Chapter 2
“So, I’m guessing that the crew was happy to see you, right?”
Wyatt asked Jessy.
Of course he knew that they were. Jessy’s commitment to the ranch meant their jobs.
She looked at him, arching a brow.
“I think you’ve talked to everyone more than I’ve had a chance to. Looked like a good discussion was going on in the five minutes I took to shower.”
He smiled.
“You were fast, but that shower was ten minutes. And yeah, Sam offered me coffee, and it would have been rude not to accept and sit with them all. It’s hard not to know people around here when you have the only homes fairly close to one another in a fair-sized sea of ranches.”
“People—and cows and horses and a few other creatures,”
Jessy murmured.
“You do well with them, but the cows aren’t really great conversationalists,”
he said dryly.
He looked ahead.
Wyatt knew he was good at what he did; he could present almost any front, or personality, talk in the most casual way . . .
And most often, find out what he needed to know.
Not that he really suspected anyone at the Danson ranch could be guilty of what had been going on. But Jessy’s arrival had been fortunate, allowing him an easier opportunity to slip in where he needed to be.
And it wasn’t as if he was simply taking advantage of an old friend. He had always really liked Jessy; she’d been an amazingly cool kid. But yes, Jessy’s arrival was opportune. Of course, it seemed like he hadn’t seen her in forever. It had been several years. And he did know all about her and her work—she had been her grampa’s pride and joy. Wyatt really had purchased books where she had been credited as the visual artist or paper engineer.
She was talented. Confident, he could see, and a truly beautiful young woman. She had a headful of golden hair that hadn’t darkened a bit since she’d been a child. It waved down the length of her back. Art was her world, he knew, and he smiled inwardly. Speaking of greats—her face might have been sculpted by one of the great sculptors. She had high cheekbones, large amber eyes—truly not brown or green, but a unique amber—and full, perfectly formed lips. She was both lean and shapely.
Yeah, the kid had grown up, all right!
“You come to hang out with Sam, Cody, and the crew often?”
she asked.
“Cody has been at the council meetings for the rodeo next weekend, and a few of the others have shown up with him now and then,”
Wyatt said.
“Samantha—as much as she’s always loved the ranch and working for your grandfather and now for you, I’m sure—isn’t a fan. She once said she thought bull riding was one of the most stupid exercises in dangerous sports she’d ever seen. And for all her years at a horse ranch, she doesn’t ride. So, she doesn’t take part in any way. Oh, except she says that she did take nursing and critical care classes so she could patch up anyone in the household when necessary.”
“It’s always good to have that support on the sidelines,”
Jessy said. She was looking forward, but he knew that at times, she was looking at him curiously, too.
Well, of course. She knew what he’d been up to over the years, just as he knew what she had been doing. Except she didn’t know what he had really been doing at all.
Few people did.
“Will you ride?”
he asked her.
She shrugged.
“Maybe. I . . .”
She hesitated and shrugged.
“It’s not like I have a timeline, and I haven’t told the household yet, but I can’t really live out here.”
“Can’t—or won’t?”
She didn’t answer for a minute and then she looked at him and said.
“If my dad hadn’t been ill, the place should have and could have gone straight to him. And he’s doing great in recovery, but I don’t really want to be more than half the country away from him while he is in recovery. And . . .”
“You spent most of your time growing up in the city and you’re a city girl,”
he offered.
She laughed.
“City girl. Out here, you know, that’s an insult!”
“Not an insult. Rather a state of mind,”
he told her.
“I do love the ranch. And I loved my grandfather—”
“I don’t know a soul who didn’t,”
Wyatt assured her. Beyond a doubt, at least that was true.
She smiled.
“Yeah, he was a good guy. The best. And my dad is just like him, except that his expertise was in technology at a time when few people knew everything that he did. And he had such a great future in the city. Oh! You know, my grandfather encouraged him to take the job with the tech company that he’s had since he was in his twenties. My grandfather wanted people to be happy, to do what they wanted to do . . .”
Her words trailed and she appeared to be frowning. And he thought that he might understand.
“Did he put pressure on you to come back here?”
She shrugged and nodded.
“And it’s not as if I don’t love the place!”
