The umbrellas suddenly dispersed like tiny dark seeds across the snow. The rain turned to snow as the mourners headed for their cars.

“Just promise me you’ll do everything you can to keep Pete away from her,” Maggie said. “If you don’t—” She turned to leave.

“Wait, what are you saying?” J.D. demanded. Surely she didn’t believe Denver had anything to fear from Pete. “Give me a reason, Maggie. A damned good reason.”

To his surprise, her eyes filled not with their usual resolve but with tears. That anger he’d glimpsed earlier mixed with pain and burned red-hot. “Pete Williams killed Max.”




Chapter One


Denver ducked her head to the cold and the pain as she let Pete lead her away from the cemetery. The rain had turned to snow that now fell in huge, wet flakes. She walked feeling nothing, not the ground under her feet nor Pete’s steadying hand on her elbow.

“You’re Denver McCallahan, right?” A woman in her fifties in a long purple coat and a floppy red wool hat stepped in front of her; the woman didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Sheila Walker with the Billings Register.” She flipped open her notebook, her pen ready. “I need to ask you some questions.”

Pete put his arm around Denver’s shoulders. “Ms. McCallahan just buried her uncle. Now is not the time.” He tried to pass, but the reporter blocked his way, ignoring him as she turned her full attention on Denver.

“This has to be the second worst day of your life. First your parents, now your uncle.” From a web of wrinkles, she searched Denver’s face with dark, eager eyes. “You think there’s a connection?”

Denver stared at the woman. Her bright red lipstick was smeared and her hat drooped off one side of her head, exposing a head of wiry black-and-gray curls. A scent of perfume Denver couldn’t place hung over her like a black cloud. “My parents were killed more than twenty years ago.” The murders connected? Was the woman crazy? Pain pressed against her chest; she fought for breath. Pete pulled Denver closer and pushed on past the woman.

“Who do you think killed your uncle?” the reporter asked, trotting alongside Denver. “Do you think it was that hitchhiker they’re looking for?”

“Please, I can’t—” Denver fought the ever-present tears.

“Leave her alone,” Pete interrupted in a menacing tone. They’d reached his black Chevy pickup. He opened the door for Denver and spun on the woman. “Back off, lady, or you’ll wish you had.” Climbing in beside Denver, he slammed the door in the reporter’s face.

She tapped on the window. “The rumors about your uncle, is there any truth in them?”

Pete started the pickup and peeled away, leaving Sheila Walker in a cloud of flying ice and snow.

* * *

“YOU DON’T BELIEVE IT.”

J.D. watched Pete leave with Denver in a fancy black Chevy pickup, then turned his attention back to Maggie. “That Pete murdered Max? No, I don’t believe it.” He and Pete had been friends and as close to Denver and Max as family. Through the falling snow, he could see workers pushing cold earth over Max’s casket with a finality that made his heart ache.

“I don’t want to believe it, either,” Maggie said. “Max loved Pete. He loved you both like the brother he lost.”

“Then how can you suspect Pete of murder?”

She took a long, ragged breath. “The morning after Max’s murder, Denver and Pete came over. I’d made coffee and sent them into the kitchen. You remember the photograph Max took of you, Pete and Denver at the lake on her sixteenth birthday?”

J.D. nodded; it had been right before he’d left town. He could still see Denver in the dress Max had bought her. A pale aquamarine. The same color as her eyes. “You gave me a copy of the photo.” He still had it. It reminded him of those days at the lake with Denny and Pete. Sunlight and laughter. A long-lost happiness twisted at his insides.

“It was Max’s favorite photograph. He always carried it in his wallet,” Maggie said. “I saw it the day before he died. It was dog-eared and faded and I wanted to put it away for safekeeping, but Max wouldn’t hear of it.” She stopped; he watched her fight the painful memories. “When I went to hang up Pete’s coat, I saw a piece of the photograph sticking out of his pocket.”

“Didn’t Pete have a copy, too?”

She nodded. “But I’d written on the back of the one I gave Max. I could still make out the writing. It was the photo from his wallet. Only...it had been torn.” She met his gaze. “Someone had ripped you out of the picture.”

“That’s not enough evidence to convict a man of murder.”

“I know, especially since Pete has an alibi for the day of the murder. Supposedly he was in Missoula with his band. But I called to check. The Montana Country Club band was there, but when I described Pete to one of the cocktail waitresses, she didn’t remember him. If Pete’s good looks didn’t make an impression on her, that blue-eyed charm of his would have.”

“That’s pretty weak, Maggie.”

“Pete wasn’t in Missoula. I’d stake my life on it.”

“I hope you won’t have to do that.” J.D. tugged at his collar; he wasn’t used to this kind of weather anymore.

“I have to go,” Maggie said.

J.D. walked with her to her Land Rover parked along the edge of the road in the pines. “It still doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would Pete want to kill Max?”

“Max wasn’t part of anything dishonest if that’s what you’re thinking.” She hugged herself against the cold wetness. “I’ll admit something was bothering him.”

“What?”

She shrugged and opened her car door. “If Pete finds out that I called you or that I suspect him—”

“Dammit, Maggie, tell me why you’re so frightened. It has to be more than a hunch and an old ripped photograph.”

She nodded, fighting more than grief. “That last week, Max was...afraid.”

J.D. had never known the man to be afraid of anything, or anybody—no matter how big or tough they were.

She slid into the front seat and shoved her hands into the pockets of Max’s hunting jacket. “He seemed to be looking over his shoulder as if—” She broke off and shivered. “As if something had come back to haunt him. He was obsessed with death and kept talking about his brother’s murder.”

J.D. fought the chill that stole up his spine. “Denny’s father?”

She nodded. “He felt responsible for encouraging Timothy to become a cop. He blamed himself for Timothy’s death.”

“Maggie, what does that have to do with Pete?” J.D. asked.

She shook her head as if to chase away the memories. “I haven’t told anyone this because I was afraid of what Pete would do,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The last time I saw Max, he was furious at Pete.” She bit her lip. “I’ve never seen Max like that. He said he had to stop Pete...before someone got killed.”

* * *

“I‘M SORRY ABOUT that reporter,” Pete said as they headed south toward the town of West Yellowstone. “Are you all right?”

Denver nodded, wondering if she’d ever be all right again. Leaning back in the seat, her hat in her lap, she watched the pines and snowfall blur by outside the window. Max dead. Murdered. It wasn’t possible. But worse yet were the rumors. She ran a finger through the water droplets beaded up on the brim of her hat, fighting the pain.

“You know, that woman was right...” Her voice broke. “People are saying that Max was dirty. That he’d gotten himself involved in something illegal.”

“Denver, why do you listen to it?” Pete demanded angrily. “You knew Max better than anyone. If your uncle had a fault, it was being too honest. Naively so.”

It wasn’t that she believed the rumors. She just couldn’t stand seeing Max’s named dragged through the dirt. But more than that, she knew the rumors were somehow tied in with the way Max had been acting the past few weeks. Secretive. Something had been bothering him. And Denver felt that if she knew what it was, she’d know who killed him.

“He’s gone, Denver,” Pete said, taking her hand as if he could read her thoughts. “As much as we both hate it, he’s gone. Leave it alone.”

Concentrating on the click-clack of the wipers, she closed her eyes. Now wasn’t the time to let grief blind her, not when there was something much more important that had to be done—no matter what Pete said.

“I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at my place and didn’t go back out to the cabin tonight,” he said.

Denver opened her eyes, tempted to take him up on it. Since Max’s death, she’d been having the nightmare again. “Thanks, but the cabin’s home and I need that right now.”

Pete’s look reflected a mixture of annoyance and worry. “I don’t like the idea of your being out there alone. It’s too deserted this time of year.”

“You know how I feel about the lake. I love this time of year because it’s quiet out there.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be fine.”

“I wish you’d change your mind.” He sounded angry.

And she wondered if he was talking about her staying at his place or about the argument they’d had earlier.

“I swear, sometimes you’re as stubborn as—”

“As Max?” she asked. Max McCallahan had given stubborn a new definition.

Pete’s smile faded. “Yeah. Max.” She could see him fighting painful emotions as he turned on the radio. Intermittent snow flurries, the newsman said. A slow, sad Western song came on. Pete took her hand. “I just worry about you.”

“I know.” She smiled, feeling the familiar tenderness she’d felt for him since they were kids. Pete, Denver and J.D. Max had called them the Terrible Trio because of all the trouble they’d gotten into. Pete and J.D. had been the older brothers she’d never had; now Pete was her best friend. She chastised herself for arguing with him earlier; he was just trying to protect her the way he always had.

She studied him, forgetting sometimes how good-looking he was—tall, handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair, and capable of being utterly charming. If only she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. Instead of J.D.

Another song came on the radio. Denver saw Pete tense and her own heart lurched as it always did when J. D. Garrison’s voice filled the airways. “Number ten on the country and western chart and climbing,” the radio announcer cut in. “Our own J. D. Garrison with his latest hit, ‘Old Friends and Enemies.’”

Pete snapped off the radio. “I can’t believe he didn’t make the funeral.”

Just the thought of J.D. brought back the hurt and disappointment. In her foolish heart, she’d always believed J.D. would come home if she or Max ever needed him. Well, they’d needed him. And he hadn’t come.

“I doubt J.D. can just drop everything at a moment’s notice,” she heard herself say. “Maybe he didn’t get the message you left him.”

Pete shot her a look. “Still making excuses for him?”

She looked away. Loving J.D. had always been both pleasure and pain. And all one-sided. J.D. had never seen her as anything more than a kid. But sometimes his gaze had met hers and— And then he’d ruffle her hair or throw her into the lake. No, he’d never taken her seriously, even when she’d promised him her heart. Instead, he’d teased her. Just a schoolgirl crush. Puppy love. She’d get over it.

