Книга - Rough Rider

Rough Rider
B.J. Daniels


He was sure he could handle one petite PI with an attitude – but he'll need her help to solve the secret of his missing sister and outwit a ruthless killer! Boone McGraw is in Butte on the hunt for his kidnapped baby sister. What he wasn't expecting to find was feisty private investigator CJ Knight. Desperate to solve her partner's murder, CJ doesn't believe her case could possibly be connected to the sexy horse breeder's investigation…until they find themselves running for their lives – together!







He was sure he could handle one petite PI with an attitude—but he’ll need her help to solve the secret of his missing sister and outwit a ruthless killer

His family never fully recovered from the kidnapping of his siblings decades ago. Now Boone McGraw finally has a lead on his missing sister’s location, but it means working with feisty private investigator C.J. West. Desperate to solve her partner’s murder, C.J. doesn’t believe her case could possibly be connected to the sexy horse breeder’s investigation…until they find themselves running for their lives.

Whitehorse, Montana: The McGraw Kidnapping


“But if it was here, don’t you think that whoever did this took the file with him?” the cowboy asked.

“Actually, I don’t. Look at this place. I’d say the person got frustrated when he didn’t find it. Otherwise, why trash the place?”

“You have a point. But let’s say the file you’re looking for is about the McGraw kidnapping. It wouldn’t be an old file since Hank called only a few weeks ago. When did he turn off his phone and electricity here at the office?”

C.J. hated to admit that she didn’t know. “We’ve both been busy on separate cases. But he would have told me if he knew anything about the case.” He wouldn’t have kept something like that from her. And yet he hadn’t mentioned talking to the McGraw lawyer and her instincts told her that Boone McGraw wasn’t lying about that.

That Hank now wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell her hit her hard. Hank had been like family, her only family, and now he was gone. And she was only starting to realize how much he had been keeping from her.

She had to look away, not wanting Boone to see the shine of tears that burned her eyes. She wouldn’t break down. Especially not in front of this cowboy.


Rough Rider

B.J. Daniels






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


B. J. DANIELS is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. She wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. She lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and three springer spaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and plays tennis. Contact her at www.bjdaniels.com (http://www.bjdaniels.com), on Facebook or on Twitter, @bjdanielsauthor (http://twitter.com/@bjdanielsauthor).


This book is for Anita Green, who opened a quilt shop in our little town. There is nothing like sitting in her shop after a long day writing and dreaming of new projects—both writing and quilting.


Contents

Cover (#uaeaed126-099f-5c08-96e0-668012111f15)

Back Cover Text (#ud782b25d-cf20-511f-878f-17d3841027f0)

Introduction (#uf44765e2-fe04-5024-9d44-f792e7977f6e)

Title Page (#udbe0e600-f715-5b85-8dc8-0a291b45c119)

About the Author (#u6d18a465-d562-5ed9-ad9d-c5011e2fbf35)

Dedication (#u8600959b-d021-5a71-b6a7-3dd823853f95)

Chapter One (#u99f3dd4f-5980-55db-a9d9-78f28fc152b2)

Chapter Two (#uc8df22d4-19f1-5d73-918d-a06176bf0880)

Chapter Three (#u8ba1ad9a-669a-59f0-8876-0e7cb059fe9b)

Chapter Four (#u53e16499-adcf-5232-8a1d-8a9aa89d81b0)

Chapter Five (#u6e795e9f-f39f-5519-af4d-f4da1f08c9ba)

Chapter Six (#u84a4e7a4-9f6b-5e56-bb8d-4e059ead291b)

Chapter Seven (#u014f7c4d-e75f-50ce-b5b6-f74d0f6ff05b)

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)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

Boone McGraw parked the pickup at the edge of the dark, deserted city street and checked the address again. One look around at the boarded-up old buildings in Butte’s uptown and he feared his suspicions had been warranted.

Christmas lights glowed in the valley below. But uptown on what had once been known as the richest hill on earth, there was no sign of the approaching holiday. Shoving back his Stetson, he let out a long sigh. He feared the information the family attorney had allegedly received was either wrong or an attempted con job. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to cash in on the family’s tragedy.

But he’d promised his father, Travers McGraw, that he would follow up on the lead. Not that he believed for a moment that it was going to help him find Jesse Rose, his sister, who’d been kidnapped from her crib twenty-five years ago.

Boone glanced toward the dilapidated building that reportedly housed Knight Investigations. According to the family’s former lawyer, Jim Waters, he’d spoken to a private investigator by the name of Hank Knight a few times on the phone. Knight had asked questions that supposedly had Waters suspecting that the PI knew something more than he was saying. But Waters had never met with the man. All he’d had for Boone to go on was a phone number and an address.

The phone had recently been disconnected and the century-old brick building looked completely abandoned with dusty for-lease signs in most of the windows and just dust in others. No lights burned in the building—not that he’d expected anyone to be working this late.

Boone told himself that he might as well get a motel for the night and come back tomorrow. Not that he expected to find anything here. He was convinced this long trip from Whitehorse to Butte had been a wild-goose chase.

His father had been easy prey for twenty-five years. Desperate to find the missing twins who’d been kidnapped, Travers had appealed to every news outlet. Anyone who’d watched the news or picked up a newspaper over the past twenty-five years knew how desperate he was since each year, the amount of the reward for information had grown.

Boone, suspicious by nature, had been skeptical from the get-go. The family attorney had proven he couldn’t be trusted. So why trust information he said he’d gotten? His father hadn’t trusted the lawyer for some time—with good reason. He swore under his breath. All he could think about was how disappointed his father was going to be—and not for the first time.

But he’d promised he would track down the PI and follow up on the information no matter what it took. And damn if he wouldn’t, he thought as he started his pickup. But before he could pull away, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A dark figure had just come around the block and was now moving quickly down the sidewalk. The figure slowed at the building that housed Knight Investigations. He watched as the person slipped in through the only door at the front.

Across the street, Boone shut off the truck’s engine and waited. He told himself the person he’d seen could be homeless and merely looking for a place to sleep. It was late and the fall night was clear and cold at this high altitude. Butte sat at 5,538 feet above sea level and often had snow on the ground a good portion of the year.

Boone hunkered in the dark, watching the building until he began to lose patience with himself. This was a waste of his time. The cab of the truck was getting cold. What he needed was a warm bed. A warm meal didn’t sound bad, either. He could come back in the morning and—

A light flickered on behind one of the windows on the top floor and began to bob around the room. Someone was up there with a flashlight. He squinted, able to finally make out the lettering on the warbled old glass: Knight Investigations.

He felt his pulse thrum under his skin. It appeared he wasn’t the only one interested in Hank Knight.


Chapter Two (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

Climbing out and locking the rig, Boone headed for the door where he’d seen the figure disappear inside. A sliver of moon hung over the mountains that ringed Butte. Stars twinkled like ice crystals in the midnight blue sky overhead. Boone could see his breath as he crossed the street.

The moment he opened the door, he was hit with the musky scent of the old building. He stopped just inside to listen, but heard nothing. Seeing the out-of-order sign on the ancient elevator, he turned to the door marked Stairs, opened it and saw that a naked bulb dangled from the ceiling giving off dim light. He began to climb, taking three steps at a time.

As he neared the top floor, he slowed and quieted the sound of his boot soles as best he could on the wooden stairs. Pushing open the door marked Fifth Floor, he listened for a moment, then stepped out. A single bulb glowed faintly overhead, another halfway down the long empty hallway.

The building was eerily quiet. No lights shone under any of the doors to his right. To his left, toward the front of the building, he saw that there were four doors.

The last door, where he estimated Knight Investigations should be, was ajar. A faint light glowed from within.

