Redemption

What amazed Jack was how long it took—a couple of hours to do only an inch of hitching. When finished, the cord or rod was removed. The item was then soaked in water and clamped between two heavy plates of steel to dry.

A lot of the inmates sold what they made, getting as much as four to eight thousand dollars for bridles. Belts, hatbands and quirts were cheaper, because they were faster to make.

“Do you recognize the pattern?” the sheriff asked. “Is it one from Montana State Prison?”

Jack took the bag and held it under the lamplight. The colors were brighter and the pattern different from ones he’d seen in prison. “It’s not from Deer Lodge,” he said and handed it back. “At least it isn’t like any I saw up there.”

The sheriff nodded. He put the bag back in his pocket. “You do any hitching while you were up there?”

Jack laughed. “I was working the prison ranch, so I kept plenty busy. I’ve watched a lot of guys hitch, though. Takes more patience than I have.”

“Well, thanks for your time.” He started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, while you were up at the state pen, did you happen to run across Cullen Ackermann?”

The infamous Ackermann. The sheriff had asked the question casually enough, but it still put Jack on guard. “I made a point of staying away from crazy old cons—especially that one.”

Frank Curry nodded. “Was he still preaching revolution and the Armageddon of this country as we know it?”

Jack nodded, a little surprised by the sheriff’s interest. But, then again, Cullen Ackermann was Beartooth’s most infamous charismatic crazy, even though he’d never been considered a true local since he wasn’t born here.

“I suppose he found an audience up there before he died,” Frank said.

“He definitely had his followers in prison,” Jack said. “Young, anti-government wannabe survivalists were big fans of his. A few of them bought into what he was selling.” To fill the silence that followed, he added, “I think most of them were more interested in Ackermann’s cache of gold he allegedly hid before he got sent up.”

“That tale still circulating, huh?” The sheriff shook his head and looked as if he wanted to ask more, but apparently changed his mind. “Well, you have a nice night.”

Jack followed him out onto the small porch in front of the cabin and watched until the patrol pickup headed toward Big Timber, then he went back inside. He hadn’t asked where the sheriff had gotten the rope or why he wanted Jack’s opinion on the hitching pattern. Nor had he asked about the dried blood that stained the horsehair in the evidence bag.

Jack had learned a long time ago not to ask questions where he didn’t want to know the answers.

* * *

NETTIE WAS STOCKING groceries, trying to keep her mind off what the sheriff had shown her, when the girl came into the store. It had taken Nettie a few moments to get to her feet from down on her knees. Most of the time, she didn’t feel her age—it was easy to tell herself that she didn’t feel a day over thirty.

That was, until she tried to get up from where she’d been sitting on the floor and her body reminded her that she was hugging sixty. It was an odd feeling. Her life had always been ahead of her. Now most of it was behind her.

The girl had stopped just inside the door and turned to look out the front window. She was a skinny little thing with long, pale blond hair that fell most of the way down her back.

As if deep in thought, the girl didn’t seem to hear Nettie’s approach. Which, of course, made Nettie wonder what she found so interesting out the window.

Looking past her, Nettie followed the girl’s gaze to where three men stood talking in front of the post office up the street. She recognized two local ranchers. The third man was Sheriff Frank Curry.

“Can I help you?”

The girl jumped and spun around, eyes wide. She was pretty, with big, dark eyes, and older than Nettie had first thought, still somewhere in her late teens, though.

“I’m sorry,” Nettie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But she had, and badly.

It took a moment for the girl to catch her breath and speak. “I’m here about the apartment?”

Nettie studied her. She’d hoped to get a man, preferably one who could watch the place. With her house on the mountain behind the store, Nettie lived far enough away that she wouldn’t hear if the store was being burglarized during the night. Last fall a grizzly had broken the back window. Thankfully, something had scared the bear away or it could have gotten in and made one devil of a mess.

“I was hoping to rent it to a man,” she said.

The girl’s disappointment was almost palpable. “It’s just that there aren’t any other places to stay in Beartooth.”