He’d been gone nine years, but she still saw his ghost lounging on the sandy beach beside the lake, heard his laugh on the breeze that swept across the water and felt his touch on a hot summer’s night as she stood on the dock, unable to sleep. She’d just never met anyone who made her feel like J.D. had.

But if J. D. Garrison were here right now, she’d wring his neck. For missing Max’s funeral. For breaking a young girl’s heart. For still haunting her thoughts.

It began to snow harder as they dropped down to the Madison River. A soft mist rose from the water, cloaking the bridge in a veil of white fog and driving snow. A local teenage superstition prophesied that if you didn’t honk as you crossed the bridge you’d be in for bad luck. Pete didn’t believe in superstitions. “You make your own luck,” he’d always said. Denver honked, partly out of superstition, partly out of tradition; J.D. had never crossed the bridge without honking.

As they crossed the bridge, Pete didn’t honk. The snow fell in a thick, hypnotizing wall of white in front of the pickup. Denver realized she could barely make out the Madison Arm sign as they passed it. She glanced in the side mirror and was startled to see a huge semitrailer barreling down on them.

“Pete?” Her voice cracked. Her heart caught in her throat. “Pete!” He looked back, his eyes widening as he saw it. At the last moment, the truck swerved into the passing lane. Denver thought it would head on around them, but instead, she realized with growing horror, the truck was edging over into their lane.

“Son of a—” Pete yelled.

Denver could see the huge semitrailer wheels right next to them. A scream lodged in her throat; the truck would either force them off the road or—

Pete hit the brakes. The back of the semi just missed the front of the pickup by inches as it swerved the rest of the way into their lane.

Snow poured over the cab in a blinding rush as the semi roared past. Pete brought the pickup to a skidding stop sideways in the middle of the highway. Denver stared through the falling snow, expecting another vehicle to come along and hit them before Pete got the pickup pulled over to the edge of the road.

He sat there gripping the steering wheel. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice sounded strained as if the shock of their near mishap was just sinking in.

Denver took a shaky breath. Now that the danger had passed, she was trembling all over. “I think so. What was that guy doing?”

Pete shook his head as he looked at her. “I don’t know, but I could kill the bastard.”

Denver looked at the highway ahead, half expecting the trucker to come back and finish the job. “I can’t believe he didn’t even stop to see if we were all right.”

Pete swore as he steered the pickup back onto the highway and headed toward West Yellowstone again.

“Did you recognize the truck?” she asked. It had happened so fast she hadn’t even thought to look at the license plate.

“I’m sure it was just some out-of-stater who’s never been in a snowstorm before.” But Pete kept staring at the highway as if he expected to see the truck again, too. And Denver knew she wouldn’t feel safe until they reached town. No, she thought, she wouldn’t feel safe until Max’s killer was caught.




Chapter Two


Pete slowed on the outskirts of town. At first glance, West, as the locals called it, appeared abandoned. They drove down the main drag, past the Dairy Queen, a row of T-shirt and curio shops and Denver’s camera shop. All were still boarded up behind huge piles of plowed snow. A melting cornice drooped low over Denver’s storefront. Out of a huge drift peeked a partially exposed homemade sign. See You In The Spring!

The only hint of spring was in the rivers of melting snow running along the sides of the empty streets. Dirty snowbanks, plowed up higher than most of the buildings, marked the street corners they drove by. Everywhere, a webbing of snowmobile tracks crisscrossed the rotting snow still lingering in the shadow of the pines. Down a muddy alley sat a deserted snowmobile, its engine cover thrown back, falling snowflakes rapidly covering it.

Only a couple of gas stations had their lights on. Near a mud puddle as large as a lake, two locals sat visiting, with their pickups running.

It was April. Off-season. Snowmobiling was over for another winter and the summer tourist trade wouldn’t officially begin until Memorial Day weekend. Denver usually cherished this time of year, a time for the locals to take a breather before the tourists returned. But today, the town seemed to echo her lonely, empty feeling of loss.

“I’m going to get you something hot to drink,” Pete said, touching her arm.

Since the near accident with the semi, she hadn’t been able to quit shaking. Pete pulled up to a convenience store and came back a few minutes later with two large hot chocolates. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, motioning toward the falling snow. “I love this time of year.” His gaze turned from the storm to her. “And I love you.”

“Pete, don’t—”

“When are you going to stop fighting it, Denver? I love you.” He put his finger to her lips when she tried to protest. “I know you don’t love me. At least not enough to marry me. Not yet. But you will, very soon.”

As she looked at Pete’s handsome face, she wished he were right. Marrying Pete was safe, and Max had made no secret of the fact that he had liked Pete for that very reason.

They finished their hot chocolates and drove farther on into town, finally stopping in front of a house on Faithful Street. The place was typical of the older West Yellowstone residences: rustic log with a green metal roof, surrounded by lodgepole pines.

“Let’s get this over with,” Pete said as he parked in front of Maggie’s house.

* * *

J.D. STOOD AT THE WINDOW of his room in the Stage Coach Inn, watching snowflakes spin slowly down from the grayness above. He blamed his restlessness on being back in West Yellowstone after all these years, on the weather, on Max’s burial service.

Jeez, Garrison, you’ve been lying to yourself for so long, you’ve started believing it. He stepped away from the window and went to the makeshift bar he’d set up on the dresser. It’s seeing Denny again that’s thrown you. He frowned, still surprised at his reaction. Denver. He swore under his breath as he ripped the plastic off one of the water glasses and poured a half inch of Crown Royal into it.

All these years he’d remembered Denny as the little freckle-faced girl he’d had water fights with on the beach and beat at Monopoly. Not that there hadn’t always been something about her that made her special to him. A fire in her eyes and a spirit and determination that had touched him. But she’d been just a kid. Now he couldn’t help wondering about the woman he’d seen at the cemetery—the woman Denver McCallahan had become. How much was left of the girl he’d once shared his dreams with?

The window drew him back again. His dreams. He sipped the whiskey and looked out at his old hometown. It was here he’d picked up his first guitar, a beat-up used one. He’d fumbled through a few chords, a song already forming in his head. It had always been there. The music, the knowledge that he’d make it as a singer—and the ambition eating away inside him.

He stared at the town through the snow. It had been here that he’d performed for the first time, here that he’d dreamed of recording an album of his own music, here that he’d always known he’d end up one day. But not like this.

Nine years. Nine years on a circuit of smoky bars and honky-tonks, long empty highways, flat tires on old clunkers and cheap motel rooms. Somewhere along the way, he’d made it. Even now, he couldn’t remember exactly when that happened, when he realized it was no longer just a dream. J. D. Garrison was a genuine country and western star. Grammys and Country Music Association awards, his songs on the top of Billboard’s country charts. Since then, there’d been more awards, more songs, more albums, more tours. And better cars, better bars, better motel rooms.

But one thing remained the same. That distant feeling that he was drifting off the face of the earth, that he’d become untethered from life. A few weeks ago, he’d awakened in a strange motel room and forgotten where he was, and when he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he realized he’d forgotten who he was, as well. He was losing the music. The songs weren’t there anymore—and neither was the desire to make them.

J.D. spread his fingers across the cold windowpane. The white flakes danced beyond his touch; a tiny drift formed on the sill. “Oh, Denny,” he whispered. There was no doubt in his mind that she would try to find Max’s murderer. The question was how to keep her safe. And how to keep Pete away from her until he could sort it all out.

But he knew one thing. He’d do whatever he had to do. Like hell. You’re looking forward to coming between the two of them. But is it because you believe Pete might have changed so much in these nine years that he could kill someone? Or is it simply that you don’t want Pete to have Denny?

He frowned as he remembered the woman he’d glimpsed at the cemetery. Denver McCallahan was definitely a woman worth fighting for. And if he were Pete Williams, he’d fight like hell for her.

* * *

MAGGIE MET PETE and Denver on the screened-in porch in worn jeans, an old flannel shirt that could have been Max’s, and a pair of moccasins. She hadn’t attended the burial, saying she preferred to remember Max the way he was. A bag of groceries rested on the step, and from her breathlessness, Denver guessed she’d just come from the store.

The buzz of the going-away party spilled through the door behind her as she hugged Denver. “You okay?”

“I need to talk to you,” Denver whispered.

Maggie handed Pete the bag of groceries and asked him to take them inside where friends had already started Max’s party—their version of an Irish send-off.

“What’s the matter?” Maggie asked after Pete was out of earshot. “Pete isn’t pressuring you again, is he?”

Maggie was always quick to blame Pete. She disapproved of him, not because he was a musician with the band he and J.D. had started, the Montana Country Club, but because he’d never gone beyond that. “He’s as talented as J.D. but he lacks J.D.’s inner strength,” she’d said. “Behind all that charm is a very disappointed, angry young man.” It was one of the few things Max and Maggie had ever argued about.

Denver wished Pete and Maggie could get along, especially now that Max was gone.

“Pete’s fine. It’s about Max,” Denver said. More guests arrived. She’d known Max made friends easily, but Denver was astounded at the number of people who’d come hundreds of miles to pay their respects to him.

Maggie told Denver to go on through the house to the kitchen, where the noise level was lower and the temperature definitely warmer, and wait for her. “Cal Dalton was here earlier,” Maggie said. Since the party was an all-day kind of thing, people kept coming and going. “I just got back so I don’t know if he’s still here or not.”

“Thanks, I need to talk to him.”

Denver worked her way through the guests, stopping to accept words of sympathy and visit a moment with friends. She didn’t see Cal. In the kitchen, she stood watching the snow fall and thinking of Max. She didn’t even hear Maggie come in.

