Chapter Two
As Hud watched her taillights disappear down Main Street, he stood there a moment longer than he needed to. The scent of her floral perfume still lingered.
He turned back toward Dewey’s. One more beer, then home.
It had been a long time since he’d been on an actual date.
Two years, three months and fourteen days, to be exact.
The manila folders back at the department were stacked higher than a hay bale, but he was determined to finish Rawley’s case.
They’d gotten a confession out of one of the men, but the second suspect sat stone-faced and wasn’t giving them anything.
And Rawley was still healing, still coming in looking like a man held together with sheer stubbornness, his collapsed lung and two broken ribs making every breath a quiet battle.
Hud grinned thinking about Rawley walking into the office three weeks after the shooting, face still showing cuts from tree bark, demanding to be put back on the case.
Dave hadn’t wanted him doing more than shuffling papers, which Rawley made clear he was unhappy about, but Hud had promised to keep him in the loop with daily calls.
He trusted Rawley with his life and Rawley trusted him the same way, a bond built over years of stake-outs and close calls.
Hud would do everything he could to get to the people behind the theft of Preston Mitchell’s prize Black Angus cattle.
Twenty-head, worth nearly a hundred thousand dollars.
There were days he asked himself why he kept at it.
Tracking stolen livestock across a state this size, following faint hoofprints through thorned brush on cold nights, wondering if the trail would ever lead anywhere worth following.
The job wore on a man. But then he’d hand a relieved rancher the reins of a recovered mare, or watch a worried homesteader cradle a reunited lamb, and the hard miles and bruised pride fell away. That was enough.
Pulling open the door to Dewey’s, he was greeted by the low murmur of conversation and the warm glow of lanterns swinging from rough-hewn beams. Aged oak and spilled whiskey drifted around him.
His stool was taken so he settled onto the next one over and gave Dixie a nod.
Her red hair caught the lantern light as she tilted a brass spigot over a frosted mug, steady and sure, not a drop escaping the brim.
She set it before him with a gentle clink. “Here you go, Hud. Cold enough for you?” Her eyes sparkled with teasing warmth.
He tipped the mug in salute and let the frothy head brush his upper lip. “Perfect. How’s Logan?”
“Busy as ever, but he’ll be here soon.”
“Can’t stay away from you, huh?”
She folded her arms on the bar and leaned in. “I think it’s the other way around.”
Hud chuckled. “I wouldn’t argue.”
She tapped the bar. “Shout if you need anything.” With a final grin she moved on down the line, her laughter weaving through the crowd.
He swiveled on his stool and took in the room. Ranch hands, drifters, townsfolk gossiping in tight clusters. The place was packed for a Friday.
He was glad he’d come in tonight. Blair had been a surprise.
Dark hair like silk over her shoulders, eyes so dark they looked bottomless.
Her sky-blue blouse had stood out against the deep mahogany of the bar.
His heart gave a sudden lurch at the memory.
He didn’t do attachments, never had, but something about her quiet confidence and the thoughtful way she’d watched the room had gotten under his skin.
He’d never felt the pull to settle down.
Yet sitting here under Dewey’s amber lights, he wanted to know more about her.
He lifted his mug and took another slow sip when the trio drifted toward him, boots squeaking on the worn floor. Their collars were starched, jeans too neat. Hud doubted any of them had ever cracked a saddle. They stopped in front of him, shifting from foot to foot, sizing him up.
The tallest crossed his arms. “Evening.”
Hud raised an eyebrow, mug half lifted. “What can I do for you boys?”
The shortest huffed. “We’re not boys.”
Hud set his beer down deliberately, the glass leaving a pale ring on the bar. “Oh? What would you call yourselves?”
“We’re twenty-one. We’re men.” The word came out like a challenge.
He bit back a grin. “Age doesn’t make you a man. A real man knows when a lady isn’t interested and takes the hint. He doesn’t prance around acting the fool.”
The tallest scowled. “You calling us fools?”
“You said it, friend.” Hud’s voice was calm but carried steel.
Another snickered. “Old man—”
Hud was on his feet before the kid finished. Bar stools scraped and conversations dipped to silence around them. “Be very careful. I may be older, but I’m plenty capable of teaching you all some manners. You don’t want to go down that road with me.”
Their bravado crumbled into uneasy laughter. “So, she didn’t go home with you? What’s that say about you?”
