Chapter 4 #3
The memory of Sierra’s scream hit Rowan in the chest again. The look on her face when she’d seen him—pure shock morphing into something that might have been betrayal. Or rage. Or both.
“She screamed when she saw me.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
“Oof. That’s rough.” Saxon’s tone gentled slightly.
“She thought I was dead, so I get it.”
“And now she knows you’re not. Question is, what are you going to do about it?” Saxon turned from the window, his expression more serious.
“I told you. I’m staying.”
“Even though she made it clear she doesn’t want your help.” It wasn’t a question. Saxon knew him too well, had seen him make the same choice too many times in too many dangerous places.
“Those cattle rustlers are real.” Rowan sighed. “And if they killed her grandfather and Tom Hendrick to protect their operation, they won’t hesitate to kill her too.”
“So you’re staying.” Saxon nodded like this was the answer he’d expected.
“I’m staying.”
“Good. Because I already put a security deposit down on the house.” Saxon’s grin returned.
“You what?” Rowan’s head snapped up.
“Relax. It’s refundable if we change our minds in the next twenty-four hours.
But something tells me we’re not changing our minds.
” Saxon reopened his laptop and turned the screen toward Rowan.
“Three bedrooms, two baths, furnished kitchen. Previous tenant was a teacher who kept the place immaculate.”
The house looked normal. Ordinary. The kind of place where people lived regular lives and worried about regular problems like mortgage payments and lawn care.
“How much?”
“Less than we’d spend on hotel rooms if we stayed at anything decent. Plus, it gives us a base of operations if we’re going to figure out who’s behind this cattle-rustling operation.”
“So you’re really sticking around to play detective?”
“Yeah. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me since we left Afghanistan. Besides, I checked into getting a license. I just have to pass an exam and get a background check.”
Rowan cocked his head.
“My guess is that our friend Uncle Sam might have tidied that up for me. If not, maybe Jamie Winters can help.”
“You think Jamie is going to flex her tech muscles to get you a job taking pictures of cheating husbands?”
Saxon’s mouth opened. “And bail jumpers. C’mon.” But he grinned.
“Seriously. You want to be a PI? You’re just bored.”
“I’m professionally unfulfilled. There’s a difference.”
“And you think investigating cattle rustling is going to fulfill you professionally?”
“I think investigating cattle rustling that’s connected to multiple suspicious deaths might be exactly the kind of challenge I’ve been looking for.
” Saxon closed the laptop with a snap. “Besides, someone needs to watch your six while you figure out how to apologize to a woman for letting her think you were dead.”
“I can’t tell her why I had to stay dead.”
Saxon was quiet for a moment, processing the implications. “Maybe just say deep cover?”
“I guess that works. Frankly, I don’t think any explanation is going to cut it. But I can’t live with myself if something happens to her and I could have prevented it.”
Saxon stood and shouldered his own duffel bag. “Fair enough. Let’s go look at the house, then you can decide what your next move is.”
“I already know my next move. I need to talk to my stepfather.”
“The mayor? Why?”
“Because he’s in a position to know about local crime. And because something about the way Detective Martinelli described the cattle rustling didn’t sit right with me.”
“What do you mean?”
Rowan grabbed his jacket from the chair by the window. “I mean professional cattle rustlers don’t usually operate in areas where the mayor is actively working with law enforcement to stop them. Unless the mayor isn’t actually working to stop them.”
“You think your stepfather is involved?”
“I think my stepfather is capable of anything if it benefits him. And I think it’s worth asking some questions.”
He took the highway out to the Jenkins ranch, not driving by the Blackwoods’ and…fine, maybe he’d swing by on the way back.
The ranch looked even more impressive in the daylight. The honey-colored logs gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, and the professional landscaping was immaculate. Everything about the place screamed money and success.
He hated it.
“Impressive,” Saxon said as they pulled up. “Your stepfather’s done well for himself.”
“My stepfather’s always been good at taking things that don’t belong to him. This place was built with corrupt money and kickbacks, even before he became mayor.”
Mayor Alden Jenkins opened the front door before they reached the porch steps. “Rowan.” His voice held just the right note of surprised pleasure, but his eyes remained cold. “Mack said you might stop by. It’s good to see you, son.”
Son. Whatever. This man had never been his father, had never earned the right to use that word. Rowan managed not to hit him.