“Has Deputy Cline found some new evidence?” Maggie asked hopefully.

“No.” Denver pulled off her hat and coat, and hung them on a hook by the back door. She wandered around the familiar kitchen, too keyed up to sit. “Cline is still convinced Max was killed by a hitchhiker.”

Max’s body had been found at the old city dump; according to Sheriff’s Deputy Bill Cline, he’d been stabbed once in the heart. Cline was looking for a hitchhiker Max had bought lunch for at the Elkhorn Café earlier that day.

Maggie sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes dark with pain. “I can’t believe Max was killed by someone he helped.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.” Denver bit her lip, watching for Maggie’s reaction. “What if it was connected to one of his cases? Maybe an...old case.”

“You aren’t suggesting it might be—”

“No.” Denver fought off a chill. “Even Max had given up on that one.” The one old case that had haunted Max for years was the unsolved murders of Denver’s parents. Denver stopped beside the table, settling her gaze on Maggie. “I’ve been having the nightmare again.”

“Oh, Denver.” Maggie took her hand. “Max’s death must have brought it back.”

It had been years since she’d had the nightmare, not since Max had brought her to live with him in West Yellowstone. She’d been five at the time and could remember very little of her life before then. Except for images from the nightmare of fear and death from that day at the bank. She’d been with her parents the day the bank robber had killed her father and mother. Her father had just gotten off duty; he was still in his police uniform. Max said that was what had gotten him killed—walking into the middle of a robbery in uniform.

“I thought maybe Max might have mentioned a case,” Denver said, changing the subject.

“You know the kind of work he did, small-time stuff, insurance fraud, divorce and child custody, theft—nothing worth getting murdered over.”

“What if he’d stumbled across that once-in-a-lifetime case he’d always dreamed of?”

Maggie smiled. “I wish he had, honey. But you know Max. He couldn’t have kept that a secret from us.”

Denver ran her fingers along the edge of the kitchen counter. “He could if it was too dangerous or confidential or...” The word illegal sprang into her mind. Surely Maggie had heard the rumors.

“The last time he mentioned a case, he was tailing a husband whose wife thought he was having an affair,” Maggie said. “I remember because Max was keeping odd hours. He wouldn’t get in until the wee hours of the morning.” She laughed. “I asked him if he was having an affair.”

“How did the case turn out?” Denver asked.

“He never told me.” Maggie looked past Denver, her gaze clouded. “There is one thing, though. A few days before he was...before he died, he brought some file folders home from the office. Old ones.”

“Where are they now?” Denver asked as she sat down across from Maggie.

“He burned them.”

“He what?” Denver couldn’t believe her ears.

“That night we were sitting by the fireplace. He was sorting through some things. That’s when I saw the folders—right before he tossed them into the fire.”

“Did you see what they were?”

Maggie frowned. “I wasn’t paying much attention, but a newspaper clipping fell out of one of the files. I don’t even remember what it was about, just that it was old. I’m sure that’s why Max was throwing the files away.”

“Still, that doesn’t sound like Max. He never threw anything away.”

“I didn’t think it was strange at the time....” Maggie’s voice trailed off. “You know, he did keep one of those files. I guess he took it back to his office.”

“There are too many strange things. Like Max’s will. Not even his lawyer’s seen it. It seems Max drew it up himself and said he’d put it in a safe place.” Denver shook her head. “I wonder what Max would consider a safe place? Probably the middle of his kitchen table.”

Maggie laughed softly, her eyes misty with private memories of Max. “The police didn’t find it in either Max’s apartment or office. Do you think he could have left it at your cabin?”

“I haven’t looked yet,” Denver said. “And Max’s gun is missing, too. Deputy Cline says the killer must have taken it when he took Max’s wallet. But you know Max hardly ever carried a gun.”

Maggie brushed at her tears. “Max would have given that hitchhiker money before the guy could even ask, and given him his shirt and shoes, as well. Even his car.”

“That’s just it, Maggie. Why didn’t the guy take Max’s car? The keys were in it.” Denver turned and was startled to find Pete standing just inside the kitchen doorway. She wondered how long he’d been there, listening.

“I thought we’d already settled this.” He glared at her, his gaze hard with anger. “You were going to stay out of the murder investigation and let Cline do his job.”

Denver drew in a deep breath. Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear when they’d argued about this earlier. “I can’t stay out of it. How is the killer ever going to be caught when Cline isn’t even looking into Max’s cases?”

“What cases?” Pete demanded. “Come on, Denver. You’re clutching at straws. It was a hitchhiker. You know how bad Max was about picking up strays.”

No one knew better than she did just how Max was about helping people in trouble, she thought as she fingered her mother’s gold locket at her neck. Fortunately, Max McCallahan had been that kind of man.

“No, it simply doesn’t make sense,” Denver said, standing her ground. “Maggie said he burned some old files right before he was killed. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

Pete raked his fingers through his hair, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “So what are you going to do? Go after this murderer by yourself?”

“Pete’s right,” Maggie interrupted, surprising them both, since she seldom agreed with Pete on anything. “Listen, honey, Max wouldn’t have wanted you getting involved in this. Obviously it’s dangerous. I think you’d better leave it to the deputy sheriff.”

Denver stared at her. It wasn’t like Maggie to tell her to run from trouble; Maggie had always encouraged her to join Max in the investigation business. It had been Max who wouldn’t hear of it, who had insisted she stick to photography, even though she’d helped him by taking photos on some of his cases.

“I’d better get back to my guests,” Maggie said, slipping past Pete.

The tension in the kitchen dropped a notch or two in the moments after Maggie left; Denver knew it was because Pete thought he might be able to dissuade her. She looked out the window. The day had slipped away into dusk.

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, crossing the kitchen to put his arms around her. “I know you’re upset about Max. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The worry in his eyes startled her. If he believed Max had been killed by some stranger passing through town, why would he be so afraid for her? Clearly he didn’t believe it any more than she did.

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of this,” Pete whispered into her hair. “I want to help you get through it, if you’ll let me.”

Denver buried her face in his shoulder. She felt protected in his arms. Maybe Pete was right. She was a photographer—not an investigator. But that knowledge did little to cool the fever burning deep within her. She had to see Max’s murderer behind bars; she owed Max at least that. And after all those years of hanging around him, she’d picked up a little something about investigative work. She wasn’t going after the killer blind; she knew of the danger. But the danger didn’t scare her as much as the thought that her uncle’s murderer might get away.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” she said, lifting her cheek from his shoulder. “I can’t make that promise.” She felt him tense. He dropped his arms and stepped back, his expression one of disappointment and anger. “I’m going to find Max’s killer if it’s the last thing I do.”

Pete nodded. “It just might be.”

* * *

J.D. COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling that Denver was already in trouble, more trouble than just being involved with Pete—a possible killer.

He picked up the phone and dialed Maggie’s number. Someone pretty well sloshed answered. A moment later, Maggie came on the line. “Is Denny all right?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“She’s fine,” Maggie said. “She’s here and Pete just left.” Her voice sounded muffled as if coming from inside a closet. From the party noise in the background, he guessed she probably was.

“Good. I won’t worry about her for the moment anyway.” He hung up and reached for his coat, trying to shake off the ominous feeling he had.

His options were limited. Confront Pete with what little “evidence” Maggie had against him and have Pete just deny it? Or try to talk to Denver about him. Maggie hadn’t taken that route for two good reasons. One was that Denver knew Maggie had never liked Pete, and adding suspicion of murder to that list would only alienate her. The other was that the Denver he remembered would fight to the death to defend a friend, let alone a lover. And it was obvious she and Pete were very close.

J.D. cursed the thought. Nor did he doubt what Denver would do if he told her his suspicions. She’d go straight to Pete. Head-on. That was the way she operated. He assured himself Pete would never hurt her. At least, not the Pete he used to know. He considered Maggie’s evidence against Pete flimsy at best. But Maggie’s obvious fear for Denver made him think twice about dismissing it. If for some reason Pete had killed Max, then what would he do if he thought Denver suspected him? It wasn’t a chance J.D. was willing to take with Denver’s safety. And sitting around a motel room wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.

* * *

AFTER PETE LEFT HER ALONE in the kitchen, Denver stood staring at the snow falling in the darkness outside, thinking of Max. The need to avenge his death tore at her insides, holding her grief at bay most of the time. Except tonight. Tonight she felt alone and frightened.

As a girl, when she’d been afraid, she’d fantasized about J.D. rescuing her. Nothing quite as dramatic as being tied to the railroad tracks with the train coming—but close enough. Always at the last minute, J.D. would appear and save her. But this wasn’t a fantasy now. Max was dead. Not even Pete was on her side this time. And J.D. certainly wasn’t coming to her rescue.

The noise from the other room had reached a rowdy pitch, music blasting. Denver heard the kitchen door open behind her only because it increased the volume. At first, she thought it might be Pete coming back.

Cal Dalton closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

He reminded her of a coyote, a wild look in his eyes, his body poised for flight. And instantly she wondered what he had to be afraid of; he frightened her much more than she ever could him. Everything about him was cold, from his graying pale blond hair to his icy blue eyes. He had to be hugging fifty but he hung around the bars with men half his age. Cal was known in town as a womanizer and a mean drunk, always getting into fights. One jealous husband had even shot him, and Cal liked to show off the scar, according to local scuttlebutt.

“I’m trying to find out what cases Max was working on,” she said. For reasons Denver could not fathom, Max had befriended Cal in the weeks before his death, something she could only assume meant Max was on a case.

“You think I hired your uncle?” Cal scratched his neck. “What would I need with a private eye?” Good question. “Max and I were just drinking buddies.”

“He didn’t mention a case he might have been working on?” she asked. “Or maybe hire you to do some legwork for him?”