As quietly as possible, he moved down the hall, telling himself maybe Hank had come back for something. Or someone else was looking for something in the detective’s office.

He was almost to the doorway when he stopped to listen. Someone was in there banging around, opening and closing metal file cabinet drawers. Definitely searching for something.

Boone leaned around the edge of the doorjamb to look into the office. In the ambient light of the intruder’s flashlight, he saw nothing but an old large oak desk, a worn leather chair behind it and a couple of equally worn chairs in front of it. Along the wall were a half dozen file cabinets, most of them open. There seemed to be files strewn everywhere.

With Knight Investigations’ phone disconnected, he had assumed Hank had closed down the business. Possibly taken off in a hurry. Now, seeing that the man had even left behind his office furniture as well as file cabinets full of cases, that seemed like a viable explanation. Hank Knight was on the lam.

His pulse jumped at the thought. Was it possible he did know something about Jesse Rose and the kidnapping? Is that why he’d taken off like he apparently had?

Boone couldn’t see the intruder—only the flashlight beam low on the other side of the desk. He could hear movement. It sounded as if the intruder was rustling through papers on the floor behind the desk. Looking for something in particular? Or a homeless person just piling up papers to make a fire in the chilly office?

Stepping closer, Boone slowly pushed the door open a little wider. The door creaked. The intruder didn’t seem to hear it, but he froze for a moment anyway. For all he knew, the person going through papers on the floor behind the desk could be armed and dangerous—if not crazy and drugged up.

Pushing the door all the way open, he carefully stepped in. He took in the crowded office in the ambient light of the intruder’s flashlight beam. The office had clearly been ransacked. Files were all over the floor and desk.

He realized that this intruder hadn’t had enough time to make this much of a mess. Someone had already been here. Which meant this new intruder was probably too late for whatever he was searching for. If that’s what he was doing hidden on the other side of the desk.

The line of old metal file cabinets along the wall all had their drawers hanging open. In the middle of all this mess, the large old oak desk was almost indistinguishable because of piles of papers, dirty coffee cups and stacks of files.

He moved closer, still unable to see the intruder, who appeared to be busy on the floor behind the large worn leather office chair on the other side of the cluttered desk.

The flashlight beam suddenly stilled. Had the intruder heard him?

Boone reached into his pocket, found his cell phone, but stopped short of calling 911. His family had been in the news for years. If the cops came, so would the media. He swore under his breath and withdrew his hand sans the cell phone.

Boone had a bad feeling that anchored itself in the pit of his stomach. He reminded himself that the person behind that desk might be someone more dangerous than he was in the mood to take on tonight.

He looked around for something he could use as a weapon. He had no desire to play hero. He’d always been smart enough to pick and choose his battles. This wasn’t one he wanted to lose for a wild-goose chase. Seeing nothing worthy of being a weapon, he took a step back.

The person on the other side of the desk had stopped making a sound. The beam of the flashlight hadn’t moved for a full minute.

He took another step back. The floorboards groaned under his weight. He swore under his breath as suddenly the flashlight beam swooped across the ceiling. The figure shot up from behind the office chair. All he caught was a flash of wild copper-colored hair—and the dull shine of a handgun—before the light blinded him.

Instinctively, he took another step backward. One more and he could dive out into the hallway—

“Take another step and you’re a dead man.”

He froze at the sound of a woman’s voice—and the imminent threat in it. Not to mention the laser dot that had appeared over his heart.

* * *

C.J. STARED AT the cowboy standing just inside the door. The gun in her hand never wavered. Nor did the red laser dot pointed at his heart move a fraction of an inch. He was a big man, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped and rugged-looking. He wore Western attire, including a Stetson as if straight off the ranch.

“Easy,” he said, his voice deep and soft, but nonetheless threatening. “I’m just here looking for Hank Knight.”

“Why?”

He frowned, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the flashlight she also had on him. “That’s between him and me. How about I call the cops so they can ask you why you’re ransacking his office.” He started to reach into his pocket.

She lowered the flashlight so she was no longer blinding him and shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she said, motioning with the gun. “Who are you and why do you want to see Hank?”

“Why should I tell you?” She could see that he was taking her measure. He could overpower her easily enough given his size—and hers. But then again, there was that “equalizer” in her hand.

“You should tell me because I have a gun pointed at your heart—and I’m Hank’s partner. C.J. West.”

He seemed to chew on that for a moment before he said, “Boone McGraw.”

She took in the name. “Kidnapping case,” she said, more to herself than to him. Fraternal twins, six months old, taken from their cribs over twenty-five years ago. A ransom was paid but the twins were never returned. That was the extent of what she knew and even that was vague. The only reason she knew this was because of something she’d recently seen on television. There’d been an update. One of the kidnappers had been found dead.

“Your partner was looking into the case.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Our lawyer spoke with him on two different occasions, so I’m afraid it definitely happened. So how about lowering the gun?”

Frowning, she considered what he’d said, still skeptical. She and Hank talked about all their cases. It wouldn’t have been like him to keep a possible case like this from her.

But she did lower the gun, tucking it into the waistband of her jeans—just in case.

“Thanks. Now, if you could please tell me where I can find him...”

“Day after tomorrow he will be in Rosemont Cemetery.”

He’d been looking around the office, but now his gaze shot back to her. “Cemetery?”

“He was killed by a hit-and-run driver three days ago.” Her voice cracked. It still didn’t seem real, but it always came with a wave of grief and pain.

“A hit-and-run?”

She wondered if he planned to keep echoing everything she said. She really didn’t have time for this.

“Clearly you’re too late. Not that Hank could have known anything about the kidnapping case.” Picking up one of Hank’s files, she shone the flashlight on it and then began to thumb through the yellow notebook pages inside.

Not that she didn’t watch Boone McGraw—if that was really his name—out of the corner of her eye. She’d learned never to take anything at face value. Hank had taught her that and a lot more.

The cowboy swore as he looked around the destroyed office. His expression said he wasn’t ready to give up. “If you’re his partner then why is the Knight Investigations phone disconnected and this office without electricity?”

“Hank was in the process of retiring. I have my own office in my home. I was taking over the business.”

“So you hadn’t spoken for a while?” He was guessing, but he’d guessed right.

“We were in transition.”

“So you can’t be sure he didn’t know something about the kidnapping case.”

She gritted her teeth. This cowboy was impossible. “Hank would have told me if he knew something about the case. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time.” She just wanted him to leave so she could get back to what she was doing.

Since Hank’s so-called accident, she’d been hard-pressed to hold it together. All that kept her going was her anger and determination to find his killer. She was convinced that one of his cases had gotten him murdered. All she had to do was figure out which one.

The cowboy moved, but only to step deeper into the room. “You said he was killed three days ago? Is that when he returned from his trip?”

“His trip?” Now she was starting to sound like him.

He frowned and jammed his hands on his hips as he looked at her. “My father’s lawyer talked to him over two weeks ago. Your partner told him that he was going to be away and would get back to us. When we didn’t hear from him...”

She shook her head. “He didn’t go anywhere.”

“Then why did he lie to our lawyer? Unless he had something to hide?”

C.J. threw down the files in her hands with impatience. “Mr. McGraw—”

“Boone.”

“Boone, you didn’t know Hank, but I did. He wouldn’t have lied.”

“Then how do you explain what he told our lawyer?”

She couldn’t and that bothered her. She studied the cowboy for a minute. Had Hank gone on a trip—just as he’d told the McGraw lawyer? C.J. thought of how distracted Hank had been the last time she’d seen him. He hadn’t mentioned talking to anyone connected to the McGraw kidnapping and for a man who loved to talk about his cases, that was more than unusual.