“Alden.” Rowan kept his voice neutral, professional. “This is my friend Luca Saxon. We’re in town for a few days.”
“Any friend of Rowan’s is welcome here.” Jenkins extended his hand to Saxon, who shook it with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to dealing with authority figures. “Come in, both of you. Mack’s in the den.”
A woman appeared behind Jenkins in the doorway—petite, blonde, probably mid-fifties, wearing an apron over a floral dress. Her smile was genuine, if nervous.
“This is my wife, Catherine,” Jenkins said, his tone warming slightly. “Cat, this is my stepson Rowan and his friend.”
“Oh my.” Catherine’s voice was soft with surprise. “Mack’s told me so much about you. Please, come in. I just put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
She didn’t seem nervous, didn’t look at Alden for permission.
Almost like she wasn’t afraid of him.
The interior of the house matched its exterior—Chesterfield leather sofas, a couple Robert Wogrin oil landscapes on the walls, and the kind of cleanliness that spoke of hired help.
Family photos lined the mantelpiece, including several of Mack at various ages.
Rowan noted the absence of any pictures that included him or his mother.
“Bro!” Mack appeared in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. “I didn’t think you were coming by until later.”
“Change of plans. Saxon found us a place to stay.”
“You’re sticking around?” Mack’s expression shifted to something that might have been relief. “I was worried you were going to disappear again.”
“Not disappearing. Just need a base of operations for a few days.”
Alden gestured toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s ready. Why don’t we sit down and catch up?”
It was like they were old friends or something. Rowan shot a look at Mack, who just lifted a shoulder.
Whatever. He was here for answers.
The kitchen had been remodeled—soaring ceilings with exposed timber beams, white custom cabinetry, and an island the size of most people’s dining rooms topped with dark granite.
A stone fireplace dominated one wall, because yeah, people cooked in an open hearth these days.
Frankly, the entire place looked like it belonged in a European villa.
Alden poured coffee and sat in one of the leather barstools at the massive island. Catherine handed Rowan a mug.
“Sit,” Alden said. His smile was all charm, political. “What brings my dead stepson back to Renegade after all these years? Must be something pretty important to drag you away from…what was it again? Firefighting?”
So, Mack had caught him up.
“Time was right,” Rowan said simply, accepting the coffee but not drinking.
“Time was right.” Jenkins chuckled, the sound carrying just enough condescension to set teeth on edge.
“That’s beautifully vague. You always were the mysterious type, weren’t you, Rowan?
Even as a boy. Secrets.” He looked at Saxon, beside Rowan, and waggled his eyebrows, like Rowan might be a little crazy.
Crazy might not be too far from the truth if he spent too long here.
“Heard there’s been some trouble around here lately,” Rowan said. “Cattle rustling. Suspicious deaths.”
Alden took a sip of coffee, his gray eyes on Rowan. “Suspicious deaths? Where exactly did you hear that?”
“Tom Hendrick was found by my dad’s old place. Murdered.”
Alden put his coffee down, frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
Please. Rowan didn’t believe that for a Montana minute.
“People are saying it might be connected to the rustling,” Saxon said.
“I’ll have to talk to the police chief, find out what’s going on.
” Then he leaned back with the confidence of a man who controlled the narrative.
“You know how people like to gossip, especially when they’re looking for someone to blame for their own poor decisions.
Some folks just can’t accept that hard times come from poor choices. ”
“Whose poor choices?”
A beat. “I suppose you’ve been talking with Sierra Blackwood.” He met Rowan’s gaze.
“I…not really.”
“Then you don’t know that she’s about to lose her ranch. Barely holding on after Elway passed. Cattle rustling is an insurable loss, so…”
Rowan stilled. “You think she’s lying?”
Alden lifted a shoulder.
“Detective Martinelli seemed to think the rustling was legitimate.”
“Mike Martinelli’s a good man, but he’s got limited resources and a lot of territory to cover. Sometimes he has to take reports at face value even when there might be other explanations.”
“Other explanations?”
“Cattle wander off, especially in this terrain. Gates get left open, fences get damaged in storms. It’s easy to assume theft when the reality might be simple negligence.”
Saxon leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying the tone of someone making polite conversation. “What about the deaths? Tom Hendrick, Elway Blackwood. Those seem pretty cut and dried.”