"Dark Paradise" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoag Tami)CHAPTER 5 J.D. WORKED the horse around the pen, stepping ahead of her to make her turn, snapping a catch rope at her hindquarters when she slowed down. The rhythm of it was as natural to him as walking. He could read the mare’s slightest body language, knew when she would try to turn away from him, knew when she was most in need of a breather. He let her take one now, stepping back slightly. She stopped immediately, her huge brown eyes fixed on him. She read his body language as well. J.D. knew that ninety percent of a horse’s communication was visual. That was one of the few great mysteries to mastering a horse. He had never been able to understand how anyone who had ever dealt with a horse couldn’t see that in five minutes. It was stupid simple. He made a kissing sound as the mare’s attention began to drift away from him. Immediately she pricked her ears and faced him. He moved toward her slowly, held a hand out for her to blow on. “That’s a girl,” he murmured, rubbing the side of her face. “Good for you. You’re all right.” When he turned to walk away from her, she dropped her head and began to follow. J.D. wheeled and chased her off, putting her back on the rail of the round pen at a trot. This was one of the other great mysteries-establishing his place at the top of her pecking order. Dominance had nothing to do with force and everything to do with behaving in a way the horse could understand. He was the boss hoss. She had to move when he wanted, turn when he wanted and how he wanted. She rested when he allowed it. She learned to turn and face him, to keep her attention on him, because if she didn’t, he would make her run some more and she was already hot, tired, and breathing hard. He turned her in an easy figure eight with barely more than a shift of his weight and the motion of a hand. She was a pretty mare. Small, stocky-a quarter horse of the old style, built for cutting cattle. Her coat was a dark gold, made muddy now by sweat and dust. Her mane and tail were platinum-skunky, he called it-a mix of silver, white, and black. Her forelock hung in her eyes and she tossed her dainty head to fling it back. She belonged to the pharmacist in New Eden, who wanted her broke and safe for his twelve-year-old daughter to ride. She was one of four outside horses J.D. had in training at the moment. He enjoyed the work, and it brought in extra cash, something they never had enough of, ranching being what it was. “Nice mare, good mare,” he murmured, letting the palomino rest again. No reason to think he’d ever get the chance. She had come to see someone who was dead. She’d stay a day or two, until the shock wore off, and then she’d leave. He tightened his jaw against the feeling that thought inspired. Will was right, much as he hated to admit that. He needed a woman. He’d gone too long without. He was feeling edgy and distracted. In his mind’s eye he could see Lucy standing in the open door of her fancy little log house wearing nothing but a pair of high-cut black panties and a see-through blouse. She leaned against the jamb, completely relaxed, her eyes glittering with amusement, her brassy yellow hair tumbling over one shoulder in a wave of silk. He didn’t like her, didn’t respect her, thought she was a selfish, mean-spirited bitch. She had a similar string of names and sentiments for him as well, but they hadn’t let any of that get in the way of what either one of them had wanted. It had all been a game to Lucy. She knew J.D. wanted her land and she had dangled it in front of him, a shiny, empty promise she had no intention of making good on. The bitch. Now she was gone for good. The land still teased him. A glance at the sun sliding toward the back side of the Gallatin Range told him it was quitting time for the day. He needed to shower and shave and drive back down the mountain. Damned waste of time, citizens groups. They got together and squawked and bickered worse than a gaggle of geese, and nothing ever came of it. They could make all the noise they wanted, but in the end the money would talk and that would be the end of it. What the common man had to say wouldn’t matter. They would all be ground beneath the wheels of some outsider’s idea of progress. That conviction was what pushed all other cynical thoughts aside. Not the Raffertys, by God. The Stars and Bars wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t let it. That was the legacy left him by three prior generations of Rafferty men-protect the land, keep it in the family. He took that duty to heart. It wasn’t so