“Hey, I love it, too, but I’m gone as much as I’m here. Work,”
he explained briefly.
“You never know. Just keep the old place going. Then maybe someday you’ll have kids. And while you may raise them in New York City, they’ll discover that they want to own and manage a quarter horse ranch. Maybe your grandfather just wanted to make sure his beloved land stayed in the family,”
Wyatt offered.
“Right. I don’t plan on letting the place go,”
Jessy told him.
He laughed.
“That’s a relief.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re glad,”
she told him, smiling.
“It’s so hard to break in new neighbors!”
he said lightly.
Being with her . . . it was an oddly nice perk.
But then, of course, she asked.
“Work? You’re gone a lot for work? I thought your family’s ranch was your work!”
“Um, no, I work with a studio in the city,”
he told her. It was semi-true.
“Music! Of course. I’m so glad you’re keeping up with it. I mean, I’m not knocking the pub tonight, it’s just I’m glad that you’re putting it all to use often!”
“When you love music, you love music.”
“I love music. I just don’t have your talent.”
“Are you kidding me? First, you do have musical talent. I remember you working with camp choruses and the way your family loved to go around in the city at Christmastime doing carols! That’s just music. Your art—and your paper engineering—is fantastic!”
“Thank you.”
“And you can be an artist anywhere, you know.”
She grinned.
“I know. I’ve heard that from my dad—and even my mom—my whole life.”
“Your mom aways loved this place, from what I can remember,” he said.
Jessy nodded.
“But my dad is really something of a tech genius. He’s helped with many medical improvements. I mean, Mom teaches grade school; and I know she could teach anywhere, too. But with my dad . . . they both thought it was important that he worked where he worked. My mom agreed, and . . . well, there you go. I’m a New York kid.”
“I’ll just remind you that art can be created anywhere, and then I’ll shut up on it,”
he promised.
“and just hope that you have a good time tonight. Tad is on drums tonight and I think you know his wife, Marci, don’t you?”
he asked her.
She smiled.
“I do. Marci is just a year older than me. We took some of our barrel racing lessons together when we were kids.”
“She’ll be there. And other nice people, I promise.”
“I’d expect no less!”
she teased.
They arrived at the pub in another five minutes. Tad Clifton and Marci were already there, along with Brett Marshall, bassist, and Josh Percy, on keyboards that night. Marci greeted Jessy with enthusiasm, then extended her condolences, and then told her again how happy she was to see her. Brett Marshall’s girlfriend, Casey Larkin, was there as well. And soon everyone was talking as the owner—a true Irishman named Brian Murphy, grandson of the original Murphy—welcomed them all cheerfully and gave them their seats at a large table in the back. He told Wyatt happily that he had several dozen reservations for the night—locals and visitors to the Colorado Springs area as well.
“They all heard the Rustic Cowboys were playing!”
Brian told them, beaming.
Brian was a nice guy, in his early forties now, tall, with a headful of rich red hair that had come down through generations.
Wyatt was surprised to feel a sting of jealousy when the man greeted Jessy with a warm hug that seemed to offer a great deal of genuine affection.
He gave himself a mental swat.
Sure, Jessy Danson was an old childhood friend; it was good to see her. But she wasn’t staying, and it was foolish to appreciate the beautiful woman she had grown to be when she was going to leave the area. It was, of course, nice to see a nice human being, and he almost felt guilty about using her, except that . . .
No matter what had been going on, he would have asked her here tonight just because she was an old friend!
Maybe the night would be fun, despite what was going on.
They sat, chatted, ordered—salmon for Jessy, and he decided on it himself. And then, maybe naturally, the conversation turned to the strange spate of robberies—and worse—that had been going on.
“I mean, yeah,”
Tad said.
“Sadly, it’s almost Christmas, so things start to happen. I mean, sometimes, someone is desperate. There’s a charity collection pail, and a man or woman starving on the tracks decides they’ve got to eat. That I get—and a night in jail does pay for a meal. But these robberies! And a couple of nights ago, someone got really hurt—she’s in intensive care. And a girl was kidnapped! At Christmas.”
New York obviously had its own share of crime, but Jessy’s look of confusion proved she hadn’t heard about the case.
“What’s going on?”
she asked worriedly.