That was because few people had any reason to come here, Nettie almost said. Big Timber was only twenty miles away and had a lot more amenities.

Nettie glanced from the girl to her small, newer model compact car parked in front of the store. “I would need first and last month’s rent and a deposit.” She named a number, a little higher than she’d originally planned to ask. She figured that would put an end to it.

“Okay,” the girl said. “I have cash.”

Cash? “How long were you thinking of renting the place?”

“I’m not sure. I’d be happy to pay for six months in advance if you’d consider me,” she added quickly.

Six months? “Mind if I ask what brings you to Beartooth?”

The girl brushed a lock of hair back from her face and lifted her chin almost as if in defiance. “I’m applying to art school in the fall and I need somewhere to work on my portfolio.”

It sounded reasonable. Even possibly true. So why did Nettie feel as though the girl had practiced it?

“I really would appreciate it if you would consider renting to me,” she said, pleading in her tone.

All red flags. “Shouldn’t you see the apartment first?”

“Yes, of course.” The girl was visibly nervous, but Nettie reminded herself that she was young. This was probably her first apartment. No doubt her mother and father would be paying the rent and for her art school, as well. So Nettie wouldn’t have to worry about bounced checks anyway.

“Come with me,” she said. “There is a private entrance outside up the stairs, but you can also get to the apartment through here.” She led the way, with each step telling herself to pass on this girl.

But curiosity had always been Nettie Benton’s downfall. And there was something about this girl—and her desperation to live in Beartooth.

CHAPTER FOUR

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY had always prided himself on his patience. He was used to the state crime lab being backed up for weeks, if not months. Investigations took time. Some arrests weren’t made for months and didn’t go to trial for years. Justice moved slowly, as most of Montana wasn’t automated. Things were done the way they’d been done for years, especially fingerprints.

Only a few cities in Montana had the electronic system. Otherwise, prints were taken the old-fashioned way and sent to the crime lab. He had no doubt that the victim’s prints would be in the system, since he was betting the man had done prison time somewhere, possibly even Deer Lodge at some point. Which could explain how he had the photograph in his possession, if he’d crossed paths with Cullen Ackermann before his death.

“It looks like a map,” Lynette had said of the faded marks on the back of the photo.

Maybe at one time it had been a map, but the drawings were indistinguishable now. Still, before he died Cullen could have given the photo and map to one of the boys. If any of the boys had survived. And if these marks on the photo were a map, was it to the fabled hidden gold?

Frank had learned to live with the slow pace investigations often took.

That was, until this one.

He couldn’t help feeling anxious. He had to know what he was dealing with, starting with the dead man he had cooling his heels in the fridge down at the local mortuary.

It’s that damned photograph. His gut instinct told him that the man on that slab at the morgue was connected to the Ackermanns. Maybe he’d made Cullen’s acquaintance in prison. But why then was the rope, according to Jack, not one that was hitched at Montana State Prison, where Ackermann had been confined for the past thirty years?

Frank knew his fear ran much deeper than that. Hadn’t he been afraid for years that Cullen Ackermann would release his vengeance on Beartooth, just as he’d promised all those years ago?

Cullen’s dead. All the Ackermanns are dead.

Were they? He told himself that if any of the children had survived all those years ago, they would have turned up long before this. All four boys, and the little girl had been presumed dead more than three decades ago. But the remains of only one of the boys had ever been found back up in the Crazies. Who was to say that one or more of them hadn’t survived? And had just now turned up.

But if so, why now?

“Because their father died,” he said to his empty office. “Cullen’s death triggered whatever is going on.”

He knew he was jumping to conclusions, which also wasn’t like him. But Assistant Coroner Charlie Brooks had estimated the dead man’s age at somewhere around forty-five. The boys in the snapshot ranged in age from about twelve to seventeen. This photo had to have been taken about thirty years ago, which meant that the dead man could conceivably be one of the boys.