much a chore as a calling. It wasn’t so much a sense of ownership as a sense of stewardship for the land, for tradition. He had been entrusted with a history, with the life of the ranch and everything and everyone on it. There was nothing in him stronger than his sense of personal accountability to that trust. Forgetting about the mare, he wandered to the far side of the round pen and laid his arms against the second rail from the top. From there he could see for miles down the slope of the mountain to the broad valley that was carpeted in green, studded with green. Pines stood shoulder to shoulder, ranks of them marching down the hillsides. In the breeze, the pale green leaves of the aspen quivered like sequins. He didn’t know if the shades of green here compared with those in the birthplace of his Irish ancestors; J.D. had never been farther than Dallas. But he knew each shade by heart, knew each tree, each blade of grass. The idea that some outsider believed he had a better right to all of it was like a punch in the gut. The mare had come to stand beside him. She nudged him now, rubbed her head against his shoulder, tried to reach around and twitch her heavy upper lip against his shirt pocket. J.D. scowled at her. “Quit,” he growled in warning. She backed off a step, then tossed her head, eyes bright, not intimidated by his show of annoyance. He chuckled, pulled off a glove, and dug into his pocket for a butter mint. “Can’t fool you, can I, little mare?” he mumbled, giving her the treat. “Reckon you can get that citizens’ commission to eat out of your hand that way?” J.D. looked across the pen to where Tucker Cahill stood with his foot on a rail and a chaw in his lip. Tucker had a face that was creased like old leather, small eyes full of wisdom and kindness, and a hat that had seen better days. He claimed women told him he was a dead ringer for Ben Johnson, the cowboy actor. Ben Johnson had seen better days too. He was one of two hands kept on at the Stars and Bars, as much out of loyalty as necessity. The other, Chaske Sage, claimed to be the descendant of Sioux mystics. It might have been true or not. Chaske was a wily old character. He had to be at least as old as Tucker, but had warded off the rheumatism that plagued his cohort. He attributed his stamina to sex and to a mysterious mix of ash, sage, and powdered rattlesnake skin he took daily. “Nope,” J.D. said. “All together they don’t have the sense God gave a horse.” He patted the little mare and headed for the gate. She followed him like a dog. “Couple of them sure do resemble the back end of one, though.” Tucker spat a stream of brown juice into the dirt and grinned his tight, shy grin, showing only a glimpse of discolored teeth. “That’s a fact, son. A bigger bunch of horse’s patoots I never did see.” He swung the gate open and stepped past J.D. to snap a lead to the mare’s halter. “I’ll cool her out. You better get a move on if you’re gonna make that meeting. Will already went up to the house.” “Yeah, well, he spends an hour in front of the mirror. If he spent as much time with his wife as he does picking out his clothes-” “Got that line of fence done up east of the blue rock.” Tucker changed the subject as smoothly as an old cowhorse changing leads. J.D. didn’t miss the switch. Tucker had been on the Stars and Bars a lot of years. He’d been a pal of old Tom, had stood by faithfully and worked like a dog during all the years Sondra had made their life a misery. He’d been a surrogate father to J.D. when Tom had been caught up in the agony of heartbreak, and a mentor after Tom had died, leaving the ranch to J.D. and Will when J.D. was only twenty. His role these days as often as not was that of diplomat. He didn’t like dissention among the ranks, and did his best to smooth things between the brothers. “You find Old Dinah?” J.D. asked as they walked across the hard-packed earth of the ranch yard, their battered boots kicking up puffs of dust. Tucker chuckled. “Yep. In the back of beyond with a big good-looking bull calf at her side. She’s got a mind of her own, that old mama cow. Just like every female I ever knew.” The little mare snorted as if in affront, blowing crud down the back of the old man’s shirt. He scowled at her, but kept on walking, grumbling, “Jeezo Pete.” “That’s why you’re single,” J.D. joked, turning toward the house. “Yeah, well, what’s your excuse, hotshot?” “I’m too smart.” “For your own good.” J.D. thought about that as he climbed the broad steps to the old clapboard ranch house with its wide, welcoming front porch. He planned to dodge matrimony for as long as he could. He