A case like that didn’t come along every day, especially given Knight Investigations’ clients. But it also wasn’t the kind of case Hank would be interested in. If it was true and he’d called the McGraw lawyer, he must have merely out of curiosity.

She said as much and picked up more files.

“It wasn’t idle curiosity.” Boone stepped closer until only the large cluttered desk stood between them. He loomed over it. His presence alone could have sucked all the air out of the room. Fortunately, all he did was make her too aware of just how male he was. He didn’t intimidate her, not even for a moment. At least that’s what she told herself.

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?” she said, meeting his steely gaze with one of her hard blue ones.

“If there is even a chance that he knew the whereabouts of my sister, Jesse Rose, then I’m not leaving town until I find out the truth. Starting with whether or not Hank Knight recently left town. It should be easy enough to find out. How much?”

C.J. stared at him. “How much what?”

“How much money? I want to hire you.”


Chapter Three (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

Boone was surprised by the young woman’s reaction.

“Sorry, but I’m not available.” She actually sounded offended.

“Because you’re too busy going through dusty old files?”

She looked up from where she was leafing through one and slowly put it down. “The reason my partner is dead is in one of these files. I need to find his killer.”

“Wait, I thought it was an accident?”

“That’s what the police say, but they’re wrong.”

He shook his head. He’d run into his share of stubborn women, but this one took the cake. “You seem pretty sure of yourself about a lot of things.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked like she could chew nails. “Hank was murdered. I’d stake my life on it.”

“If you’re right, then there is probably a good chance that’s what you’re doing.”

“He would have done the same for me. Hank... Everyone loved him.”

Well, not everyone, but he knew now wasn’t the time to point that out. He could see how hard this was on her and told himself to cut her some slack. But if he had any hope of finding out if Hank Knight had known where his kidnapped sister was, then he needed this woman’s help.

“I’m sorry. Apparently the two of you were close,” he said, which surprised him since Waters had said Hank Knight was elderly. She’d just said the man was in the process of retiring.

Hank’s advancing age could be the reason he had such a young partner. In the ambient glow of the flashlight C.J. didn’t even look thirty, though given her confidence, she could have been older. Her long curly hair was the deep, rich color of copper, framing a face flecked with freckles. Both made her brown eyes look wider and more innocent. She had her unruly hair pulled back into a ponytail and wore an old Cubs baseball cap. His father had always been a huge Cubs fan. Boone wondered if Hank had been.

C.J. West was a slight woman but one he knew better than to underestimate. He needed her help because the more he thought about it, the more he felt the answers were here in Butte, here in this office.

“I’ve known Hank since I was a child playing in this building,” she said. “My mother had a job on another floor. I used to hang out with him. He taught me everything I know about the investigative business plus much more. He was like a father to me.”

Boone nodded. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. I hate that I have to add to your problems at a time like this, but let’s say you’re right and your partner was murdered. Why an old case? Why not the McGraw kidnapping? One of the kidnappers is still at large. If your partner knew something and made inquiries that alerted the kidnapper...”

He was winging it, but he saw that at least she was considering it. Of course, there was also the chance that Hank Knight’s death was just an accident. That the man had merely been curious about the McGraw kidnapping case. That all of this was a waste of time.

But Boone had always gone on instinct and right now his instincts told him he had to get this woman to help him. If Hank had been telling the truth and he’d left town, then maybe where he’d gone would lead them to Jesse Rose—and her partner’s killer.

* * *

ACROSS THE STREET from the Knight Investigations office, Cecil Marks slumped down in his vehicle to watch the office of Knight Investigations. He’d been worried when he’d heard that there might be a break in the kidnapping case. That some private investigator in Butte might know not just where Jesse Rose was, but might also know who was the second kidnapper—the one who’d handed the babies out the window to the man on the ladder.

After twenty-five years, he’d thought for sure that the truth would never come out. Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d known that Boone McGraw was like a dog with a bone when it came to not letting go of something. The moment he’d heard about Hank Knight and Knight Investigations, he’d known he had to take care of it.

Once he came to Butte and found out that Hank Knight was retiring, he’d told himself that no one would tie the kidnapping to the old PI.

But unfortunately, he hadn’t known about the man’s partner. It was her up there now with Boone McGraw. He doubted they would find anything. He hadn’t when he’d searched the office, and he’d been thorough. He’d left the place in such a mess, even if he had missed something, he doubted it would turn up now.

It was cold in his truck without the motor running, but he didn’t want to call attention to himself. As badly as he wanted to go back to the motel where he was staying, he had to be sure they didn’t find anything. Once Boone went back to Whitehorse, he figured he wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

He told himself that the little gal partner, C.J. West, wouldn’t be searching the office if she knew anything. Also if she knew, he would have heard by now.

She suspected the hit-and-run hadn’t been an accident. But there was no proof. Nor did he think the cops were even looking all that hard. He’d seen something on the news and only a footnote in the newspaper. Hank Knight had been a two-bit PI nobody. Look at that heap of an office he worked out of.

He tried to reassure himself that he was in the clear. That nothing would come of any of this. He’d done what he’d had to do and he would do it again. His hands began to shake at the thought, though, of being forced to kill yet another person, especially a woman.

But if she and Boone didn’t stop, he’d have no choice.

* * *

C.J. HATED TO admit that the cowboy might be right. Before Boone McGraw had walked into this office, she’d been sure Hank’s death had something to do with one of his older cases. All of his newer cases that he’d told her about were nothing that could get a man killed—at least she didn’t think so.

Now she had to adjust her thinking. Could this be about the kidnapping? Her mind balked because Hank loved nothing better than to talk about his cases. He wouldn’t have been able not to talk about this one unless... Unless he did know something, something that he thought could put her in danger...

“Why do you think the hit-and-run wasn’t an accident?” the cowboy asked.

It took her a moment to get her thoughts together. “This ransacked office for one. Clearly someone was looking for something in the old files.”

“You’re that sure it involved a case?”

She waved a hand through the air. “Why tear up the office unless the killer is looking for the case file—and whatever incriminating evidence might be in it?”

He nodded as if that made sense to him. “But if it was here, don’t you think that whoever did this took the file with him?”

“Actually, I don’t. Look at this place. I’d say the person got frustrated when he didn’t find it. Otherwise, why trash the place?”

“You have a point. But let’s say the file you’re looking for is about the McGraw kidnapping. It wouldn’t be an old file since he called only a few weeks ago. When did he turn off his phone and electricity here at the office?”

C.J. hated to admit that she didn’t know. “We’ve both been busy on separate cases. But he would have told me if he knew anything about the case.” He wouldn’t have kept something like that from her, she kept telling herself. And yet he hadn’t mentioned talking to the McGraw lawyer and her instincts told her that Boone McGraw wasn’t lying about that.

That Hank now wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell her hit her hard. Hank had been like family, her only family, and now he was gone. And she was only starting to realize how much Hank had been keeping from her.

She had to look away, not wanting Boone to see the shine of tears that burned her eyes. She wouldn’t break down. Especially in front of this cowboy.

“If Hank did know something about the case, would he have started a file?” the cowboy asked as he picked up a stack of files from the floor, straightened them and then stacked them on the edge of the desk.

“He would have written something down, I suppose.”

“But wouldn’t have started a file.”

C.J. sighed. “No, but you’re assuming a twenty-five-year-old kidnapping is what got him killed. It wasn’t the kind of case he worked. Not to mention that Butte is miles from Whitehorse, Montana. The chances that Hank knew anything about the kidnapping or the whereabouts of your sister, Jesse Rose—”

“Are slim. I agree. But I can’t discount it. He called our attorney. He knew something or he wouldn’t have done that. I don’t think he was curious and I don’t think you do, either.”