“Legwork?” Cal shook his head. His gaze took her in as if he realized for the first time she was a woman and certainly no threat. “Speaking of legs, yours aren’t half-bad,” he said, making her feel as if he’d just peeled off her black slacks.

This had been a mistake. “Well, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Max did talk a lot about you,” he said.

She found that more unlikely than their being drinking buddies. “If you’ll excuse me, Pete is waiting for me.” She tried to get past him, but he blocked her way.

“I don’t think so. I saw Pete leave.” He was close now. She could feel his breath on her face, smell the reek of beer.

Pete wouldn’t leave without telling her, would he?

Cal leaned his hands on either side of her, trapping her. “I’m afraid Pete’s thrown you to the wolves, darlin’.” His eyes traveled over her with a crudeness that turned her stomach. “How about a little kiss for old Cal?”

“No, and if you touch me—”

He moved closer. “I like feisty girls.” He bent to kiss her. Denver dived under his arm, shooting for the space between his body and the counter. He caught her, swung her into him and gave her a smelly, slobbery kiss that made her gag. “How’d you like that?” he asked, leering. “Better than that pansy boyfriend of yours, huh?”

She jerked her arm free and slapped him with a force that drove him back a step.

He rubbed his jaw; a meanness came into his eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that. All I wanted was a little kiss.”

Denver grabbed the first thing she could find as Cal moved toward her. A pottery pitcher.

“Denver?” Cal turned at the sound of the voice behind him, and Denver looked past him to see Max’s old friend, Taylor Reynolds, standing in the doorway. “Is there a problem here?”

Denver set down the pitcher and pushed past Cal to step into the big man’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Taylor said, holding her awkwardly. The old bachelor wasn’t a man used to a physical display of sentiment. “Buddy, don’t you think you’d better get back to the party?”

Denver heard Cal leave but she didn’t look up; she found herself crying, crying for Max, for herself.

“Hey, easy. This is my best suit,” Taylor kidded, then pulled back to look at her. “What was going on in here? If he’s bothering you—”

She stepped from the shelter of his arms, trying to regain control. “Cal was just being Cal.”

Taylor pushed out a chair for her at the table and pulled down some towels from a roll. He handed them to her and joined her at the table.

Denver took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with a towel and looked at the man before her. She remembered Max talking about his buddies from the army, but she’d never met this one before. Taylor Reynolds was a powerful-looking man much like Max had been. Only unlike Max, Taylor was soft-spoken and shy. He’d shown up right after Max’s murder.

“Max saved my life in the army—I owe him,” Taylor had said, standing with his hat in his hands on Maggie’s porch. “I’ll be staying at the Three Bears if you need anything.”

Denver had taken to him immediately, and so had Maggie. Denver knew it was because he and Max had been so close; in Taylor a small part of Max still lived.

“It’s tough, but we’re all going to get through this,” Taylor said now. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his big hands. He took a toothpick and spun it between two fingers.

“Who do you think killed him?”

Taylor’s face clouded. “A damned fool.”

“Do you think it was the hitchhiker Deputy Cline’s looking for?” She had a sudden flash of Max, the flicker of sunlight on the water behind him, the gentle lap of water against the side of the boat, the sound of his laugh floating across the lake. When she looked up, she realized Taylor had been talking to her.

“Denver?” He studied her, his eyes dark with concern. “You’re having a rough time with this, aren’t you, kid? Be careful. Don’t let Max’s death become more important than living.”

Denver looked away. The noise of the party seemed at odds with the silence of the darkness outside.

Taylor reached across the table and patted her hand, then quickly pulled back, obviously embarrassed by the gesture. He got to his feet. “I think that Cal fellow has had enough to drink. Why don’t I see he gets home where he won’t be bothering you anymore tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re all going to miss Max, kid,” he said as he left.

For a few moments, Denver stood in the quiet kitchen, thinking about what Taylor had said. She knew he was right; Max would have wanted her to get on with her life. And he would have liked her to marry Pete.

“I want to know there’s going to be someone around for you when I’m gone,” he’d said the last time they’d talked.

Denver closed her eyes. And now Max was gone. Had he known there was a chance he might be killed?

The kitchen suddenly felt as if it were closing in on her. Denver took her coat and hat and slipped out through the side door into the night. A chilly wind spun a weathered wind sock on the end of the eaves. She ducked her head against the cold and pulled her coat more tightly around her. The snow had stopped; now it was melting, dripping from warm roofs and dark pine boughs along the street.

Cal had told the truth, she realized with a shock. Pete’s pickup was gone. “Men,” she groaned as she started the four-block walk to her car.

For days she’d told herself that it was all a mistake, that Max wasn’t really dead. Now as she walked the familiar streets, she acknowledged that he was gone. The truth came like a swift kick to the stomach. All the values she’d believed in, Max had taught her. She owed him her very life.

Her Jeep was parked in front of Pete’s apartment, where she’d left it earlier before the service. Pete’s pickup was nowhere to be seen. As she drove down Firehole Avenue, she realized how tired she was. All she wanted to do was go to the lake cabin and get some sleep. But as she looked down the dark street to Max’s office, she wondered again about what cases Max might have been working on, something Cline wouldn’t have recognized as a clue since he was so busy looking for a hitchhiker. Finding Max’s killer couldn’t wait, she realized. And nothing was going to stop her. Nothing. And nobody.




Chapter Three


Pete stood in the snowy shadows of the old log building at the edge of town listening to the night. Normally he loved this hour, when darkness settled in, cloaking secrets and regrets. Tonight, though, he felt vulnerable and afraid. Softly he knocked at the rear door. It opened a crack, then fell open. A hand grabbed his jacket and jerked him inside.

“I’ve told you not to come here. It’s too risky.”

Pete stumbled into the dimly lit room; the door slammed behind him. He followed the man to the front of the cabin. “I want to talk to the boss.” The man swaggered into the living room. Pete followed, realizing he’d been drinking. “Let me talk to him. Now. Or I’m walking.”

The man scowled. “So walk. You’re the one who wanted in on this operation.”

“If I walk, I walk to the feds,” Pete said.

“That would be real smart.” The man slumped into a chair before the fire roaring in the small fireplace. He picked up a whiskey bottle from the floor and took a long swig. “But that would be one way to meet the boss. He’d kill you.”

Pete looked into the fire. What little he knew about their boss reminded him of hell and the devil himself. “You going to call him?”

“You’re signing your death warrant if you mess with him.” But he got to his feet and went into the kitchen to the phone. Pete listened to him dial. A long-distance number. It took a moment and Pete knew the call was being forwarded somewhere else. Then he heard the man in the kitchen talking in a hushed tone, apologizing, explaining. Finally, he called Pete in and handed him the receiver. The look on his face warned Pete he’d stepped over the line.

“You have a problem?” the synthesized voice asked on the other end of the line.

“Look, Midnight, I’m tired of putting up with this bozo,” Pete said of the man standing next to him. “I want a number where I can call you. And I want to know why you had someone try to run me off the road this afternoon.”

Midnight laughed, the synthesizer turning it into a midway sideshow. “You certainly want a lot, don’t you?”

Midnight. How perfectly the code name described a man both dark and dangerous. “I’ve proven myself in your little organization, haven’t I?”

Silence. He could tell Midnight didn’t like the “little” part. “So you have.”

“I don’t like being threatened. You could have killed us both!”

Midnight’s voice turned deadly serious. “Yes, I could have. But I didn’t. Did it convince you how important it is to keep Denver from looking into Max McCallahan’s death?”

“I was always convinced.” Pete decided honesty might be the best policy, even with a man like Midnight. “But Denver’s determined to find Max’s killer.”

Midnight let out another carnival laugh. “Well, she doesn’t have to look too far, does she?”

Pete glared into the fire. The flames licked at the logs with hot fury.

“You said you could control her,” Midnight continued. “I don’t like problems.”

“I’ll take care of Denver. That was the arrangement.”

Midnight’s voice turned raspy with anger. “Arrangements can be changed.”

Pete knew if anyone would renege on a bargain it was this man. Hadn’t the truck episode proved that today? Denver had no idea what she was getting herself into if she persisted in searching for Max’s murderer.

“You’re sure the case file I’m looking for wasn’t at Max’s office?” Midnight asked.

“Yes.”

“Then that leaves the cabin. You haven’t said what you found out there. And don’t tell me you haven’t looked yet.”

Pete wanted to tell him to do his own search but knew Midnight hired other men to do his dirty work while he hid on a phone line, behind a synthesizer. Why so much secrecy? All he could figure was that Midnight had to be someone he knew; it made him nervous not knowing with whom he was in business. “I tried to get Denver to stay at my place tonight so I could search the cabin, but she’s determined—”

“She’s determined?” Midnight let out a string of oaths. “I’m determined. No more excuses. I want that cabin searched tonight.”

“And how do you expect me to do that with Denver there?” Pete asked in frustration.

“I’ve left a prescription in your name at the drugstore.”

“Pills?” Pete gasped. “You don’t want me to—”

“Kill her?” Midnight groaned. “No. A couple of tablets and she’ll sleep like the dead, though. Make sure you don’t overdo it or you could kill her.” His voice seemed to vibrate with an evil that chilled Pete even in the hot room. “Hit the cabin tonight. And you’d better find that file.”

“I told you how Max was. He didn’t think like other people. Who knows where he’s hidden it, if it even exists?”

“It exists.” Midnight sighed. “You realize if Denver finds the file first, we’ll have to kill her.”

And if anyone could find the file, it would be Denver, Pete thought. She already had her suspicions; it was just a matter of time before she figured it out. “I’ll take care of it tonight.”

“If you don’t—” Midnight paused “—I’ll find someone who can.”