didn’t have time for courtship rituals and all the related nonsense. When he couldn’t put it off any longer, he supposed he would go find a sensible woman with a ranching background, a woman who understood that the land and the animals would always come first with him. They would marry out of a mutual desire to raise a family, and the next generation of Raffertys would grow up on the Stars and Bars, learning the duty and the joy of life here. There was nothing romantic about his plan. Growing up he had seen firsthand the folly of romance. His father had lost his heart twice. First to J.D.’s mother, Ann, who died of cancer. J.D. had been only three at the time. He had no memories of the woman herself, only of sensations-comfort and safety, softness. But he remembered vividly her death and the way it devastated his father. Then along came Sondra Remick. Much too soon. Much too pretty. Much too spoiled. And Tom Rafferty lost his heart again to a woman. Totally. Utterly. Beyond all pride or reason. In the end, he damn near lost everything. Sondra had eventually left him for a more exciting man. Because of her infidelities, Tom had had a strong case against her as an unfit mother, and might have ended up with full custody of her darling Will. That was the only thing that had stood in her way of suing him for divorce and taking away half of everything he owned, including the Stars and Bars. They fought bitterly over his refusal to release her from her marriage vows, but he was unrelenting. He would not let her go. His obsession for her went too deep. In retrospect, J.D. thought he probably could not have let go even if he had wanted. They had stood right there on this porch, J.D. and his daddy, looking down across the ranch yard at the sturdy old buildings, the corrals, the horses, the valley and mountains beyond. Lines of strain were etched in Tom Rafferty’s face like scars, his eyes were bleak with hopelessness. He looked like a man waiting to die. “Never love a woman, son,” he mumbled as if he were remembering words told to him by someone long ago. “Never love a woman. Love the land.” Citizens for the Eden Valley ordinarily met in the community center-a kind euphemism for a room off the fire station garage filled with rickety folding chairs and mismatched card tables people had donated over the years. That this meeting was being held in the Mystic Moose Lodge was a bad sign as far as J.D. was concerned. The enemy had invited them into its camp. Some saw it as an overture of friendship, an invitation to work cooperatively with the newcomers. J.D. wasn’t so optimistic. The meeting room was bright and clean with ruby carpeting on the floor and rustic beams across the ceiling. It smelled pleasantly of fresh coffee instead of diesel fuel and exhaust fumes like the community center. The tables were draped in hunter-green linen. The chairs were all new. J.D. chose to stand at the back of the room. There were perhaps a hundred people in attendance, milling around, buzzing premeeting gossip. Most of them were lifelong citizens of New Eden. Businessmen and women from the community. Ranchers who had, like J.D., quit work hours early to clean up and put on freshly pressed western shirts, Sunday trousers, and good boots. Scattered among the common folk were new faces-Hollywood types, artists, environmental activists, Evan Bryce. J.D.’s hackles went up at the sight of Bryce working the room. He made the rounds, singling out the mayor, the chairman of the citizens’ commission, the banker’s wife, dazzling them with his smile, undermining any wariness they might have had with a phony show of concern. As if he gave a damn about the people of New Eden. What Bryce cared about was power. That had seemed glaringly apparent to J.D. the first time they had met-from the way Bryce threw money around to the way he surrounded himself with people who believed he was important. J.D. refused to be impressed by him, an affront that had set the tone for their acquaintance. Bryce wanted to be king of the mountain along the south face of the Absaroka range, but J.D. wouldn’t play the game. No Rafferty had ever bowed to a king-real or otherwise. No Rafferty ever would. As if he sensed J.D.’s eyes on him, Bryce looked up and their gazes caught and held for one burning moment. A slow smile pulled across Bryce’s mouth. His pale eyes gleamed with amusement. The look clearly said “Hey, J.D.” Red Grusin stuck out a hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t see much of you these days.” As owner of the Hell and Gone, Red had never seen much of him. J.D. had better things to do than sit