“Weird robberies,”
Brett explained, shaking his head.
“The first one—no one really noticed. A house was broken into in Denver, every Christmas present waiting under the tree was stolen along with jewelry, technology, the usual—but then the Christmas tree was slashed up as if someone hated Christmas. No forensics—that’s what they say in the papers, anyway. Thieves are wearing gloves. They knock out any surveillance cameras. And there are so many people going around now, carolers, church representatives, solicitors . . . there hasn’t been anything like a reliable witness yet!”
“Right, but you’re not explaining it all, Brett!”
Casey told him.
“Okay, happens in Denver, Boulder, and then Colorado Springs. Then they realize it started in the four corners region where Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah meet. The robbers hit a home in each state, and, of course, with all those states, different police and law enforcement are called in on it. So you wind up with the federal government and the FBI as main control on the case,”
she told Jessy.
“Wow,”
Jessy murmured.
“That’s . . . sad!”
“But that’s not the half of it,”
Marci said.
“First, no one was home, no one got hurt. Then, an elderly man is home when they break in; he gets a paper bag from his own kitchen thrown over his head, and he’s forced into a closet where he’s locked in with a chair pressed against the knob. Guy winds up in the hospital with a cardiac arrest—luckily, law enforcement saved him.”
“There’s a Christmas present for you,”
Tad murmured.
“At least he’s alive!”
“They know this is all the same person—or persons, I guess?”
Jessy asked.
“Or persons,”
Wyatt said. It might seem strange if he didn’t get in on the conversation. He shrugged.
“The number of things they’re taking, the way they’re managing to avoid cameras, get in, get out . . . they think that there are probably two to three people in on it.”
That information was in the newspapers.
“But what happened a few nights ago? A girl was kidnapped, you said. Someone was hurt—where, where did this happen?”
Jessy asked, concerned.
“Colorado Springs, the third event to take place there or in the surrounding area,” Tad said.
“But what happened?”
Jessy asked, her beautiful eyes wide, her face a mask of concern. Concern—empathy, Wyatt thought. And that was nice. She wasn’t anxious for herself—and with the number of people working and living at the Danson ranch and at his own home, he didn’t believe the thieves would try to strike there. No, her feelings were for others. And that was nice.
That was the way her family was. That was the way she had been taught, and still . . . complete kindness was part of the human soul as well.
Whoa, boy, he told himself. Major-league events on the horizon; no time for a crush.
“They broke in, the mom was knocked out cold in the kitchen, struck so hard her skull was fractured, and she’s lucky to be alive. And a daughter, who just celebrated her eighteenth birthday, was taken out of the house,”
Marci told Jessy somberly.
“No sign of her yet.”
“They’re sure the young woman was kidnapped or forced out? Maybe she was gone for the night, visiting friends—”
Jessy suggested.
Something law enforcement had investigated immediately, of course.
“Obviously, they checked that all out,”
Wyatt said, wincing as he spoke. The question had made him defensive; he was usually far more careful.
Thankfully, Marci jumped back in again.
“They checked everything! Everyone she knew, everywhere she went . . . she was last seen in her afternoon class at the local junior college, and she told friends she was heading home to help her mother make cupcakes for a friend’s bridal shower. Her car, just like her parents’ cars, was found in front of the house. I mean, I guess I’ve gotten a little obsessed with reading about it all, but it’s gotten too close!”
Yes, too close. Almost as if the distance from Colorado Springs at first had been a calculated plan, throwing everyone off.
“The corned beef and cabbage here is great!”
Tad told Brian Murphy as he swept by to check on their table.
“Good. My dad used to tell me that in Ireland, his family had bacon and cabbage all the time—I guess different than the links we’re accustomed to here. Maybe more like Canadian bacon. Whatever, I’m glad you’re enjoying your dinner!”
Brian said.
“And . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re ready to go up, right?”
Wyatt said, looking around the table. The members of the band nodded, and they stood, heading for the stage.
“Go, Rustic Cowboys!”
Jessy said lightly.
Wyatt smiled back at her.
“You’ll get yours!”
he promised.
They had a “pub set”
that they all knew and loved, not because they had so many chances to practice or jam together these days as they’d once had, but through the years they’d gotten good with several Christmas songs as well. But they started with one of their own creations.