Hud folded his arms. “That I behaved like a gentleman and walked her to her car.” He let that sit for a moment and picked up his mug and finished the last of his beer. “Next time, be a little less cocky. Women can see right through it.”
He paid and walked out into the cool night air. The temperature had dropped in just the past hour. He climbed into his Silverado, started it up and pulled onto Main Street, his thoughts already drifting back to Blair.
Monday morning, Hud strode into the office, nodded at the other agents and hung his hat on the coatrack behind his chair. He pulled out his seat, sat down, and turned on his computer. The case files were exactly where he’d left them Friday, which meant the weekend hadn’t brought any new leads.
Rawley deserved better than that.
Hud opened the Harold White Sr. file and stared at it, turning his pen over in his hand. Somewhere out there this man was sitting on information that could unravel the whole operation. Finding him wasn’t optional.
“Morning, Hud.”
He looked up. “Hey, Dave.”
“Anything new on Rawley’s case?”
“Still trying to track down Harold White, Sr.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to Kalispell this week to talk to the ex-wife.”
“Good.” Dave nodded and stopped beside his desk. “How does a man just disappear like that?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Everything vanished. His dealership, the trucks, him. The whole operation was wiped clean. I had an agent check out the empty warehouse next to the tire shop in Autumn Falls and it was like nothing had ever been there.”
“What about the tire shop itself?”
Hud smirked. “Gone.”
“They were all connected somehow.”
“I agree.”
Dave was quiet a moment. “You need more help. Let me see what I can do.” He straightened. “In the meantime, make a trip to Deer Lodge before Kalispell. Have a talk with Roby.”
“Alright.”
“I’ll get you a motel room and let you know when you can head out.”
“You’re the boss.” Hud grinned.
“Yes, I am. I’ll find someone to send with you. Just have to see who’s available.”
Hud nodded and got back to work.
He leaned back and looked at the board on the wall where he’d pinned the names and photographs.
Five men involved in the theft of Preston Mitchell’s cattle.
Only two still breathing. Jared Hill and Axel Roby.
The other three, Hal White Jr. and the Jessup brothers, Colby and Carson, had been shot and killed.
Hill had talked, given Rawley the names, and played the deal card.
Then set him up for three rounds to the vest.
Hud tapped his pen against the desk.
Hal White Sr. was out there somewhere, tied to the whole operation along with his insurance adjuster, and neither had surfaced.
White had used his own semi-trucks, destroyed them after the theft, and filed the insurance claim.
His adjuster cut the check and skimmed a percentage off the top for himself. One hell of a racket.
Three semis still unaccounted for.
He stared at the board.
Roby was sitting in Deer Lodge with a closed mouth and nothing to lose. Maybe that was about to change.
An hour into the files, Hud leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. A shadow fell across his desk. He looked up to find fellow agent Creed McBride standing there.
“Dave asked me to help out on this case,” Creed said.
“Good. I can use it.”
“Hand me some of those files. Fresh eyes might help.”
Hud passed him a stack of folders. Creed crossed the room, dropped into his chair and opened the first one without saying another word.
Hud got back to work.
****
Start here
Blair sighed. Typical Monday. Did everyone get sick on weekends?
She stood behind the glass partition scanning the charts while the waiting room filled steadily behind her.
“Is it four-thirty yet?” Meridith Shrout asked.
“About seven more hours,” Blair said with a grin.
“Okay. Lunch then? Is it time for that?”
“You’re always hungry. That baby is going to be huge.”
Meridith laughed and patted her enormous belly. “I think he’s going to be a fullback. He feels like he’s running around in there constantly.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, Blair. I’m not due until next month.”
“You look like you could go any second.”
“It feels like it sometimes.” Meridith laughed.
“I’m sure Phil is thrilled.”
“Over the moon. We’ve been trying for so long.”
“Your doctor is taking wonderful care of you. Try not to worry.”
“Dr. Anderson is the best. I love her. If you ever need a gynecologist, I can’t recommend her enough.”
Blair glanced up from the chart. Anderson. She wondered briefly if there was a connection to Hud.
“I’ll look her up. Thank you.”
By midmorning the last of the early patients had been seen and the waiting room had barely had time to empty before it filled again, a steady chorus of coughs and whispered concerns replacing the morning rush.
Today was different. She was finally slipping out for lunch with Celine at the diner. They tried to meet twice a week when they could manage it.