Rawley (Men of Clifton, Montana #56)

Chapter One

Agent Rawley Bowman leaned against the brushed metal wall of the elevator, holding a steaming cup of black coffee.

He took a tentative sip as the polished brass doors slid open with a soft chime, and a woman in a crisp navy pantsuit stepped inside.

He touched the brim of his white Stetson when she looked at him with curious hazel eyes.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft.

“Morning,” he replied.

“Do you work in the building?” She fidgeted with a pearl earring.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m a livestock agent. This is my floor.” He straightened when the elevator jerked to a stop and the doors whooshed open with a mechanical sigh; he nodded at the woman. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Thank you. You do the same.” Her smile revealed a small dimple in her left cheek.

“Yes, ma’am.” He stepped out onto the beige marble floor, walked across the sun-dappled hall to the glass door of The Montana Department of Livestock, entered, then strode to his cluttered desk.

He nodded at each agent he passed, most buried in paperwork or hunched over ringing phones. Thank God it was Friday.

When he got to his desk, he set the Styrofoam cup down on a ring-stained coaster, removed his hat and hung it on the tarnished brass hat rack behind him.

He pulled his creaky chair out, sat down with a soft grunt, turned on the computer that whirred to life, and looked through cases.

He shook his head when he saw five more were added since Monday, each folder thicker than the last.

“Rawley.” The voice cut through the office buzz.

Glancing up, he saw his boss, Dave Merkle, at his office door, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Yes, sir?”

“In here, please.” Dave’s weathered face was unreadable.

Rawley sighed, pushed his chair back with a squeak, stood and walked to Dave’s office. He saw Dave wave him inside, and Rawley opened the door then took a seat on the leather sofa in the office.

“What did I do?” Rawley asked, running a hand through his hair.

Dave chuckled, crow’s feet deepening around his eyes.

“Nothing. This time. I have a case for you.” He slid a bright yellow Post-it note across the mahogany desk.

Rawley got up, walked to the desk, picked it up, and read the hastily scrawled address, the blue ink smudged at the edges. He looked at Dave, brow furrowed.

“Why does this address sound familiar?”

“It’s The Mitchell Ranch.” Dave leaned back in his chair, which protested with a squeal.

Rawley looked at Dave. “Preston?”

“Yep. Twenty head of cattle are missing. They discovered the fence down about an hour ago and did a head count. They came up twenty short. A big section of fence was down; posts snapped like toothpicks. Had to be one big trailer or more than one.”

“Alright. I’ll head out there.” Rawley folded the note into his shirt pocket.

“You be damn careful,” Dave said, his eyes narrowing with concern.

“I’m always careful.” Rawley opened the door, then strode to his desk.

He grabbed his hat off the rack, settled it on his head, then walked out of the office to the elevator.

When the doors opened with that same soft chime, he stepped inside and realized he had left his coffee on his desk, but he wasn’t going back for it. He was done with it anyway.

Dust particles danced in the morning sun as Rawley slid behind the wheel of his Chevy Silverado. The engine growled to life when he turned the key. He eased the truck out of the parking lot, grit crunching beneath the tires, and headed down the road toward Preston Mitchell’s ranch.

By the time he rolled up to the wide double doors of the main barn, the sun was setting higher, and he knew it was going to be a hot August day.

He killed the engine, and the sudden quiet pressed in, only the low murmurs of cattle and the distant creak of a windmill punctuated the air.

Rawley climbed out, dust puffing from his boots, and peered around the open yard.

No one stirred, so he pushed through the barn doors.

Inside, the smell of hay and manure hit him first. Strands of dry straw lay scattered along the wide center aisle, barn cats slipped away into shadow, and the beams overhead groaned as he walked. He let his eyes adjust, then strode forward, the soles of his boots scuffing against the cement floor.

“Is there something I can help you with?” A familiar drawl called from somewhere ahead.

Rawley’s shoulders relaxed. He spotted Arch Baldwin stepping out of the shadows, a broad-shouldered man in a faded T-shirt and scuffed cowboy boots, wiping his hands on a rag as he stepped forward. When Arch saw him, his grin matched Rawley’s.

“I doubt it,” Rawley teased.

Arch closed the distance, chuckling as he reached out. “Rawley. I couldn’t make out who you were in the dark.” They shook hands. “How you been doing?”

“Good enough.” Rawley shrugged a shoulder. “You?”

“Busy,” Arch said, glancing down the barn’s center aisle. “You here about the missing cattle?”