“Cows, Cowboys, and Christmas and a Kinda Christmas Carol,”
and thankfully, their audience seemed to enjoy it tremendously. They moved into classic rock, tunes by the Eagles, the Stones, Queen, and then took it into country for a few minutes before switching back into Christmas carols.
That’s when Wyatt looked at Jessy and announced they had a guest singer joining them that night, joining them from out of state and far, far away, but that she was glad to be here—a place that was almost something like home.
Jessy stared at him in shock, shaking her head, but Marci was literally pushing her up, and the others at the table were encouraging her as well.
And he couldn’t help himself. They’d met as children.
“I dare ya—double dare ya!”
he mouthed to her.
A minute later, she gave in, glaring at him.
“Artist, not a musician!”
she reminded him softly as Tad drew up a mic for her.
“But this was your grandfather’s favorite carol of all time!”
he reminded her.
“And we’re in an Irish pub!”
She almost smiled.
“We did this together when we were kids for our families—not always that thrilled they put us together!”
he said, grinning at her.
He realized his words were true. There was a lot of history between them he hadn’t realized until now. He’d been older, she’d been a “child”
in his eyes at that time when three or four years was a major difference. But her grandfather and parents had been close with his parents, and so they’d been thrown together.
Maybe she was thinking the same thing because she had an answer for him!
“Oh! You were just older and cooler—annoyingly!”
she announced, which brought them a spate of laughter. And then he began with the lead guitar and the band joined him.
And after the intro, Jessy easily fell into a rendition o.
“What Child Is This?”
with him, the beautiful song her grandfather had loved so very much, a Christmas carol to the tune o.
“Greensleeves.”
She almost smiled at him with warmth and meaning.
And their song was greeted with more thunderous applause than they had received yet, and along with it, he could see some people telling each other that in a way she was a local girl, the granddaughter of Kelly Danson, returned to take over the Danson ranch.
Of course, there were tourists who had just wandered in and had no idea who Jessy was, other than a lovely young woman.
On the one hand, the night was great. Jessy seemed to have a good time and people seemed to love her—those who knew her as well as those who didn’t.
But he hated what he was doing.
No! He would have invited her tonight no matter what. And they had sung the song together before, when they were kids making their elders happy.
But even before Jessy had gotten here, he’d been in a war with himself. His boss was certain that someone local was involved—or perhaps all those who were involved were local.
He didn’t believe it for a minute. He knew his neighbors; he knew his bandmates. And he and the Rustic Cowboys had accepted this invitation from Brian Murphy long ago, before the robberies had even become connected. But it was a way to discover where everyone had been and when they’d been there.
Same with hands and staff at his family’s ranch, just as it had been with Jessy’s family ranch.
And so far . . . nothing.
Then again, at Murphy’s Pub, he was able to see several of the people who wer.
“outskirts”
citizens, those living right on the edges of Colorado Springs, or perhaps between that area and another bigger city.
And he understood the urgency.
These criminals had either become hardened somewhere or watched too much TV. They knew all about security cameras, traffic cams, gloves, and masks.
He wasn’t in the best position. The Colorado Springs office hadn’t pulled in agents until the attacks had begun here, which meant they hadn’t seen any of the initial crime scenes or been in at the start when it came to forensics or witness descriptions.
But Christmas was on the horizon. And a young woman was missing. And Wyatt’s superiors seemed to believe that no one knew the outskirts the way he did, and possibly someone he knew might be in on it all.
He’d known all his life what he had wanted to do. Yes, he loved music. He loved his family’s ranch, and probably because of Jessy, he loved the fact that they raised dairy cows.
He kept his smile going. His band frontman persona in place.
As all things did, the night finally came to an end.
From the stage he thanked Jessy again for having joined them, and he introduced each of his band members.
Of course, when it was time to go, Marci and his bandmates all wanted hugs again from Jessy, telling her how great it was to have her, and hoping, hoping, they’d get together more often now that she was there.
Jessy just smiled at them all, agreed it had been great to be together, and remained completely noncommittal about where she would be when.
Then they were in the car again on the way home. She was quiet, staring ahead.
He glanced at her quickly as he drove.