Frank felt as if a clock had started ticking the moment Cullen Ackermann died. He had to know who the dead man was. Or wasn’t, he thought as he studied the photo again.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, he picked up the phone and called a local artist he knew. “Have you ever done a sketch of a dead man?”

“You mean like a police artist’s sketch?” his friend asked.

“Exactly.”

* * *

NEWS OF THE BODY found by the river shot through the county like a high-powered rifle report. But since the dead man was found near the Yellowstone River twenty miles away and no one was missing from Beartooth, the news died down quickly.

That was until the sketch of the dead man came out Saturday in the weekly Big Timber newspaper asking if anyone could identify the man.

“Probably just some bum off the interstate,” Jack heard people saying. He hadn’t seen the paper. He’d been too busy on the W Bar G. Nor was he interested. All his attention Saturday morning at the café was on Kate LaFond.

“Some homeless guy. Or a hobo,” he heard people saying.

He smiled to himself. Were there still hoboes who rode the rails?

The Branding Iron Café was packed this morning. Not because of the news about the dead man being found by the river a few days ago, but because the Sweetgrass County Spring Fair was this weekend in Big Timber.

Everyone looked forward to the fair. It was a sign that spring had finally arrived. The fair had everything from a rodeo, cattle auction and carnival, to arts-and-crafts booths and a swap meet. Plus it was a great excuse come spring to see everyone you hadn’t seen over the winter.

Jack was finishing his coffee when Kate came by to refill his cup. It was the first time he’d been to the Branding Iron since he’d started work at the W Bar G. Since Destry had given everyone the day off to attend the fair, and he’d taken advantage of it, he decided to treat himself to breakfast. At least that was the story he told himself.

As Kate had done days before, she seemed to make a point of not looking at him. But when she came by to refill his cup, he pushed it closer to make her job easier and her fingers brushed his. She jerked back. Hot coffee sloshed onto the table and she let out an unladylike curse under her breath.

He reached for the napkins. “Here, let me—”

“I’ve got it,” she snapped, her gaze coming up to meet his. In the alley, her eyes had appeared dark, like her hair. Now, though, he saw with delight that they were wide set and the color of good whiskey. Her hair was the same color, with strands of gold woven through it, and fell to just below her chin.

He drew back his fingers and watched as she snatched the handful of napkins from him and cleaned up the mess. The shock of her touch still warmed his blood. She, on the other hand, appeared to be fighting hard to hide her reaction.

As the café began to clear out, she hurried to ring up patrons at the till and help Bethany clean the tables. He watched her. The woman could flat-out move when the café was busy. He had to admire her work ethic and her efficiency. He guessed she’d waitressed before buying the cafe.

“Ever been to a branding?” Jack asked as Kate came by a second time to refill his coffee. She shook her head, not looking at him. “There’s going to be a big one out at the W Bar G starting Monday. You should come. Get to know some of your neighbors, you know, socialize a little.”

She raised her gaze to his again. He saw anger spark like a Fourth of July firecracker.

“That’s right, you don’t need anyone.” He softened his words with a grin. “Especially the likes of me, huh.”

Some of the fire died back in her dark eyes. “Especially.”

“I just thought you’d like to see some of the real Wild West before you leave Beartooth.”

“Who says I’m leaving?” she challenged.

“Aren’t you?”

She looked away for a moment, then said, “I suppose I could bring out some cinnamon rolls. I heard neighbors bring food.”

His grin widened. “That would be nice and neighborly.”

She let out an amused chuckle as she left his table. He watched her, too interested in her for his own good.

As she started to gather up dirty dishes from a large table, he saw her freeze. Curious, he watched as she picked up what appeared to be a folded piece of paper that had been stuck under the edge of a plate.

She turned her back as she unfolded the note to read it. He saw her shoulders slump. She grabbed the edge of the table as if suddenly needing the support. For just an instant, he almost went to her. But she quickly straightened, tucked the note into her apron pocket and picked up the dirty dishes.

Jack tried to remember who had been sitting at that particular table. He couldn’t recall. He’d been too busy watching Kate to notice anyone else in the café.