“Yeah. Who found the fence broken?”

“Whip did. He’s in the other barn, said he’ll show you where.” Arch smiled and flicked a clip on his belt. A walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Hey, Whip, mid-barn, please.” He replaced the radio and looked back at Rawley. “Bet he thinks he’s in trouble.”

Rawley snorted. “Hell, I know that feeling. Whenever my boss calls me in, I’m sweating for what I did wrong.”

“That’s practically your full-time job,” Arch shot back, grin widening.

“Hey, Rawley,” a male voice said.

Rawley saw Duncan Lowry walking toward him and put his hand out to him. Duncan shook it, then he crossed his arms over his T-shirt.

A young man in a straw Stetson and dusty jeans hurried in, his boots throwing up small clouds of straw dust.

“Whip, this is Agent Rawley Bowman with MDOL. Can you show him the spot?”

“Sure thing, sir.” Whip straightened, shoulders square and fell into step beside Rawley.

Rawley shook Arch’s hand and Duncan’s again as he led Whip outside. He nodded toward his truck. Whip clambered in the passenger side, already scanning the horizon. Rawley circled the tailgate, opened the driver’s door, and settled in behind the wheel.

“Head through that gate, then I’ll point you down to the fence,” he said, pointing to where a metal gate was open. Whip exhaled a sigh. “I bet they used the road.”

“Could have,” Rawley agreed.

They rumbled through the gate and bounced over deep ruts as Rawley steered toward the fence line. He saw broken posts and tangled wire half a mile ahead. Dust rose behind them in a billowing cloud as he hunted down the answer to the missing cattle.

“Right there,” Whip said, jabbing a finger toward the mangled fence line where posts jutted from the earth at unnatural angles.

Rawley gazed through the windshield. “Damn. They really tore it apart. It looks like a tornado hit it.”

“Yeah, they did. There are some huge tire tracks, deep in the soft ground.”

“You didn’t step in them, did you?” Rawley asked.

“No, sir. I knew not to. I just walked to this side of the fence and looked from the perimeter. The cedar posts are just snapped off like matchsticks. Mr. Mitchell was furious when he saw it.”

Rawley grinned. “I know Preston. I’m sure he’s upset.”

Whip laughed. “He turned the air blue for a good five minutes.”

“That sounds like him. I’ll talk to him when we get back to the barn.” Rawley eased the truck to a stop a few feet short of the downed fence, dirt crunching under the tires. “I need to document this properly.” He reached for the door handle.

“Can I get out? I won’t disturb anything.”

“Sure. Just stay back here by the truck.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rawley grabbed his phone, a few evidence bags, and a heavy-duty flashlight. He squinted against the morning sun as he pulled on a pair of plastic gloves, surveying the trampled field through the camera on his phone, the click-click-click of the shutter punctuating the silence.

He sensed Whip’s presence before he saw him, the crunch of boots on dry grass, the faint scent of cigarettes and coffee. Whip stopped beside him, his hat pulled low over his face.

“See how the tall grass is bent?” Rawley pointed to the grass section leaning over.

“Yeah.” Whip grunted, squinting at the pattern.

“They crashed through here first.” Rawley pointed at the fence.

“Tore the fence posts clean out, made a wide arc, then stopped right about where the grass is matted flat. That’s where they rounded up the cattle.

” He pointed toward the area. “Then they drove back out, but see how the tire tracks curve right? Different sections of fence altogether, posts snapped at the base instead of pulled out.”

“How can you tell all that?” Whip’s eyebrows furrowed.

“The fence tells the story.” Rawley knelt, running his fingers along the splintered wood.

“Metal’s bent two different ways. One curve for coming in, another for going out.

The ones he hit on the way out were by accident.

He was trying to stay on the same tracks, but maybe the truck slid a little, or he wasn’t paying attention, but he swerved enough to pull the posts out.

I’d bet it had a cattle guard on the front too. ”

“Why?”

“Less damage to the truck going through anything; fence posts, animals, and whatever else is in its way.”

Rawley straightened, the beam glided up through swaying stalks of tall grass until something gleamed in a dappled patch of morning light. Pushing aside blades, he edged forward, careful not to dislodge more tracks, until he crouched over a closed pocketknife half-buried in damp earth.

He took his phone out, snapped several photos of it, then picked it up and opened the blade. The leather-wrapped handle was caked brown, but the steel blade peeked out clean and silver. After taking photos of the blade, he closed it and put the knife in a bag.