She wanted to argue. The cowboy brought that out in her. But she couldn’t. “Fine, let’s say he did know something.”

“So where are his notes?”

C.J. shot him a disbelieving glance as she raised her hands to take in the ransacked room. “Let me just grab them for you.”

“I’d be happy to help you look.”

“I don’t need your help,” she said. “For all I know, you’re the one who tore the place apart.”

“And then came back to confront you and pretend to look for my own file? How clever of me. If I couldn’t find it when this place wasn’t a mess, why would I think you could now?”

She saw the logic, but hated to admit it. “Or maybe you didn’t find what you were looking for and hope that I’ll find it for you.”

He grinned. “I admire the way your mind works, though I find it a little disturbing.”

C.J. bristled. Was he flirting with her?

“You really think I’m the killer cozying up to the partner? Pretty darned gutsy of me.” He shook his head. “Hit-and-run is a coward’s way of killing. Your killer wouldn’t have the guts to come waltzing in here and face you.” He had a point. “But don’t you want to call the cops and report the break-in before you destroy any more evidence?”

* * *

“I ALREADY CALLED THEM.”

Boone heard the anger in her voice as he noticed the old photographs framed on the walls. “They weren’t helpful?” he asked as he got up to inspect them with the flashlight on his cell phone. The snapshots were of the same man, Hank Knight, no doubt, with a variety of prominent men and women and even a couple of celebrities. From the looks of the photos they were old. Which meant Hank Knight had been doing this for years.

“The local cops, helpful?” C.J. let out a laugh. “They don’t believe the hit-and-run was murder because we normally don’t take those kinds of cases.”

“I would think any kind of case could turn violent under the wrong circumstances,” he said, turning from the photographs on the wall. “Look, I’m not leaving town until I get some answers. So what do you say? Let me at least help you look through the files. Other than one on the McGraw kidnapping, what are we looking for?”

She glanced up at him and her gaze softened a little toward him as he took off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his Western shirt. “Fine. While you’re looking for something on the kidnapping, keep an eye out for any recent entries, even in the old files.” She showed him what to look for on one of the files. “Hank had his own way of doing things.”

“I can see that,” Boone said as he scooped up more folders.

“We did work closely. Until recently. I did a lot of the legwork. I have to admit, the last few weeks... I hadn’t seen much of Hank.”

So, just as he’d guessed, she was looking for a needle in a haystack and had no idea what had gotten her partner killed. He dropped the folders on the desk next to the others and began going through them quickly. “I suppose you know from the news. One of the kidnappers was found. Dead, unfortunately, so one is still out there. But it’s put the kidnapping back in the news. More information was released. That’s why I assume your partner called. Also my brother Oakley’s been found, although that information hasn’t been released.”

She looked up in obvious surprise. “I thought the man who came forward proved to be a fraud?”

Boone nodded. “Vance Elliot was an impostor, but surprisingly he helped flush out my real biological brother. The news media doesn’t know about it because he doesn’t want the publicity, which I can’t blame him for. In fact, he wants nothing to do with my family. Another reason why I need to find Jesse Rose. Hopefully, she won’t break our father’s heart.”

* * *

THE NEWS TOOK C.J. by surprise. A son who wanted nothing to do with his family? The subject, though, appeared to be closed as he went back to work. Not that she wasn’t curious, but right now she had to find out who had wanted Hank dead.

Sometimes she forgot he was gone. She’d spent so many hours in this office with him growing up... She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. Hank had meant everything to her. The thought of him being gone... She pushed it away, telling herself she owed it to him to find his killer. That’s what she had to focus on right now. Later she would have time for grief, for regrets, for the pain that lay just beneath the surface.

She reached for more files from the floor, her fingers trembling. She stopped to squeeze her hands into fists for a moment. If there was one thing C.J. hated to show, it was any kind of weakness. Maybe especially to a man like Boone McGraw. She could look at the set of his jaw or gaze into those frosty blue eyes and she knew what kind of man he was. Stubbornly strong, like a tree that had lived through everything thrown at it for all its years. Just like Hank.

“It’s not here,” Boone said after an hour had passed. “Unless your partner didn’t write it down. Or if he did, whoever tore up this place took the information with him.”

With a sigh, C.J. carried a handful of case files over to one of the cabinets and set them inside just to get them out of the way. Files were everywhere. Then again, this was pretty normal for Hank’s office. He’d never been organized. It was one reason they’d never been able to share an office.

She took a moment before she turned to look at Boone McGraw. The cowboy took up a lot of space. The broad shoulders, the towering height—all that maleness culminated into one handsome, cocky cowboy. She bet most women swooned at his feet and was glad she wasn’t one of them.

“So we’re back to square one,” she said, sounding as discouraged as she felt. She’d looked through all of the files, including those that Boone had also looked through. Not only hadn’t she found anything about the McGraw kidnapping, she hadn’t seen any old case that might have gotten Hank killed.

“Not necessarily,” Boone said as he put both palms on the desk and leaned toward her. “Your partner knew something about the kidnapping. Hank Knight asked questions about Jesse Rose and an item that was taken from her crib the night she was kidnapped. His questions led our lawyer to believe Hank had knowledge about the crime and possibly where Jesse Rose is now. I think he got too close to the truth. Too close to the kidnapper’s accomplice. And if I’m right then you can help me prove it.”


Chapter Four (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

C.J. pulled up Hank’s old leather chair and dropped into it. She was too tired, too wrung out, too filled with grief to take on this cowboy. Nor could she see how she would be able to prove anything.

She pushed a stack of old files out of the way and dropped her elbows to the top of the scarred desk to rest her chin in her hands. She watched Boone McGraw pick up files and put them back into the filing cabinets. He was actually cleaning up the office. The sight would have made her laugh, if she’d had the energy.

What she needed was sleep. She hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since Hank’s death. She doubted she would tonight, but sitting here wasn’t helping. As she started to get up, she pushed off the desk only to have the worn top shift under her hands.

With a start she remembered something she’d seen Hank do when he was interrupted by a walk-in. Sitting back, she felt into the crack between the old oak desktop and the even older one beneath it. Hank had loved this desk and hadn’t been able to part with it even after one of his cigars had burned the original top badly. Rather than replace it, he’d simply covered it up.

She’d seen files disappear from view only to be retrieved later after a client left. Her fingers brushed against something that felt like the edge of a file folder. She worked it out, her heart leaping up into her throat as she saw the name printed on it in Hank’s neat script: McGraw.

“Did you find something?” Boone asked, stopping his organizing to step closer.

She looked up, having forgotten about him for a moment. When had Hank shoved this file into the crack? Who would have walked in that he didn’t want them to see it? Her heart began to pound. Until that moment, she had refused to believe that Hank would have taken the McGraw kidnapping case—let alone that it could have anything to do with getting him killed.

C.J. tried to remember the last time she’d stopped by Hank’s office. The thousands of times all melted together. Had he ever furtively hidden a file when she’d walked in? Had he the last time she saw him alive, just hours before he was struck down and killed?

Her fingers were trembling as she opened the file and saw that there was only one sheet of yellow lined notebook paper—the kind Hank always used. There were also only a few words written on it, several phone numbers and some doodling off to one side. She read the words: “Travers McGraw, Sundown Stallion Station, Whitehorse, Montana. Oakley, Jesse Rose, six months old. Stuffed toy horse. Pink ribbon. Pink grosgrain ribbon.”

* * *

BOONE HAD SEEN her expression when she’d pulled the manila file folder out from what appeared to be a crack between the new desktop and the old warped one. She’d found something that had made her pale.