So what could be in the note that would have had such an adverse effect on her? As she headed in his direction, she showed no sign of having been upset. He idly wondered where she’d learned to hide her feelings so well as she swept past him without a glance.

* * *

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY stepped out onto his porch. The morning was bright, the air brisk, the scent of the new spring growth on the breeze.

A member of the crow family who lived on his ranch called to him from the clothesline wire next to the house. A half dozen of the birds had gathered, only part of what he considered his extended family.

He’d made a habit of studying the crows and found them fascinating. This family had taken up residence on his ranch and included not only a mother, father and their “kids” but also some nephews, brothers and half brothers related to the mom and dad, he was guessing. Fifteen birds in all made up this little family.

Like some human families, the crows formed close nuclear families. Often the “kids” stayed around for more than five years. Sometimes the mother and family even adopted kids of unrelated neighbors.

The irony of crows easily forming a close-knit nuclear family unit, although he’d never been able to, didn’t escape Frank. He’d been married once a long time ago, after Lynette had broken his heart. He’d thought he’d gotten Lynette out of his system. But in truth, he’d gotten married on the rebound, a terrible mistake that he hadn’t had the sense to end even quicker than he had.

Poor Pam. She’d tried so hard to make him happy. Once she’d realized he was in love with Lynette, she’d turned his life into a living hell.

At least he’d been smart enough to end it, setting her free to find someone who loved her the way he loved Lynette. He doubted she would ever forgive him, though, not that he blamed her. Fortunately, she’d moved away after the divorce. He hadn’t seen her since.

But he’d lost his chance to have a family of his own. There was only one woman he’d wanted and Lynette had married Bob Benton. He wondered if she regretted not having a family or if he was alone in that.

One of the crows cawed at him. He smiled as more of them lined up along the clothesline as if coming to tell him good-morning. “Good morning,” he called back to them. After hours of studying the birds and their habits, he’d become somewhat of an expert on their behavior.

It was spring, so the birds had been busy building nests and courting. They were just like the cowboys and cowgirls who would be attending the spring fair today, he thought. They would preen, court and squabble, and there would be trouble. There always was.

He glanced at his watch and realized he had to get moving. He hoped he might see Lynette at the fair and mentally kicked himself for not inviting her. But he had to work, so he wouldn’t have made a very good companion anyway.

As he drove toward Big Timber, he thought about asking Lynette out on a real date. What was he waiting for anyway?

* * *

TUCKER WILLIAMS HADN’T read a book since high school and seldom even glanced at the local newspaper. But his wife, Mary, read it every morning to see who had given birth and who’d gotten divorced, died or been arrested, then passed on the goings-on around the county to him whether he was interested or not. This morning was no different.

“Some guy got murdered down by the river,” she said as she handed him a cup of coffee. She loved all those cop and forensic shows on television. “Didn’t have any identification on him, so they did a sketch and are asking if anyone knows him.” She turned the paper so he could see.

Tucker glanced at the sketch and let out a curse. “I saw him the other night. When I came out of the Range Rider, he was just getting out of his pickup. He asked me if I knew where he could find the woman who was running the café. I pointed him down the street....” He felt a chill.

“You were that close to him?” Mary asked, wide-eyed. “Then he ends up dead? You have to go to the sheriff.”

There were a lot of things Tucker had to do in his life. Work was at the top of the list. Tucker had been working construction for Grayson Construction Company for years—until recently, when his boss, Grayson Brooks, lost his wife, Anna, to cancer. Grayson had sold his construction business for pennies on the dollar to Tucker and left town. Now that Tucker was the boss, he couldn’t be late for work. “Maybe later.”

“Tuck, you can’t put this off. You might be the last person to see him alive—other than the killer.”

“Or Kate LaFond at the café was,” he said, and remembered seeing someone walking down the street that night as he’d driven past in his pickup. The cowboy had been right by the café—if he was the same person. Tucker hadn’t been paying any attention, just anxious to get home before Mary started calling the bar for him.