Pete started to hang up, but Midnight stopped him.

“We have another problem that needs to be taken care of,” he said. “It’s that kid, Davey Matthews. You know the one who was always hanging around Max’s office? I’m afraid he knows too much.”

“Just what we need, another murder.”

“I’ll call you later at the cabin and we can discuss what to do about Davey. He’s young and foolish. Young and foolish men have accidents. Put the bozo back on,” Midnight said. “Then you’d better get to the drugstore before it closes.”

* * *

MAX MCCALLAHAN’S detective agency filled the bottom floor of a small two-story log house on Geyser Street; he had lived in a tiny efficiency apartment upstairs. Denver could never understand why he hadn’t married Maggie. He’d spent most of his time over at her place, but refused to give up the apartment because he didn’t want people to talk. Well, people were talking now, Denver thought bitterly.

A snow-filled silence hung over the street as she walked past Max’s old blue-and-white Oldsmobile station wagon parked out front. She’d forgotten the police had left it there. Like everything else, the car reminded her of her loss. She headed up the unshoveled walk, steeling herself for the memories she knew waited inside, but stopped abruptly. Someone else had already climbed these same steps tonight. There were fresh boot prints in the newly fallen snow—coming and going.

Shadows came to life as the large pines flanking the house swayed and creaked in the wind. Water dripped from the eaves and the old house sighed forlornly under the weight of the wet snowfall.

Denver stopped, fighting to shake off the spooked feeling in her stomach. She suddenly thought of a dozen good reasons why she should come back in the morning. She cursed her lack of courage. After her parents died, Max had brought her to West Yellowstone, offering her a safe place to live so she’d never have to be afraid again. For Max—and for herself—she had to find his murderer or she’d never feel that kind of security here again.

With renewed determination, she ascended the steps, her boot heels thudding across the wooden porch. On the window in the old oak front door a sign was painted in gold letters: McCallahan Investigations. Behind the letters, the drapes were drawn. Nothing moved. She dug for her key, then reached to unlock the door.

But it was already open. The hinges gave a sigh as the door swung into the dark room. With fingers cold and shaking, Denver flipped on the light. She feared what she’d find, but nothing prepared her for this.

File cabinets lay over on their sides, folders sprawled everywhere, their contents crumpled and strewn across the floor. All the drawers on Max’s big oak desk were upside down. Even the photographs she’d given him had been pulled from the walls and thrown into the pile of debris.

Denver clung to the doorjamb fighting for breath. Why would anyone do this? For several moments, she just stared. What had the burglar been looking for? No doubt the same thing she was. That was some consolation. Maybe there was something to find. Or had been, anyway.

She glanced around the office, wondering if it could still be here. If Max was on a hot case, something explosive, what would he have done with the evidence he’d collected? Good question.

Max had no concept of organization. His files were always a disaster with some filed by first names, others by nicknames, even a few by last names. He had once hired a part-time secretary to straighten them, but when she had gone to lunch, he couldn’t find a thing and made such a mess of the file cabinet that she finally gave up and quit.

Denver bent to retrieve a handful of folders from the floor. It would take hours to make any sense out of this mess. And she had to face the probability that any clues Max might have left had already been stolen. Not only that, she might be destroying evidence that could lead Deputy Cline to the culprit who did this, she realized, dropping the files on the edge of Max’s desk.

She righted the huge oak office chair and sat down, more certain than ever that Max had left something behind to help her solve his murder. Think like Max, she told herself. She put her feet up on the desk and leaned back with her hands behind her head, imitating Max’s favorite pose when he was pondering a case.

Where, Max? Where would you put something that would incriminate the person you were after? She surveyed the ceiling lights. Max jotted down everything; that was how he worked through his cases. Usually it was just a lot of scribbles. Sometimes it might be only a few words. Then he filed the notes until he solved the case. If Max was working on a job, there’d be scribbles and there’d be a case file.

And that was what the burglar had been looking for. That had to be it. And the same person was probably spreading those rumors about Max. Muddying the waters. But why bother, with Cline convinced that Max was killed by a hitchhiker for no other reason than robbery?

Denver was so preoccupied that at first she thought she’d imagined the sound. Then it happened again—a floorboard creaked overhead, followed by the scraping sound of wood. It was coming from upstairs in Max’s apartment. She froze. Why hadn’t it crossed her mind that the burglar could still be in the house?

Carefully she slid her feet off Max’s desk and, slipping off her boots, tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. No sounds, except the thunder of her pulse in her ears. She picked up the nearest object from the floor—the telephone—and unhooked the cord, then, carrying it as a weapon, started up the stairs.

Halfway up, one of the steps creaked under her weight and she stopped, afraid to move. Reason invaded her brain. What was she doing?

Why didn’t you think to call Deputy Cline before you unplugged the phone, the rational little voice in her head asked.

Nice that you should suggest that now, Denver retorted silently as she looked from the disconnected phone in her hand to the creaky steps behind her. And Max used to think she was a little too impetuous. If he could see her now.

She stood on the step, listening. Silence so strong it seemed alive answered her back. She shifted the phone to her right hand and continued up the stairs, willing herself to remain calm, knowing she wouldn’t.

At the top of the steps, she cautiously pushed open the door to the apartment, phone ready. When nothing jumped out, she reached in hesitantly and switched on the lights. She expected the apartment to resemble Max’s office; she hadn’t expected it to be destroyed. An overstuffed chair was upended, the mattress hung off the side of the bed, its guts spilling out on the floor. The contents of all the dresser drawers had been thrown around the room. She hoped the destruction meant that the burglar hadn’t found what he was looking for.

She exchanged the phone for a brass lamp base, checked the closet and started to breathe a little more easily. Across the room, a shutter banged softly against the side of the house. That explained the noise she’d heard. No ghosts. No burglars. Just the breeze.

The state of the apartment and Max’s office reinforced her theory that Max had left something that would incriminate his killer. All she had to do was figure out what it was and find it before the killer did. If he hadn’t already found it.

That was when she noticed the partially closed bathroom door. She headed for it, thinking about what she’d tell Deputy Cline. Surely when he saw this place, he’d have to give up his hitchhiker theory. Reaching into the bathroom, she fumbled for the light switch with her free hand.

Cold fingers clamped over her wrist in a deathlike grip. Denver let out a cry of total terror as she was jerked into the darkened bathroom. She swung the lamp. It connected with something solid and veered off. She heard a male voice swear as the fingers on her wrist let go, and a loud thud followed. Denver retreated, fumbling for the bathroom light switch on her way out, this time with the lamp in her hand ready to swing again.

She found the switch. The bathroom light flashed on. Denver blinked. At first because of the sudden brightness, then out of disbelief. Sitting crosswise in the bathtub swearing and holding his head was none other than J. D. Garrison.

Denver stumbled backward and fell over, tripping on the overturned chair. She landed on her bottom in a pile of mattress stuffing. J. D. Garrison leaned over her.

“Hello, Denny,” he said, offering her a hand. “It’s been a long time.”




Chapter Four


Denver lay staring up at the man standing over her, unable to move. J.D. J. D. Garrison. After all these years.

She’d envisioned the day he returned thousands of times, always in Technicolor, always with the same basic plot. He’d come riding in like John Wayne, all handsome and charming. He’d beg her to forgive him for not taking her with him, sweep her off her feet, promise his undying love, maybe play a few songs on his guitar. And then she’d tell him to drop dead.

Never would she have imagined it quite like this.

She ignored his offer of help and got to her feet on her own power, dusting herself off. The gesture gave her a few moments to compose herself; J.D. was the last person she’d expected to see in that bathtub.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her pride as well as her bottom still smarting. Damn. The effect he had on her! Her heart was pounding and not from fear anymore; she felt sixteen again. The feeling made her all the more angry with him.

“It’s nice to see you again, too,” he said, his smile widening.

She’d practiced at least ten thousand times what she’d say to him if she ever did see him again. But nothing came to her lips. He’d changed; he wasn’t that lanky young man she remembered. A dark mustache and neatly trimmed beard nearly hid his deep dimples. His eyes, always a blend of moonlight silvers and midnight grays, seemed darker, but there was an older look about them, almost a sadness....

She realized he was holding his head where she’d hit him with the lamp. His gray Stetson dangled from his other hand. “Are you all right?” she asked guiltily.

He nodded and tried to get the hat back on his head over the lump she’d given him. “My head’s too hard for most lamps. But the fall into the bathtub I could have done without.” As he rubbed his backside, she noticed the flashlight stuck in his belt. “I’m sorry I scared you. I heard a noise and thought the prowler had returned.” He grinned.

Prowler indeed. His grin sent her heart racing around in circles. Just what she needed. “So you’re back in town,” she said, before adding, “you missed Max’s funeral and you better have a damned good reason.”

He leaned back and laughed. “You had me worried for a moment there. I thought you’d lost that charming way you’ve always had with words.” Those wonderfully deep dimples were now just a hint under the beard, and little wrinkles had been added around his eyes. It didn’t matter. He still had that same heart-thumping effect he always had on her.

She frowned and turned away from the look in his eyes. What was it? Affection on his part? Or imagination on hers? Without another word, she hurried down the stairs; she could hear J.D. right behind her.

“Don’t you want to hear my damned good reason?” he asked.

“I didn’t really expect you’d make it anyway,” she said, pulling on her boots. “I figured you were probably busy making a new album or performing for all those fans of yours.” Bitterness and hurt crackled from her words and she wished she could bite her tongue. She bent down to pick up files and loose papers from the floor, forgetting all about saving evidence for Cline. “I told Pete not to bother calling you.”

“Pete called?” J.D. sounded surprised.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t get the message.” She heard the soft tread of his boots on the floor as he came up behind her.