“May I?” he asked again.

Silently, C.J. handed over the file, crossed her arms and watched as Boone opened it as if she’d known he was going to be disappointed.

“Where’s the rest of it?” he said after looking at the words written on the yellow-lined sheet of paper inside.

“That’s all there is.”

He could see that she was shaken by what she’d found. Not only had Hank started a file, he’d hidden it. That had to mean something given how the color had drained from her face and how shaken she still looked.

She started around the desk, bumped into him as she stumbled into an unstable stack of files. He caught her, his hands going around her slim waist as she clutched at him for a moment before she got her balance and pulled free. She headed toward a small door he hadn’t noticed before. As she opened it, he saw it was a compact bathroom.

Boone turned his attention back to the file as she closed the door. So Hank Knight had started a file. But if he’d found out anything, there was no indication of it. Maybe the man didn’t know anything about Jesse Rose. Maybe he was just curious.

Or maybe not, he realized as he stared at the notes the PI had taken. He’d known about the stuffed toy horse. But he’d also known about the pink ribbon around its neck—something that hadn’t been released to the press.

He studied the doodling on the side of the page. Hank had drawn a little girl with chin-length hair. His depiction of Jesse Rose from his imagination? Or his memory? Beside the girl, Hank had drawn what looked like a little dog.

A few moments later, he heard the toilet flush. C.J. came out drying her hands on a paper towel. He studied her for a moment. She seemed different somehow. She looked stronger, more assured. He realized she’d probably used the bathroom to get over the shock of finding the hidden file. But what about it had shaken her? The realization that he could be right?

“Did you ever have a dog?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He motioned to the file and the doodle on the side.

“You think that means something? Doesn’t every little girl have a dog?”

“Did you?” Boone waited patiently for her to answer.

“No, all right? If you must know, we lived in a building much like this one. The landlord didn’t allow dogs.”

“Hank doodled a dog. A girl with a dog. So there must be more than this,” he said, indicating the file.

She shook her head. “Talk about jumping to wild conclusions.” She picked up the flashlight from where she’d left it lying on the desk, the beam lighting most of the room, and shone it on the single sheet in the file.

“Hank had his own system. He numbered the pages in each file, keeping a running tally. It was his idea of organization. If you look on the back of the file, it shows how many papers are in each file. That way you can tell if anything is missing.”

“Your partner got his office broken into a lot?” Boone quipped.

“It’s the nature of the business,” she said offhandedly.

He turned the folder over. There was a one on the back. One sheet of paper inside. He looked up to see her headed for the door. “Wait a minute, where are you going?”

“Home to bed,” she said, after picking up three file folders from the desk where she’d stacked them earlier.

“That’s all you’re taking? Aren’t you even going to lock the office door?”

“What’s the point?” she said over her shoulder. “If there was anything in here worth stealing, it’s long gone now.”

Taking the McGraw file, he went after her, catching up to her at the stairs. “Look, Ms. West—”

“C.J.” She met his gaze. In the dim light of the naked bulb over the stairs, he noticed her eyes were a rich, warm brown, the same color as his favorite horse. “Yes?”

He realized he’d been staring. At least he had the sense not to voice his thoughts. He doubted she would appreciate her eye color being compared to that of his horse’s hide even if it was his favorite. “You should at least have my phone number, don’t you think?”

He started to reach for his wallet and his business card, but stopped when she smiled, a rather lopsided smile that showed definite amusement. “I already have it.” Reaching into her pocket, she brought out his wallet.

“You picked my pocket?” He couldn’t help the indignation in his tone. “What kind of private investigator are you?” he demanded, checking his wallet. His money and credit cards were still there. Now he knew what she’d been doing in the bathroom. All she’d apparently taken was his business card.

When he looked up, he saw pride glittering like fireworks in the rich brown of her eyes. “I’m the kind of PI who doesn’t take anything at face value. I’m also the kind who doesn’t work with amateurs, so this is where we part company. I’ll call if I find out anything about your sister or the kidnapping.” With that she turned and disappeared down the stairs.

He caught up with her at the street. “I’m not leaving town. If I have to, I’ll dog your every footstep.”

“As entertaining as that sounds—”

“I’m serious. I’ll stay out of your way, but you can’t keep me out of this.”

She smiled as if she could and would and climbed into an older-model yellow-and-white VW van. The engine revved. He thought about following her to see where she lived. But he wasn’t going to sit outside her residence all night to make sure she didn’t give him the slip in the morning. He couldn’t force her to help him anymore than he could make her keep him in the loop.

The woman was impossible, he thought as he climbed into his pickup and watched C.J. West drive away. A car a few vehicles away started up and left, as well. He glanced at it as it passed but didn’t notice the driver. His mind was on C.J. West.

He knew nothing about her. She, he feared, knew everything about him, or would soon. The entire story of his family’s lives for the past twenty-five years was on the internet.

Swearing, he reminded himself what was at stake. He couldn’t go home without good news for his father. Hank Knight had started a file. He thought of the brief file now lying on the seat next to him. “Pink ribbon. Pink grosgrain ribbon.”

It didn’t take much of a mental leap to come up with a pink ribbon since Oakley’s horse had a blue ribbon on it. If that information had gotten out, then... But pink grosgrain? Had their attorney Jim Waters released that information to the PI? Or had Hank already known about the toy stuffed horse and the key bit of information about the pink ribbon?

Now more than ever, Boone believed that Hank Knight had known something about the kidnapping. Had maybe even known where Jesse Rose was. Or at least suspected. And it might have gotten him killed.

One way or the other, Boone had no choice. He was staying in Butte and throwing in with this woman whether she liked it or not. He just hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it.


Chapter Five (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

C.J. closed her apartment door and leaned against it for a moment. Tonight, being in Hank’s office, she’d felt him as if he was there watching her, urging her on.

Tell me who killed you! she’d wanted to scream.

She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he’d left behind a clue. Some lead for her to follow that even whoever had ransacked the office wouldn’t get, but she would because she and Hank had been so close they could almost read each other’s mind.

Until recently. Lately he’d been secretive.

But did it have something to do with the McGraw kidnapping? Just because she’d found the file in Hank’s hiding place, it didn’t mean it was the last case he was working on. While she and Boone had found a couple of recent case files, neither of them had seemed like something that could get Hank killed. Then again, like Boone had said, any case could turn violent.

She’d tossed the three file folders from fairly recent cases of Hank’s on the kitchen table as she’d come into the apartment. Now she moved to them. Other than the McGraw file, there was one labeled Mabel Cross. Inside, she found a quick abbreviated version of Mabel’s problem. The woman suspected that her niece had taken an antique brooch of hers. But she also thought her daughter’s husband might have taken it. She had wanted Hank to find it and get it back.

The second file folder was labeled Fred Hanson. His pickup had been vandalized. He was pretty sure it was one of his neighbors since they’d been in a disagreement. He wanted to know which one of them was guilty.

The third case, Susan Roth Turner, suspected her husband might be having an affair.

C.J. sighed. None of those seemed likely to have gotten Hank killed. But she knew better than to rule them out since other than the McGraw file, they were his most recent cases and three of his last ones before he was to retire.

Moving to the refrigerator, she poured herself a glass of red wine and headed for the couch. This was the hardest part of her day. As long as she was busy taking care of all the arrangements for Hank’s funeral, tying up loose ends with their business dealings and looking for his killer, she could keep the grief away.

But it was moments like this that it hit her like a tidal wave, drowning her in the pain and regret. Hank had taught her everything about the private eye business from the time she was old enough to see over the top of his big desk. Her mother had worked in the building back in those days and C.J. used to wander the halls, always ending up in Hank’s office.