“So, sorry, yeah, everyone wishes that you were staying. But it’s okay, you don’t need to be worried or depressed about it or—”
“No!”
she protested.
“I wasn’t thinking about that at all.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“A girl, missing, when Christmas is just days away. Folks in the hospital, trying to get better—but I heard about it all, and . . . well, how do you get better when your child is missing?”
“Trust me, it’s weighing on me. And cops and agents, too, I’m sure.”
She looked at him.
“Their home was right outside Colorado Springs?”
“Yes.”
“Not far from here.”
“Probably about a thirty-minute drive. Colorado Springs is about forty-five minutes in rush hour, and yeah, there can be something of a rush hour.”
He was surprised when she set a hand on his arm. Good thing he was a steady driver; her touch was a bit of a shock.
“I want to go there.”
“Jessy, there’s crime scene tape on the house, I’m certain. And if there wasn’t, we couldn’t just break into someone’s house,”
he told her, confused that she had said such a thing.
“No, I don’t want to break into the house. I didn’t mean the house. I meant the area. Okay, taking this girl wasn’t in their usual plan. I don’t think that they took her far away to kill her or leave her body in an alley—or in a cow pasture—anywhere. She’s going to be near that house. I mean, if it’s a bit on the outskirts, they may have outbuildings beyond the home—or homes—in the area. Wyatt, on our property, there’s an old shed back in the trees that is never used now; they built a new one closer to the stables years ago. Please, I know this is crazy. I know it’s nearly two in the morning, but I have a feeling that she’s there, near there, somewhere!”
“Hey, you’re the one who has a meeting at the crack of dawn,”
he reminded her.
“Not crack of dawn; we don’t have a set time. And we can be back by four, and I’ve gone on four hours of sleep before!”
she said, her tone entreating.
“I . . . uh, okay. But we don’t do anything that will get us arrested!”
“No, we’ll just go through any fields, check out any old outbuildings, okay?”
“Well, it is trespassing to crawl around on other people’s land,”
he reminded her.
“People get out of their cars and walk on other people’s land all the time around here. They don’t always know what’s embankment, state land, whatever!”
“Fences usually indicate that a property is owned.”
“Dammit! Fine. I’ll get a car at my ranch and do it myself!”
“No! I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,”
he told her.
What the hell! He was the undercover agent. She was determined that they work a case she’d just heard about that night!
So much for worrying about his growing feelings of attraction and romance! She was on the hunt—and he definitely did not want her going home to get her rental car or borrow someone else’s! He couldn’t believe himself that those he had known for years could be guilty of any of this.
But he didn’t know. He just didn’t know!
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to put her into any danger.
“Fine! Look up the exact address. Some reporter got wind of it, and the address where the attack and the robbery took place is online somewhere.”
“Gotcha,”
she told him, pulling out her phone.
It took her a few minutes to find the right article. That didn’t really matter; he knew exactly where the house was, and he drove in the right direction while she searched.
And he’d been right. It took him just about thirty minutes to reach the property.
It wasn’t just a house, but it wasn’t a large ranch, either. The home sat on about five acres with woods abutting the rear of the property. There were old stables and a tack room to the right of the front entry, but they’d been searched; he knew that because he’d been there.
A beautifully manicured lawn took up the front of the house, and there were still pastures to the right and left of the main house.
But there was also a large stretch of forested state land to the right of the entry.
He pulled off the road, staring into the trees by night.
“You know, a satellite image of this area might be helpful. I know some local law enforcement—”
“And if she’s been back there for almost two days now, she might not make it until morning!”
Jessy said.
True.
He exited the car.
“Well . . .”
It could be damned dark at night. Sure, homes out here might be decked out with Christmas lights, but they were few and far between.
“We have our phones for light,”
she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Yeah, and hang on. I have a major-league flashlight in the trunk.”
He did, of course. He pulled it out and saw that there was a trail through the trees, overgrown, old, probably not used much these days . . .
But there were some broken branches he could see once he’d pulled out his light, and it was more than possible that someone had been through there lately.
“Stay behind me!”
he snapped.
She did, apparently glad he had a light and now seemed as determined as she was.
“You do know,”
he reminded her.