“Denny, I was so sorry to hear about Max.” His voice was soft. So was the touch of his fingers on her shoulders. “I wanted to be at the funeral for you.”

She shrugged his hands away and spun on him. “I thought you cared about Max. I thought you cared about—” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She fought the culprits, determined not to cry. She’d shed enough tears for J. D. Garrison. Damned if she’d cry in front of him.

“I do care,” he said, lifting her chin to meet her gaze. “I caught the first plane out. But getting to West Yellowstone this time of year is kind of tricky. You might remember the airport’s closed until Memorial Day weekend.” He flashed her a sheepish grin that beseeched her to give him a break. “I’m here now, though.”

She wished he’d just take her in his arms and hold her, but he didn’t, and she stepped back, all the hurt flowing out of her in place of tears. “I’m sure we’ll probably read in the tabloids next week just how hard it was for you to get back for the funeral.” The tabloids had followed his exploits with one woman after another for years now. “I suppose there’ll be flight attendants involved this time.”

J.D.’s jaw tensed as he shook his head at her. “I’m surprised you read the tabloids, let alone believe them.” He met her gaze and held it as gently as a caress. “Come on, you know me better than that.”

Know him? She thought she knew him. She’d shared his dreams. And a lot more. She’d given him her heart. No, she’d given her heart to J. D. Garrison, the boy she had grown up with, not this stranger in designer Western wear.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, motioning to the mess in the room, probably thinking a little humor would soften her up.

Fat chance. “Don’t you remember? This is the way Max liked his office. Everything out where he could find it.”

J.D. nodded, his eyes darkening. “Yeah, I remember that about Max.” He stood, just staring at her. “You’ve changed.”

Her chin went up instinctively. “I’ve grown up, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I can see that.” The look in his eyes blew the devil out of her theory. Those weren’t the eyes of a stranger. She looked away. “I assume you won’t be staying long?” she asked, bracing herself for his answer.

He tipped up one of the drawers with his boot toe, and then let it back down gently. “I’ve taken a room at the Stage Coach Inn for a few days.”

She nodded. In a few days he’d be gone again. That old pain gripped her heart. What had she expected? “A few days? And Max’s funeral is what brought you home?” She wanted to clarify it for her heart, just in case the silly thing wasn’t getting it straight.

“I came home because of you, Denny.”

Her head snapped up.

He grinned at her surprise. “I know you, Denver McCallahan. And I know what you’re thinking.”

“You do?” She let her eyes travel the length of him. If he knew what she was thinking, he’d be blushing.

But when her gaze returned to his silver-eyed one, she realized with a shock that he did know what she was thinking. She felt her face flush red-hot and looked away first.

“I’m worried about you,” he continued, his voice gentle. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing here tonight?” She watched him step over a pile of papers on the floor. “You’re looking for Max’s killer, and if you’d arrived a little earlier, you might have found him.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, her chin coming up again.

He smiled. “I don’t doubt that for a moment—under normal circumstances.” The smile faded. “But Max is dead and someone tore this place apart with a desperation that scares me even if it doesn’t you. You could be in a lot of danger.”

Danger? She’d just gone up the stairs after a burglar with only a phone. Her heart pounded harder, her pulse raced faster just being this close to J. D. Garrison. “I have to go.” She glanced at her watch, seeing nothing. She had to get away. She couldn’t bear spending another minute in the same room with him, wanting to touch him, to feel his arms around her, to kiss those lips. “I promised Pete—” The lie caught in her throat. Who was she kidding? She didn’t even know where Pete was.

A shadow flickered across J.D.’s eyes as he turned to look at her. “I guess you and Pete are pretty close?”

She crossed her fingers. “Just like that.” It didn’t bother her at all to let him think they were more than friends. He frowned. “You’ve made a lot of...friends yourself,” she said, unable to stop herself. “Weren’t you engaged to a Hollywood starlet, if I remember right?” Which she did. “And not six months after you left Montana.” She glared at him. “Didn’t take you long, did it, Garrison?”

His grin was the old J.D.’s. “You haven’t called me Garrison since the last time you were mad at me. I’ve kinda missed it.”

“I’ll just bet.” She edged her way toward the door, trying to put space between them; she felt like an out-of-balance washing machine.

As she passed J.D., he reached out and grabbed her arm. His gaze settled on her, solid as a rock. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I beg your pardon?” She shook off his hold.

“Look at this place, Denny,” he said, sweeping an arm out. “What do you think the burglar was looking for?”

“How should I know?” If she knew that, she wouldn’t be standing here talking to him.

“Then let me ask you this. Do you think he found what he was looking for?”

“No,” she said, not sure why she felt so confident that the burglar hadn’t.

“So, Denny, where do you think he’ll look next?”

She stared at him, all cocky and sure of himself, standing in the middle of the mess in Max’s office. But he was right. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Because seeing J.D. again had put her mind on a permanent spin cycle.

“You bet,” J.D. said. “Your burglar will more than likely head straight for the lake cabin because that’s the next logical place to search. He’ll probably be waiting for you when you get there.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Unless you aren’t going home tonight?”

“I was planning to go to the cabin.” His gaze narrowed. “Alone.”

A grin played at his lips. “I thought you promised Pete—”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave... “I promised...I’d call him when I got home.”

He looked pleased to hear that was all there was to it. “Then change your plans and stay in town at the hotel. I’ll get you a room and you can call him from there.”

She glared at him. “And just let the burglar have the cabin for the night?” No burglar or even a murderer was going to force her out of her home. And no man was going to start running her life—especially when that man was J. D. Garrison. “Guess again.”

J.D. let out a long sigh. “Then I’m coming out to the lake with you.” She started to argue but he stopped her. “If there’s no sign of trouble, I’ll just stay for a while.”

She relented, seeing how hard that concession was for him to make. Unfortunately he was right; it made sense that the cabin would be the next place the burglar would hit. “All right.”

J.D. held the door open for her. “I’m glad to see you’re not as impossibly stubborn as you used to be.”

She made a face at him as she swept past. “Don’t push your luck, Garrison.” She could hear his laugh as he walked to a pale green Ford pickup parked down the street.

Denver climbed into her Jeep and started the engine, thinking how funny life could be. Well, maybe not funny. No, not funny at all.

She made a U-turn and headed toward the lake. A few miles out of town, she glanced in the rearview mirror to see the lights of the pickup right behind her. J.D. was home. Just like in her dreams. Almost. It made her want to laugh. And cry.

* * *

“DAMMIT.” J.D. FOLLOWED Denny out of town, telling himself that it wasn’t seeing her again that had him in a tailspin. But he couldn’t get over his reaction to her. Or hers to him, he thought with a grimace. The woman he’d seen in Max’s office certainly wasn’t the girl who’d had a crush on him at sixteen. No, she’d definitely gotten over her infatuation with him.

He tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. The destruction to Max’s office and apartment had convinced him of just how much danger Denny was in. But not from Pete. J.D. just didn’t believe Pete capable of tearing apart a place like that—let alone murder.

And keeping Denny away from Pete was even more impossible than he’d first thought, now that he knew how Denny felt. About Pete. And about J. D. Garrison.

He smiled ruefully to himself. He’d hoped to charm her as a last resort. Ha. That would be like trying to charm a hungry grizzly bear away from a Big Mac.

As they neared the lake cabin, J.D. realized his only hope would be for Max’s killer to be found. And fast.

The lights from Denny’s cabin spilled from the windows and shot like laser beams through the pines. “Damn.” The burglar had already been there, he thought as he followed Denny up the narrow, snowy driveway.

What if the burglar was still in the cabin ransacking it? Denver slowed, and he knew she must be thinking the same thing. Her headlights lit up a vehicle parked at the edge of the driveway. J.D. stared at Pete’s black Chevy pickup. “Double damn.” He pulled in behind Denny.

Before he had a chance to get out, Denny walked back to talk to him. He rolled down his window.

“Pete’s here,” she said, resting her hands on the window frame. “There’s no reason for you to stay now. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Right. “Then you won’t mind if I make sure.” He opened the pickup door, and with obvious reluctance, she stepped back.

“You should talk about stubborn,” she mumbled as they walked up to the cabin.

A slice of moon peeked through a break in the clouds and splashed the partially thawed lake with thin metallic light. In the crisp night air, he smelled pine and lake water and...smoke. He looked up to see smoke curling up from the chimney. “Looks like Pete built you a fire.”

She scowled. Clearly she hadn’t expected Pete to be here nor did she seem that happy about it.

“Looks like he made himself at home,” J.D. added, fighting a grin. He heard Denny mumbling under her breath.

The moment they entered the cabin, J.D. smelled peppermint. Denny looked puzzled by the scent, too, as she closed the door behind them. The cabin was as J.D. remembered it. The living room had a fireplace at the entrance and huge glass windows at the other end, looking out on Hebgen Lake. To the left was an adjoining kitchen and down the hall was a bath, small office and laundry room. Max had converted the laundry room into a darkroom before he gave the cabin to Denny, Maggie had told him. Upstairs were two bedrooms along with another bath.

J.D. was glad to see that the place hadn’t changed. He was even more delighted to see that it hadn’t been ransacked. In fact, everything appeared perfectly normal. Except maybe for the man-size pair of cowboy boots by the front door.

Denver called out a tentative hello. J.D. wasn’t sure what he expected. But it wasn’t Pete coming out of the kitchen in his stocking feet and carrying a teapot.

“Surprise!” Pete said, then stopped in his tracks as he spotted J.D.

“Surprise,” J.D. said. Pete hadn’t changed at all; he still had those boyish looks J.D. had always envied. Nor did he look like a murderer, standing there in one of Denny’s aprons holding that teapot. Feeling foolish for suspecting Pete, J.D. extended his hand to his former best friend. “How have you been?”