He’d pretended that her visits were a bother, but she’d known he hadn’t meant it. He’d started bringing her a treat, an apple, a banana or an orange, saying she should have something healthy. He’d always join her, pushing aside a case file to sit down and talk with her. Even extinguishing his cigar so the smoke didn’t bother her.

From the time she was little, she loved listening to him talk about the cases he was working on. He never mentioned names. But he loved discussing them with her. She had seen how much he loved his job, how much he loved helping people. He’d hooked her on the PI business. All she’d ever wanted was to be just like him.

Hank had loved it all, especially solving mysteries that seemed impossible to solve. He was good at his job and often worked for little or nothing, depending on how much his clients could afford.

Sometimes we’re all a person has, he used to tell her. They need help and everyone else has turned them down.

So how was it that he’d gotten himself killed?

Exhausted, still grief stricken and feeling as if she was in over her head, she wandered into the bedroom to drop onto the bed. She desperately needed sleep, but she picked up her laptop because she had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of Boone McGraw.

Within minutes she was caught up on the latest information that had been released to the press about the twenty-five-year-old kidnapping as well as what she could find out about Boone. The more she read about the kidnapping, the more she worried that he was right and Hank had discovered something about the case that had gotten him killed.

She didn’t want to believe it. What could he have found out that had put him in such danger? She recalled something Boone had said and dug her cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans.

“Can’t sleep?” Boone said in answer to her call.

“You said something earlier about this Vance Elliot turning out not to be Oakley McGraw. He must have had some kind of proof to make you think he was the missing son.”

“He had my little brother’s stuffed horse.”

She lay back on the bed. “What made you think it was the same horse?”

“It had a blue ribbon tied around it and some of the stitching was missing. Oakley never slept without it in his crib.”

“So how did he just happen to have this horse, if he wasn’t the real Oakley McGraw?”

“It’s a long story, but basically, someone had picked up the horse as a souvenir at the crime scene and later decided to use it to get money out of my father.”

“So you have no idea who in the house helped the kidnapper take the twins? What about the nanny who became your stepmother? She seems the perfect suspect. I just read that she might be released from jail until her trial for attempted murder.”

“Suspect, yes. But for trying to kill my father, not for the kidnapping.”

Exhaustion pulled at her. She could hardly keep her eyes open. “So they were fraternal twins, right? Six months old.” She was thinking of what Hank had written in the file. “I’m assuming your sister also had a stuffed horse toy in her crib that was taken that night? One with a pink ribbon.”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes, seeing the yellow lined paper and the words pink ribbon written in Hank’s even script. Pink grosgrain ribbon. “Was there anything about the ribbon around its neck released to the media?”

“No. There was nothing about it being a pink grosgrain ribbon.”

“That’s the kind that has the ridges, right? The lawyer must have mentioned it to Hank—”

“I’m sure he provided information about the kidnapping to Knight Investigations, but not that,” Boone said. “Hank knew something before he made the call. Otherwise why would he have contacted our family lawyer with questions about Jesse Rose?”

Good question. Unfortunately, C.J. had no idea. But her gut instinct told her that Boone was right. Hank had already known all about the kidnapping twenty-five years ago. For some reason, he had followed the case closely all these years.

But if he’d kept anything in writing, she hadn’t found it. Yet.

“I’m going to the police station in the morning to find out more about Hank’s death,” Boone said.

“Good luck with that.” She hung up and rolled over, too tired to get undressed. And yet her thoughts refused to let her sleep.

Was there more information Hank had hidden somewhere? Why wasn’t the information in the file? Because he knew enough to know he was in danger?

If this was about the McGraw kidnapping, had Hank gotten too close to the truth? But wouldn’t that mean that he had inside knowledge? Wasn’t the fear that Hank had inside information and that was what had her running scared now?

She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing. Had Hank already known about the pink ribbon? Or had the attorney told him? Either way, Hank had written it down. He’d also told the attorney that he had to go out of town. But he hadn’t. Or had he?

She thought of Boone McGraw. He’d seen the words pink grosgrain ribbon in Hank’s scrawl. He’d known then that Hank knew more than he had told the lawyer. Why hadn’t the cowboy said something then?

Because he was holding out on her. Just like she was on him.

She felt a shiver and pulled the quilt over her. If Hank had known where to find Jesse Rose, then he would have told the McGraw lawyer, she told herself. Unless...unless he had something to hide.

Her eyes felt as if someone had kicked sand into them. She closed them and dropped like a stone into a bottomless well of dark, troubled sleep.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Boone stopped by the police station and after waiting twenty minutes, was led to a Detective Branson’s desk. The man sitting behind it could have been a banker. He wore a suit, tie and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked nothing like a cop, let alone a detective.

As Boone took a seat, he said, “I’m Boone—”

“McGraw. Son of Travers McGraw. I know. You told my desk clerk. That’s why you’re sitting where you are when I’m so busy.”

He was used to his father’s name opening doors. “I’m inquiring about a private investigator by the name of—”

“Hank Knight. He’s dead.” He looked back at the stack of papers on his desk, then up again. He seemed surprised Boone was still sitting there.

“Can you tell me under what circumstance—”

“Hit-and-run. Given the time of night, not that surprising, and in front of a bar.” The cop shrugged as if it happened all the time.

Boone could see why C.J. hadn’t been happy after talking to the cops. “So you think it was an accident?”

Branson leaned back in his chair, his expression one of tired impatience even this early in the morning. “What else?”

“Murder.”

The detective laughed. “Obviously you didn’t know Hank or you wouldn’t even ask that question. Hit-and-run accident. Case closed.”

“Surely you’re investigating it.”

“Of course,” Branson said. “Right along with all the other crimes that go on in this city. Why the interest?”

Boone could see that the hit-and-run was low priority. He thought about mentioning the kidnapping case. For twenty-five years anyone who heard the name would instantly tie it to the kidnapping. It had been a noose around his neck from the age of five.

“His partner believes it was murder.”

“C.J. West?” He sneered as if that also answered his earlier question. The detective thought this was about him and the private eye?

“She has reason to believe it wasn’t an accident,” he said.

“PIs,” Branson said and shook his head. “They just want to be cops. Trust me, it was an accident. So unless you know different, I have to be in court in twenty minutes...”

The detective went back to his paperwork. Boone rose. On his way out the door, he called C.J. on the number she’d called him from last night. “You were right about the cops.”

“You doubted me?”

“My mistake.” He could hear traffic sounds in the background on her end of the line.

“Think you can find the Greasy Spoon Café around the corner from the cop shop?” she asked.


Chapter Six (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

“You call this breakfast?” Boone McGraw said as he looked down at his plate thirty minutes later.

He’d had no trouble finding the small hole-in-the-wall café. This part of uptown Butte hung onto the side of a mountain with steep streets and over hundred-year-old brick buildings, many of them empty. The town’s heyday had been in the early 1920s when it was the largest city west of the Mississippi. It had rivaled New York and Chicago. But those days were only a distant memory except for the ornate architecture.

“They’re pasties,” C.J. said of the meat turnover smothered with gravy congealing on his plate. “Butte is famous for them.” She took another bite, chewing with obvious enjoyment. “Back when Butte mining was booming, workers came from around the world. Immigrants from Cornwall needed something easy to eat in the mines.” She pointed at the pasty with her fork. “The other delicacy Butte takes credit for is the boneless deep-fat-fried pork chop sandwich.”

“Butte residents don’t live long, I would imagine,” he quipped. “When in Butte, Montana...” He poked at the pasty lying under the gravy. It appeared to have meat and small pieces of potato inside. He took a tentative bite. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t what he considered breakfast.