“that we have more than just criminal human beings roaming around these parts. They’ve had a few animal attacks on cattle and sheep lately, too. Coyotes, wolves, black bears, mountain lions . . . just to name a few.”
“So, we should probably hurry then!”
she told him.
He kept walking, pausing now and then to listen.
But he didn’t hear any twigs snapping or any rustle of leaves that might indicate a predator was in the woods ready to prowl after them.
“What are you doing?”
she asked when he stopped once.
“Listening. Did you forget everything about the weeks each year you did spend growing up out here?”
he asked her.
“Right. Sorry.”
He stopped again, listening, certain he had heard something . . .
But not a predator. Not a dangerous creature coming through the woods for them.
He thought he heard . . . crying.
“What is it?”
Jessy whispered.
“Listen!”
he told her.
They both stood very still.
And it came again. So soft it was almost like the whisper of a breeze.
“I hear it!”
Jessy cried.
She tried to push past him; he stopped her.
“I still go first!”
“Listen, I’m honestly tough for a girl—”
“No, I go first because I live out here and you don’t!”
he snapped.
And he was moving forward, pausing again where there seemed to be a fork in the almost nonexistent trail, throwing his light on the bushes and trees, determining where twigs might have fallen, where branches might have broken.
To the left.
Then he paused again, lifting a hand. And she understood. They were both listening.
Nothing.
But he moved ahead, shining his light far beyond them.
Nothing.
Except . . .
They’d come to a small clearing, a very small clearing, just about eight feet by eight feet had the area been a square. And there were branches on the ground, leaves . . . too many of them, Wyatt thought.
“I heard it!”
Jessy said, her voice distressed and frustrated.
“I know I heard someone crying, barely, crying, but . . . sniffles, something!”
“Yes. I heard it, too,”
Wyatt said.
He looked at the ground again. It was wrong. Just wrong.
He fell to his knees and began to push and shove at the branches, lifting the bigger ones and throwing them back into the trees.
In seconds, Jessy was on her knees at his side, busily doing the same thing.
He might be foolish, working at nothing.
But he’d heard the sound, too. Someone was out here somewhere. And . . .
Right when he was ready to despair, he hit something that wasn’t the hard ground. In fact, it made a noise, too, a knocking sound, and he hit it again and again and . . .
Wood. It had to be a hatch cover to some old hole in the earth, maybe even a bomb shelter built during the years of the Cold War or some such thing.
“Wyatt! It’s a—a lid or something!”
Jessy cried.
“Right. Keep moving the dirt and all . . . there’s got to be a latch, something that pulls it up, somewhere, under all this!”
“On it!”
And she was. Working hard and getting her hands—well, all of her—dirty didn’t seem to be anything that held her back or bothered her in any way.
They both worked feverishly. It had to be only seconds.
Then he found it. His fingers lit on an old metal latch, and he inched back, allowing himself to get a good grip on the thing.
“Yes, yes, oh, my God, yes!”
Jessy breathed.
He pulled at the latch and the wooden cover gave easily, opening to allow them to see downward into a stygian darkness.
He grabbed the light that he had left on the ground to allow them to move the dirt, leaves, and branches aside.
He cast its brilliant strength down into the hole.
A ladder led downward about twenty feet. Beyond that . . .
“Hello!”
Jessy called.
“Are you in there? We’re here to help you.”
She looked at Wyatt.
“Chrissie. Her name is Chrissie Dunworth.”
She gave her attention to the hole.
“Chrissie! Are you down there?”
There was no reply. Wyatt handed the light to Jessy and maneuvered himself onto the ladder. He headed down as quickly as he could.
“Toss me the light!”
he told Jessy.
Of course, it was Jessy. She didn’t toss it to him; she carried it down the ladder.
Whatever it had been once, it was just a big hole in the earth now.
“My God!”
Jessy breathed.
And she dropped the light on the floor, running the few steps to the rear of the hole. Wyatt had his phone out, dialing 911.
Because there was a young woman there, passed out now—or worse—against the dirt at the far side of the underground hole.
He’d heard her before, heard her whimpering!
She’d been alive just moments before . . .
She wasn’t moving; she wasn’t whimpering anymore.
He could only pray for a Christmas miracle.