Pete didn’t move. Something J.D. couldn’t quite read flickered across his face. He quickly covered it with a smile and reached to take J.D.’s hand. “J. D. Garrison. Boy, has it been a long time.”

Out of the corner of his eye, J.D. saw Denny frown.

“I guess I should have made more tea?” Pete directed the question to Denny. There were already two cups and saucers on the coffee table in front of the fire. And a single red rose.

How touching, J.D. thought and growled softly to himself. “Yeah, let’s have some tea and catch up on old times.”

Pete didn’t look thrilled by the idea, to put it mildly.

“Not tonight,” Denver said. She motioned to the orderly state of the cabin and lowered her voice. “As you can see, I’m in good hands.”

“Yeah,” J.D. said, unable to come up with a reason not to go. Blurting out that Maggie thought Pete was a murderer didn’t seem like a great idea at the moment. And even if Pete were Jack the Ripper, it was doubtful he’d do anything to Denver with J.D. knowing he was there. “If you need me—”

“I have more than enough baby-sitters for one night, thank you.” She opened the door for him.

But he still didn’t want to leave her there alone with Pete. And not because of Maggie’s suspicions. He tried not to think of Pete and Denny in front of the fire, or the single red rose on the coffee table, as Denny closed the door in his face.

He stood for a moment in the dark, lost. The idea of sitting outside the cabin posting guard seemed ridiculous as well as emotionally painful. Denny was right; she didn’t need him. He stalked to his pickup, trying to remember something important he’d meant to do at Max’s office earlier. All he could see in his mind was that cozy little scene back at the cabin. What’s wrong with you, Garrison? You’re acting jealous as hell. He jerked open his pickup door. Jealous? What a laugh. But as he climbed into the cab, he couldn’t get Denny out of his mind. Or Pete’s damned little tea party for two.

That was when he recalled what had been so important. He’d spotted what looked like a wallet wedged behind the old radiator in Max’s apartment. He had started to work it out of the hole when he’d heard what he thought was the burglar returning. Later, when he’d looked up from the bathtub to find Denny standing there...well, he was just lucky he remembered his name.

He turned the pickup toward West Yellowstone and Max’s office, promising himself he’d be back within the hour to check on Denver. As he raced toward town, he realized he was humming the same tune over and over again as he drove. With a curse, he recognized the song—“Tea for Two.”

* * *

DENVER TURNED TO FIND Pete looking a little guilty as he set the pot on the coffee table by the two cups and saucers and the sugar bowl.

“So J.D.’s back, huh?” he asked. “Did he say how long he’s staying?”

Exhaustion pulled at her. All she really wanted was to go to bed and sleep.

“I know you said you wanted to be alone and I promise I won’t stay long.” He brightened. “I made tea.”

“Tea?” Max used to make her tea when she couldn’t sleep.

Pete sat down and proceeded to pour the tea. Denver had to stifle a smile as she took off her coat and hung it in the closet. The teapot appeared so small and fragile in his hands. She’d bet money this was the first tea he’d ever made.

“I mixed the spiced kind with some other one that sounded good,” Pete said, confirming her suspicions. It also explained the peppermint scent. He bent over, the spoon clicking against the china cup as he stirred.

“No sugar for me, please,” Denver said, feeling like the visitor. J.D. was right; Pete had certainly made himself at home. She could see that the laundry room door was ajar. She’d closed it before she left for the service, having souped some photos that morning to keep her mind off Max. What had Pete done? Searched every room to make sure Max’s killer wasn’t here waiting for her? It would have been funny, if he wasn’t so determined for her to stay out of Max’s murder investigation.

“Oh, a little sugar never hurt anyone,” he said, handing her the china cup and saucer, her treasured rose-patterned dishes Max had brought her back from Canada. “Anyway, I’m afraid I put sugar in them both. I hope you don’t mind.”

She didn’t have the heart not to drink the tea after he’d gone to so much trouble—sugar and all. Sitting down across from him, she said, “I looked for you at the party but you’d left.”

He grinned sheepishly. “I thought I’d come on out and surprise you. I remembered where Max hid his spare key so...here I am.”

Yes, here he was, even though she’d told him she wanted to be alone, she thought resentfully as she got a whiff of the strange brew. The last thing she wanted to do was drink it.

“Do you like it?” Pete asked, sounding hopeful.

The truth was she hadn’t even tried it. “It’s good.” She took a sip; it was too hot to taste, fortunately. The warmth seemed to take away some of the day’s pain. Max was gone. She’d have to learn to accept that. If only she could throw off the memory of J.D. in Max’s office. Max’s ransacked office. And J.D. grinning at her.

Realizing Pete was waiting for her to drink her tea before he left, she took another sip and burned her tongue. Exhaustion had numbed her muscles and made her feel as if she were sinking into the chair. All she really wanted to do was put this day behind her.

“So J.D. followed you home?” Pete asked.

She saw his jaw tense and remembered the animosity she’d felt between the two of them earlier. “He’s like you, worried I might be in some sort of danger.”

“Oh, really?”

The phone rang. Pete offered to get it, but Denver was only too anxious to have an excuse not to finish her tea. She put her cup down and went to answer it.

It was Taylor. “Denver?”

She smiled. He always sounded a little embarrassed.

“I was thinking about that trouble you had earlier with Cal. You’re all right out there, aren’t you?”

Another man worried about her. If only they’d just let her get some rest. “I’m fine,” she said, thinking how much Taylor reminded her of Max.

“I gave Cal a ride home but I was afraid he might decide to show up at your cabin. No trouble?”

Denver thought about Max’s ransacked office. And J.D. “What kind of trouble could I get in?” She laughed guiltily but didn’t want to mention either problem in front of Pete. “No trouble. Pete’s here with me.”

“Good.” He seemed to hesitate. “You know, if you need anything...”

“I know. I appreciate it.” She hung up the phone and returned to the coffee table but didn’t sit. Pete was in the kitchen washing the teapot. Denver thought of excusing herself, but decided it would be rude not to at least drink some of her tea.

Hurriedly she picked up the cup from the table and drank it down, trying not to gag. When she went to replace the cup in the saucer, though, she realized she’d finished Pete’s instead of her own. She was switching the cups when Pete came back into the room. Quickly she handed him the full cup.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Taylor.”

He seemed annoyed that Max’s friend had interrupted their little tea party. “What did he want?”

“He was just checking on me.”

Pete frowned. “It seems I’m only one of a long line of men concerned about your welfare.”

She let that pass. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” she said with a wide yawn and a stretch.

Pete glanced at Denver’s empty cup on the coffee table and smiled. “I can take a hint.” He drank his; from the face he made, he didn’t like it any better than she had. “I’ll just throw a few more logs on the fire and make sure both doors are locked before I leave.”

Denver started up the spiral log stairs to her bedroom. “Good night, Mother Hen.”

Pete looked sad to see her go. “Good night, Denver. Sleep well.”

* * *

J.D. PARKED IN THE darkness of a lodgepole pine outside Max’s office. Denny had locked the front door, but thanks to the burglar, all he had to do was put his shoulder against the old door and it fell open. He took the stairs two at a time to Max’s apartment. Images of Denny in the middle of the mess made him smile. He rubbed the lump on his head in memory. Hadn’t he always known she’d grow into a beautiful, strong, determined woman with a helluva right-handed swing?

He went to the old radiator. Sure enough, there was something down there. He picked up a thin bent curtain rod and worked to pry what looked like a wallet from the radiator’s steel jaws.

The wallet tumbled out onto the floor. He picked it up and opened the worn leather. Max’s face looked up at him from a Montana driver’s license. J.D. thumbed through the rest of the contents. There was no doubt it was Max’s wallet. The question was: how did it get behind the radiator? J.D. shook his head, remembering what Max had been like. Absentminded about day-to-day things.

He took the wallet downstairs and dumped out the contents on Max’s desk. There wasn’t much—a few receipts, some business cards he’d picked up, Denny’s graduation photo, a yellowed, dog-eared photo of Denny and her parents, forty dollars in cash and a MasterCard.

J.D. stared at Denny’s photo for a moment, realizing how many years he’d missed by leaving. Then he looked at the picture of Denny and her parents. She couldn’t have been more than two at the time. Denny’s father, Timothy McCallahan wore his police uniform, and the threesome stood on the steps of the Billings Police Department. Timothy looked like Max, only younger. Denny had his grin. Her mother was the spitting image of Denny, the same auburn hair, same smattering of freckles and identical intense pale blue-green eyes.

J.D. stared at the happy family, unable to accept the fact that someone had killed Denver’s parents. Somehow Denny had escaped being hit in the gunfire. He hoped that same luck held for her now.

It took him a moment to realize what finding the wallet meant. Maggie’s strongest evidence against Pete was the photograph from Max’s wallet because she assumed Max had the wallet and the photo on him the day he was killed.

If the wallet was behind the radiator the day of the murder, then Pete didn’t get the photograph at the murder scene. But the fact that Pete even had the photo made him look suspicious. How had he gotten the photo and why had he taken it?

J.D. just hoped there might be a clue to Max’s murder among the receipts, scraps of paper and business cards as he stuck the wallet inside his jacket pocket. Maybe Denny could make some sense of it.

On the way out, he turned off the lights and closed the door. As he stepped into the darkness of the porch, he felt a chill on the back of his neck.

Denver.

A premonition swept over him. He had to get to her; she needed him. As he hurried across the porch, he caught the slight movement of something in the night. He turned, but too late. An object glistened in the streetlight for an instant, and then there was only pain and darkness.