He watched her put away hers. The woman had a good appetite, not that it showed on her figure. She was slightly built and slim but nicely rounded in all the right places, he couldn’t help but notice. She ate with enthusiasm, something he found refreshing.

As he took another bite of his pasty, he studied her, trying to get a handle on who he was dealing with. There was something completely unpretentious about her, from her lack of makeup to the simple jean skirt, leggings, sweater and calf-high boots she wore. Her copper-red hair was pulled back in a loose braid that trailed down her back.

She looked more like an elementary school teacher than a private investigator. Because she was so slight in stature it was almost deceiving. But her confidence and determination would have made any man think twice before taking her on. Not to mention the gun he suspected was weighing down the shoulder bag she had on the chair next to her.

“What does the ‘C.J.’ stand for?” he asked between bites.

She wrinkled her nose and, for a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to tell him. “Calamity Jane,” she said with a sigh. “My father was a huge fan of Western history apparently.”

“You never knew him?”

With a shake of her head, she said, “He died when I was two.”

“Is your mother still...?”

“She passed away years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hank was my family.” Her voice broke. Eyes shiny with tears, she looked away for a moment before returning to her breakfast. He did the same.

A few minutes later, she scraped the last bite of gravy and crust up, ate it and pushed her plate away. Elbows on the table, she leaned toward him and dropped her voice, even though the café was so noisy, he doubted anyone could hear their conversation where they sat near the doorway.

Her brown eyes, he noticed, were wide and flecked with gold. A faint sprinkling of freckles dotted her nose and her cheekbones. He had the urge to count them for no good reason other than to avoid the intensity of those brown eyes. It was as if she could see into him a lot deeper than he let anyone go, especially a woman.

“Tell me more about the kidnapping case,” she said, giving him her full attention. “Don’t leave anything out.”

He took a drink of his coffee to collect his errant thoughts and carefully set down the mug. Last night she’d been so sure that the kidnapping case couldn’t be what had gotten her partner killed. He wondered what had changed her mind—if that was the case.

“We all lived on the Sundown Stallion Station ranch, where my father raised horses. I was five. My older brother, Cull, was seven, Ledger was three. We had a nanny—”

“Patricia Owen, later McGraw after she became your father’s second wife and allegedly tried to kill him,” she said.

He nodded. “Patty stayed across the hall from the nursery. She heard a noise or something woke her. Anyway, according to her, she went to check on the twins and found them missing. When she saw the window open and a ladder leaning against the outside of the house, she started screaming and woke everyone up. The sheriff was called, then the FBI. A day later there was a ransom demand made. My father sold our prized colt to raise the money.”

“Why wasn’t the kidnapper caught when the ransom was paid?” she asked.

“The drop was made in a public place, but a fire broke out in a building close by. Suddenly the street was filled with fire trucks. In the confusion, somehow the kidnapper got away with the money without being seen.”

She shook her head. “Who made the drop?”

“The family attorney, Jim Waters.”

C.J. raised a brow. “Isn’t he the one who was also arrested trying to leave the country with a bunch of money and has also been implicated in your father’s poisoning?”

Boone nodded, seeing that she knew a lot more than she was letting on. “But so far no charges have been filed against him in the poisoning and there is no proof he was involved in the kidnapping. We now know that Harold Cline, a boyfriend of our cook, climbed the ladder that night and got away with the twins. The person who hasn’t been found is the one who it is believed administered codeine cough syrup to the twins to keep them quiet during the ordeal and passed them out the window to the first kidnapper.”

“What about the broken rung on the ladder?” she asked.

“It was speculated that the kidnapper might have fallen or dropped the babies, but we now know that didn’t happen. The babies were alive and fine when they were found by our family cook and taken to—”

“The Whitehorse Sewing Circle member Pearl Cavanaugh. Wasn’t she or her mother the one who started the illegal adoptions through this quilt group years ago?”

C.J. had definitely done her homework. He figured she must have been up before daylight. Either that or she had known more about the case than she’d led him to believe last night.

“That’s right. Unfortunately, they’re pretty much all dead, including Pearl.”

“So there is no record of what happened to the twins,” she said and picked up her coffee mug, holding it in both hands as she slowly took a sip.

“In light of what we learned from our family cook before she died, the babies probably went to parents who couldn’t have children and were desperate,” he said.

“I can’t imagine how they couldn’t have known about the kidnapping. So in their desperation, they pretended not to know that the child they were adopting was a McGraw baby? Didn’t Oakley’s and Jesse Rose’s photos run nationally? So no one could have missed seeing them.”

He nodded. “It makes sense that whoever got each of the twins knew. We’ve been led to believe that the adoptive parents were told the twins weren’t safe in our house.”

She put down her cup, her brown-eyed gaze lifting to his. “Because of your mother’s condition.”

He thought of his mother in the mental ward, the vacant stare in her green eyes as she rocked with two dolls clutched in her arms. “We now believe that her condition was the result of arsenic poisoning. It causes—”

“Confusion, memory loss, depression... The same symptoms your father was experiencing before his heart attack. Patty’s doing is the assumption? So you’re saying your mother probably wasn’t involved.”

He met her gaze and shrugged. “In her state of mind at the time of the kidnapping, who knows? But she definitely didn’t run down your partner. She’s still in the mental ward. And neither did Patty, who is still behind bars.”

C.J. bit at her lower lip for a moment. He couldn’t help noticing her mouth, the full bow-shaped lips, the even white teeth, just the teasing tip of her pink tongue before he dragged his gaze away. This snip of a woman could be damned distracting.

“You said Oakley has been found?”

That wasn’t information she could have found on the internet. “He has refused to take a DNA test, but my father is convinced that the cowboy is Oakley. He owns a ranch in the area. Apparently he’s known the truth for years, but didn’t want to get his folks into trouble. They’ve passed now, but he still isn’t interested in coming out as the infamous missing twin. Nor does he have an interest in being a McGraw.”

She raised a brow. “That must be both surprising and disappointing if it’s true and he’s your brother.”

“It’s harder on my father than the rest of us. He’s been through so much. All he wants is his family together.”

She said nothing, but her eyes filled before she looked down as the waitress came over to refill their coffee cups.

* * *

C.J. STUDIED BOONE while he was distracted with the waitress refilling his cup. She’d known her share of cowboys since this was Montana—Butte to be exact. Cowboys were always wandering in off the range—and usually getting into trouble and needing either a private investigator or a bail bondsman. She and Hank had been both.

But this cowboy seemed different. He’d been through a lot because of the kidnapping. He wasn’t the kind of man a person could get close to. Last night she’d noticed that he didn’t wear a wedding ring. This morning online, she’d discovered that only one of the McGraw sons, Ledger, the youngest one, had made the walk to the altar.

“You drove a long way yesterday,” she said after a few moments. “Seems strange if all you had to go on was Hank asking a few questions about the kidnapping and Jesse Rose.”

He pushed away his plate, his pasty only half-eaten. “I quizzed the attorney when he told me about the private investigator calling. Truthfully, I figured this whole trip would turn out to be a wild-goose chase.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because my father asked me and because our attorney said that Hank Knight sounded...worried.”

Her pulse quickened. “Worried?”

Boone met her gaze with his ice-blue one. “I think he knew something. I think that’s why he’s dead.” When she didn’t argue the point, he continued. “From what you found last night, we know that he knew more about the ribbon on the stuffed toy horse than has been released.”

“Why would he keep that information to himself?” she asked more to herself than to him.

“Good question. He told our attorney that he had to take a trip and would be out of town,” Boone reminded her. “Makes sense he’d want to verify what he was worried about, doesn’t it?”