“You have to call the sheriff and tell him what you know.”

“I’m sure Kate’s already told the sheriff—”

“Tucker? Call the sheriff. Has anyone seen Kate since that night? What if something has happened to her as well?”

He sighed. “I’m sure if the café hasn’t been open someone would have noticed. But I’ll call the sheriff if it will make you happy, all right?”

* * *

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY had spent the morning at his office researching online for information about horsehair hitching, and waiting to see if the photo in the newspaper generated any clues.

Until it did, all he had to go on was the murder weapon—the length of hitched horsehair rope found about the victim’s neck.

Frank took out the evidence bag holding the horsehair rope. Could this length of hitched horsehair help him solve this murder? He sure hoped so.

Jack said he didn’t think the pattern was from Montana State Prison. Frank finally understood what Jack had meant. Apparently there were only four prisons where this old Western art form was practiced still: Deer Lodge, Montana; Rawlins, Wyoming; Walla Walla, Washington; and Yuma, Arizona; and each had their own designs and colors. The painstaking art was popular in prisons, where inmates had nothing but time.

From the bright colors used in the rope, it sounded as if there was a good chance the rope had been made in the Yuma prison. The colors apparently were the result of the Mexican influence at the prison there.

So if it was true that each prison had its own designs and colors and no two hitched ropes were ever identical, then the rope found around the dead man’s neck, along with his morgue photo, might be used to identify either him—or his killer.

Frank had just left a message for the Yuma warden when Tucker Williams walked into his office.

“You’re sure it was the man in the sketch?” the sheriff asked after listening to what Tucker had to tell him.

“Positive. It was right behind the bar under that outside light, so I got a good look at him.”

“And he was asking about Kate LaFond?”

“Not by name.” He took off his hat and scratched his head as if trying to remember the conversation. “The man described her and said he’d heard she was running the café. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he knew she owned it.”

Frank nodded. “So you told him where he could find her.”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t think anything of it, you know?”

He could tell Tucker felt badly about that.

“Is she all right? Mary’s worried.”

“She’s fine.” But now that he thought about it, he had noticed a bruise on her cheek that she’d tried to cover with makeup the morning the body was found. “Thanks for calling and letting me know. I appreciate your help.”

“I hope it helps.”

“It does.”

* * *

KATE COULDN’T WAIT until the café emptied out. She kept moving, afraid to stop, let alone reread the note in her apron pocket. She could feel Jack French’s gaze on her. Had he seen her pick up the folded sheet of paper from the table?

She’d felt him watching her all morning. But she couldn’t worry about that. She had much bigger worries than that long, tall cowboy. She had felt like such a fool when his fingers had brushed hers earlier. It had been a shock, like the time she’d gone swimming in the creek and had raced back to her father’s travel trailer. The moment her bare, wet foot touched the metal trailer step, electricity had shot through her. She’d felt that same kind of jolt when Jack had brushed her hand.

With relief she saw that he was leaving. As he walked over to the cash register, Kate motioned to Bethany to take care of him. She busied herself cleaning the last table until she heard the bell over the front door jangle.

She’d been threatening to get rid of that damned bell, but like the Branding Iron, it was apparently part of a long tradition started by the former owner, Claude Durham.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Kate asked Bethany as they both took off their aprons, dropping them in a bin next to the washing machine by the back door of the café.

“Seriously, you haven’t heard? The Sweetgrass County Spring Fair is today and tomorrow. Everyone in three counties will be there. It’s the biggest event of spring.” Bethany was looking at her as if to say, Do you live in a cave? “Didn’t you hear everyone talking about it this morning at breakfast?”

Kate had quit listening to the café chatter when she realized all anyone around this part of Montana talked about most of the time was cows, crops and weather. “Well, have fun,” she said, shooing Bethany toward the front door.

“You should come.”

“And leave Lou in charge of the café?” she asked, joking about the cook running the place. Lou was more reclusive than she was.

“I don’t think you’d lose any money if you just shut down for the rest of the day. Everyone will be at the fair.”