Chapter Five


J.D. woke, cold and confused. He glanced around, surprised to find himself on Max’s office porch. He was even more surprised to find he was alive. His head ached and he couldn’t remember a thing. Except Denny. He could see the light in her auburn hair, hear the sweet sound of her voice. And...feel the lamp as she knocked him into the bathtub. He groaned. It was all starting to come back.

Rubbing the bump on the side of his head, he tried to get up. A wave of nausea hit him and forced him back down. Where was Denny now?

As he stumbled to his feet, bits and pieces of the night began to return, ending with him leaving Denver at the cabin with Pete. He swore—and reached into his coat. Max’s wallet was gone.

Except for his pickup parked at the curb, the street was empty. His watch read 3:52 a.m. Damn. One thing was for sure. Investigating Max’s murder was turning out to be more dangerous than he’d realized—than he was sure Denny realized. He had to protect her. He smiled at the humor in that; he wasn’t even doing a very good job of taking care of himself. But now more than ever, he feared for Denny’s safety.

As he headed for the lake cabin, he wished he could come up with a logical explanation for waking Denny and Pete at this time of the night. Instead he knew he was about to make a first-class fool of himself. At least it was something he was good at. But he had to make sure Denny was safe. A vague uneasiness in the pit of his stomach warned him she wasn’t.

* * *

IN THE DREAM, DENVER skipped through the bank door ahead of her parents, singing the song her mother had taught her. The words died on her lips; her feet faltered and stopped. Everyone inside the bank lay on the floor on their stomachs. A silence hung in the air that she only recognized as something wrong. As she turned and ran back to her parents, she saw the other uniformed policeman on the floor. Her father’s hand came down on her shoulder hard. He shoved her. She fell, sliding into the leg of an office desk. She heard her mother scream. Then the room exploded.

The phone rang.

Don’t answer it, her father said in the dream. He wore his police uniform and he was smiling at her. The phone rang again. Don’t answer it unless you want to know the truth. But as she looked at him she already knew—

Denver sat up, drenched with sweat. The phone rang again. For a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was. Then familiar objects took shape as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The phone rang again. She fumbled for it. “Hello?”

Silence. Heavy and dark as the night. The dream clung to her. Alive. Real.

“Hello?” Denver shivered. Just nerves. And that damned dream. “Is anyone there?”

“Denver McCallahan?” a voice whispered.

The dream had left her with an ominous feeling. She tried to shake it off. “Yes?”

“I have information about your uncle.”

“Who is this?” The voice sounded familiar. She sat up straighter and rubbed her hand over her face. The dream and the last remnants of sleep still hovered around her like a musical note suspended in the air. “You know something about Max’s murder?” Her head started to clear a little. It was just a crank call. “If you know anything, why haven’t you gone to Deputy Cline?”

The caller coughed. “You’ll know when you meet me at Horse Butte Lookout under the fire tower. But hurry.”

Now fully awake, Denver clutched the phone. “You can’t expect me to come to an abandoned fire tower now.” The voice sounded even more familiar; if only she could keep the person talking.

“Look, if he finds out I called you, I’m dead meat.” The caller sounded genuinely frightened. “The fire tower. Hurry. I won’t wait.”

“Please just tell me—”

But he’d already hung up.

“Damn.”

Denver stared at the receiver in her hand. Then at the clock beside her bed. It read 4:05 a.m. She hung up the phone and hurriedly pulled on warm clothes. The fear in the caller’s voice made her think he really might know who murdered Max. That hope ricocheted around in her head, forcing out everything else. If he really knew...

Denver opened her bedroom door and started down the stairs. Her heart thudded. Someone was downstairs. She listened, trying to recognize the noise floating up from the living room. It sounded like— Cautiously she crept down the stairs and stopped, staring in surprise.

The fire had burned down to smoldering embers. The warm sheen from the firebox radiated over the living room, bathing the sleeping Pete Williams in a reddish wash. Sprawled across the couch, Pete snored loudly.

Denver shook him gently; he didn’t stir. She tried again, a little more forcefully. He groaned and started snoring again. Well, she’d tried, she told herself as she covered him with the quilt from the back of the couch. She knew he would have tried to stop her from going, anyway.

Hastily she wrote him a note—“Gone to Horse Butte Fire Tower”—and propped it against his teacup. Trying to protect her must have worn him out, she thought with a laugh as she closed the front door behind her. Just as she reached her Jeep, an arm grabbed her from the darkness. Only someone’s hurried words stopped the scream on her lips.

“Take it easy, slugger,” J.D. said. “It’s only me. You don’t have a lamp with you, do you?”

“What are you doing?” Denver demanded in a hushed tone as he released her. “Trying to scare me to death a second time?” As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see his pickup parked in the trees.

“I think the question is where are we going at this hour of the night? And why are we whispering?”

Denver planted her hands on her hips. “I thought you left.”

“I did.” He gave her an embarrassed shrug. “I came back. I had a feeling you might need me.”

She liked the sound of that. And, although she’d never admit it to him, she was glad he was there.

“Maybe I’m psychic when it comes to you.” He grinned. “Or maybe I just know you.”

She mugged a face at him. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine.” She reached for the Jeep’s door handle. J.D.’s gloved hand covered hers.

“‘Fine’ isn’t going for a drive at four in the morning, Denny. What’s going on?” He glanced at Pete’s pickup. “Where’s Pete?”

Out like a bad light bulb, she thought. “I don’t have time to argue—”

From inside the cabin, the phone rang. Denver started to run back to answer it in case it was her mysterious caller changing his mind. But it stopped on the third ring. Maybe it had been the caller, checking to see if she’d left yet.

She turned to find J.D. already in the Jeep. He grinned at her. Maybe it was the grin. Or the late hour. Or just plain common sense. She might need him when she got to the fire tower. But at that moment, she didn’t mind the idea of the two of them in the close confines of the Jeep together.

As Denver backed down the driveway and started up the narrow road through the pines, she realized she hadn’t thought about where her caller had phoned from. There was no telephone near the fire tower. She’d just assumed he was calling from West Yellowstone, but he wouldn’t be able to reach the tower quickly if he’d phoned from town. No, he either had to call from a private residence near the lake, or—

As she tore up the road, she remembered the phone booth at Rainbow Point Campground.

“Where exactly are we going in such a hurry?” J.D. asked. Denver smiled as she took a corner in a spray of snow, ice and gravel, and he fumbled to buckle up his seat belt.

“Horse Butte Fire Tower.”

His gaze warmed the side of her face. “Really?”

She’d made the mistake of kissing him at the tower the day he said he was leaving. She’d foolishly thought one kiss would change his mind. She shot him a look. “I can promise you you’re not going to get as lucky as you did the last time.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

To her surprise, he laughed. “That’s too bad.”

But she could feel him studying her, and when she glanced over at him, she saw what could have been regret in his gray eyes. Probably just lack of sleep, she assured herself as she concentrated on the next curve, waiting for the campground phone booth to come into view. As she came around the corner, her foot pulled off the gas pedal unconsciously.

The phone booth stood in the darkened pines, door closed. The overhead light glowed inside. She stared at it half expecting someone to materialize inside it. The pines swayed in the wind. The booth stood empty. Had that been where he called from?

“I think you’d better tell me what’s going on,” J.D. said, frowning at her as she hit the gas again and barreled past the campground. Denver glanced back into the darkness, then took a sharp curve on the snowy, narrow road with the familiarity of someone who’d driven it for years. J.D. hung on. “Come on, Denny, I’m sure you have a good reason for trying to kill us. I’d feel better, though, if I knew it before the wreck.”

She smiled. “You were the one who insisted on coming along.”

“So true.”

Freewheeling around the next curve, Denver shot down a straightaway and looked back. No headlights. “I got a call tonight from what sounded like a man. He claimed he knows something about Max’s murder. He told me to meet him at the fire tower.”

“I’m sorry I asked.” J.D. let out a breath after Denver successfully maneuvered the Jeep around another sharp curve in the road. “Let me ask you this—are you completely crazy?”

Denver looked over at him for just a second, then back at the road. Yes, she’d been crazy once. Crazy in love. Then just plain crazy when she realized J.D. had walked out of her life and not even looked back. Meeting a possible murderer in the middle of the night was nothing compared to that.

“I know it probably sounds foolhardy to you,” she said.

J.D. let out a laugh. “No, it sounds suicidal to me. Have you considered you might be driving right into a trap?”

Why had this made a lot more sense back at the cabin when she was half-asleep? A sudden chill raced up her spine and the first stirrings of real fear made the Jeep seem even colder inside.

The dark pines that lined both sides of the road blurred by blacker than the night. Occasionally the moon broke free of the clouds to lighten the slit of sky where the road made a path through the trees. Her headlights flickered down the long, narrow tunnel of a road. Behind her, darkness fought the silver-slick reflection of the snow hunkered among the pines.

“If you wanted to kill someone, can you think of a better place than an abandoned fire tower?” J.D. asked.

“No.” She reached over to bang on the heater lever; the darned thing wasn’t even putting out cold air. When she looked up, she saw the reflection of a large mud puddle dead ahead. She tried to avoid it and plowed through a pile of deep slush instead. The windshield fogged over. Hurriedly she rolled down her window. As she wiped a spot clear on the glass with her mitten, she heard what sounded like another vehicle close behind her. Her caller? Or just a reverberation in the trees?

“What’s wrong?” J.D. asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I think we’re being followed.”

“Great.”

Not slowing down, Denver leaned down to rummage under her seat.

“What now?” J.D. asked.

“You don’t happen to have a weapon on you, do you?”

“I’m a guitar player, Denny, not a gunslinger.”

She dug blindly until she felt the screwdriver, then pulled it out and held it up to the lights from the dash.

“Get serious,” J.D. said.





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