It did. “Except I don’t think he left town.”

“Or maybe he had a good reason not to want me following up on it.”

She bristled. “Hank was the most honest man I’ve ever known. If he knew where Jesse Rose was, he would have told your family.”

“Maybe. Unless someone stopped him first.”


Chapter Seven (#ud8aa55e5-1064-5278-937c-b2e70e3406a8)

After he paid the bill, they stepped outside the café. The morning air had a bite to it although the sky was a cloudless blue overhead. He was glad he’d grabbed his sheepskin-lined leather coat before he’d left home. Plowed dirty snow melted in the gutters from the last storm. Christmas wasn’t that far off. There was no way Butte wouldn’t have a white Christmas.

“What do you know about Butte?” C.J. asked as she started to walk up the steep sidewalk.

He shook his head as he followed her, wondering why she’d called him. Was she going to help him find out the truth? Or was she just stringing him along?

“What most Montanans know, I guess. It’s an old copper mining boomtown and we’re standing on what became known as the Richest Hill on Earth,” he said. “It is now home to the Berkeley Pit, the most costly of the largest Superfund sites and a huge hole full of deadly water.”

He saw that she didn’t like him talking negatively about her hometown and realized he would have taken exception if she’d said anything negative about Whitehorse, too.

“Why are you asking me about Butte? What does this have to do with Hank or—”

“Butte was one of the largest and most notorious copper boomtowns in the West with hundreds of saloons and a famous red-light district.”

Butte hadn’t lived down its reputation as a rough, wide-open town. He’d heard stories about the city’s famous red-light and saloon district called the Copper Block on Mercury Street. Many of the buildings that had once housed the elegant bordellos still stood.

“The first mines here were gold and silver—and underground,” she continued. “They say there is a network of old mine tunnels like a honeycomb under the city.”

“Where are you going with this, C.J.?”

“Hank loved this town and he knew it like the back of his hand.”

Boone often wondered how many people actually knew the back of their hand well, but he didn’t say so. “Your point?”

“He believed in helping people. Often those people couldn’t pay for his services, but that never stopped him. You’ve seen his office. He wouldn’t have been interested in your family kidnapping case. It wasn’t something he would have taken on.”

“Then how do you explain the fact that he knew about the ribbon?”

“Maybe the attorney told him. Look, there was only one sheet of paper in the file. Hank might have been curious given the latest information that’s come out about the kidnapping. But he wouldn’t have pursued it. Which means if not an older case, then one of his more recent ones has to be what got him killed. I need to investigate those. I’m sure you have better things to do—”

He didn’t believe her. All his instincts told him that she wanted him to believe Hank hadn’t known anything about the kidnapping. She was scared that he had. And maybe even more afraid because he hadn’t told her.

So she was going to chase a few of Hank’s last cases? He’d seen her take three files last night. “Fine, but you aren’t getting rid of me, because once you exhaust your theory, we’re going to get serious and find out what Hank knew about the McGraw kidnapping and Jesse Rose.”

“Fine, suit yourself. I’m going to visit Mabel Cross and see if her brooch has turned up.”

Boone shook his head. “Seriously?”

“As Hank used to say, there are no unimportant cases.” She headed for her VW van. He cursed under his breath, but followed and climbed in the passenger side. She was wasting her time and his. But he needed her help and antagonizing her wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he told himself as he climbed into the passenger seat of her van.

“So we’re going to pay a visit to these people?” he asked, picking up the three case files she’d taken from Hank’s office last night as she slid behind the wheel. “Tell me we aren’t going underground.” He didn’t want to admit that one of his fears was being trapped underground. The idea of some old mine shaft turned his blood to ice.

She laughed. “I’m afraid we are. So to speak,” C.J. said and started the engine.

The buildings they passed were old, most of them made of brick or stone with lots of gingerbread ornamentation. He recalled that German bricklayers had rushed to Butte during its heyday from the late 1800s to the early 1920s.

Nothing about Butte, Montana, let you forget it had been a famous mining town—and still was, he thought as they passed streets with names like Granite, Quartz, Aluminum, Copper—and Caledonia.

As she drove C.J. waved or nodded to people they passed. He couldn’t tell if she was just friendly or knew everyone in town. On Iron Street, she pulled to the curb, cut the engine and climbed out. As she headed for an old pink-and-purple Victorian, he decided he might as well go with her.

Glancing around the neighborhood, he took in the historical homes and tried to imagine this city back in 1920. From photos he’d seen, the streets had swarmed with elegantly dressed residents. Quite a contrast to the homeless he’d seen now in doorways.

C.J. was already to the door and had knocked by the time he climbed the steps to the porch. The door opened and he looked up to find an elderly woman leaning on a cane. “Mrs. Cross,” C.J. said. “I’m Hank Knight’s associate.”

“Hank.” The woman’s free hand went to her mouth. “So tragic. If you’re here about his funeral—”

“No, I’m inquiring about your brooch. I wanted to be sure Hank had found it before—”

“Oh yes, dear,” she said and touched an ugly lion studded with rhinestones pinned to her sweater. “Silly me. I feel so badly now to have thought my niece or my daughter’s husband might have taken it and all the time it was on this sweater in the closet. I told Hank. I suppose he didn’t get a chance to tell you before... He was so loved.” She sniffed. “You’ll be at his funeral, I assume.”

“Of course. I’m just glad you found your brooch.” C.J. turned and headed for the van.

Boone wanted to point out what a waste of time that had been, but one look at her face when she climbed behind the wheel and he bit his tongue. “When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.” She started the van, biting at her lower lip as if to stanch the tears that brimmed in her eyes.

As she pulled out on the street, he saw her glance in the rearview mirror and then make a quick turn down a side street. “So do we check on these other two cases?” he asked picking up the file folders.

“I already called Fred Hanson this morning. Hank got the neighbor to admit he did it and pay restitution.”

Boone couldn’t help being impressed. Who had this Hank Knight been to have such a devoted following, including C.J. herself?

“I also drove by the Turner house earlier this morning.”

“The cheating husband case,” he said.

“The husband’s clothing was in the yard.”

“Another case solved by Hank Knight. So are you ready to accept that he might have been involved in my family’s case?”

She said nothing. On Mercury Street, she stopped in front of a large redbrick building and, cutting the engine, climbed out.

“The Dumas Brothel?” he asked, seeing the visitor sign in the window as he hurried after her.

“One of Hank’s best friends works here,” she said as she opened the door and stepped in.

He followed, wondering if she wasn’t leading him on a wild-goose chase this morning, hoping he’d give up and leave town.

It was cool and dimly lit inside the brothel museum. The older woman who appeared took one look at C.J. and disappeared into the back. Surely C.J. didn’t plan on taking him on a tour.

But before he could ask, she turned and went to the front window. He could see her pain just below the surface and reminded himself that her partner had been killed only days ago. He didn’t kid himself when it came to her priorities. She was looking for Hank’s murderer—not Jesse Rose.

But if he was right, then it would lead them to the same place.

As he studied her, he couldn’t help but wonder what she would do when she found the murderer.

An elderly man came into the room and C.J. turned and said, “Can we go out the back?”

Without a word, the man led them through the building and the next thing Boone knew, he was standing in a narrow alley surrounded by tall old brick buildings.

“What was that all about?” he demanded. He had expected her to at least ask the man about her partner or his death.

“Someone’s following us,” she said as she led him into another building, this one apparently abandoned. A few moments later, they spilled out into a dark narrow alley. “This way.”

Boone followed her through the alley between two towering old brick buildings before she dropped down some short stairs and ducked into a doorway. He stopped to look back and saw no one.





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