around a honky-tonk and drink beer. “Will spends enough time with you all for the both of us,” he said with a half smile. For all he knew, that was where Will was at that very moment. His brother had yet to make an appearance in the meeting room. Grusin chuckled. He was a big man with skinny legs and a thick chest and belly that made him look as if he were wearing an umpire’s padding beneath his shirt. He had the hair and freckles his name indicated. His cheeks and the end of his bulbous nose were perpetually pink. “That’s a fact. Why, just last night he hit the jackpot on the mouse races. ’Course, that didn’t hardly make up for what he lost downstairs in the poker game,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. His blue eyes twinkled. Just a little joke among friends-Will and his weakness for wagering. “But it’ll all come out in the wash, as my mama always said.” “Will was in Little Purgatory last night?” J.D. asked, his voice as dead calm as the air before a storm. Grusin’s jowly face dropped a little, and he swallowed hard as he realized his slip. “How much did he lose?” Grusin made a face, his eyes dodging around the room as if he were afraid the sheriff might overhear and suddenly decide to shut down the illegal gambling that had been going on in the basement of the Hell and Gone for the last two decades. “Don’t worry about it, J.D. He’ll win it back. He’s been on a bad streak and he’s in the hole a little now, but-” J.D. stepped a little closer in front of Red and stared at him hard. “How much?” he whispered. The older man’s mouth worked as if he were chewing a mouthful of chalk. “Sixty-five hundred,” he mumbled. “Don’t worry about it, J.D.” His gaze scanned the room frantically for anyone near enough to rescue him, landing on Harry Rex Monroe from the Feed and Read. Relief brightened his face like a man having a vision. “Hey there, Harry Rex!” J.D. just stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the floor and breathing slowly through his mouth. Sixty-five hundred dollars. Will did not have sixty-five hundred dollars. The bank held the mortgages on everything they owned, practically down to their underwear, and Will was whiling away his nights in Little Purgatory, throwing money down a rat hole after busted poker hands. “I heard talk of a ski resort on Irish peak…” “… Some developer wants to put up condos north of town.” “They’ll turn the place into another goddamn Aspen with cappuccino bars and prissy Swiss chalets and rents so high, everyone who works here will have to drive in from someplace else…” Random lines of conversation penetrated the fog. J.D. forced himself to pay attention, forced his brain to function. He had come here for a reason. Will could be dealt with later. Lyle Watkins, who was his neighbor to the south of the Stars and Bars, stood staring down into his coffee cup. He looked thin and miserable, as if worry had been eating away at him beneath his skin. “Yeah, well,” he snapped suddenly, breaking in on the antidevelopment talk of his fellow ranchers. “You can’t feed your kids on pride and scenery.” “Can’t feed them at all if these damned actors bring in buffalo and elk herds infected with brucellosis and TB,” J.D. said calmly. Lyle dodged his gaze, rubbing his fingertips against his coffee cup as if it were a worry stone. “Ain’t nobody proved Bryce’s herds are infected.” “I don’t want the proof to be my cattle dropping over. Do you, Lyle?” Watkins tightened his lips and said nothing. The silence curled like a fist of foreboding in J.D.’s chest. He swore softly under his breath. “You’re selling out.” The words were barely more than a whisper. Lyle flinched as if they struck him with the force of hammer blows. “Deal’s not done yet,” he mumbled. He stared down at the toes of his boots, his head hanging with the weight of his shame. He had been one of the first and the loudest to decry the buyout of ranchers by people who wanted the land for their own private playgrounds, and now he was giving in, giving up, betraying his neighbor. “I can’t afford not to, J.D.,” he said miserably. “You know what the market’s been like. And I got Debbie and the kids to think of.” “Jesus, Lyle,” J.D. said, desperation running through him like a sword. He felt as if he was standing on a narrow ledge and another piece had just crumbled out from under his boots. “How long has your family been on the place? Seventy-eighty years?” “Long enough.” “Who?” Watkins shook his head a little and started to move with the rest of the crowd toward the chairs as Jim Ed Wilcox began blowing into the microphone at the podium. J.D. grabbed him roughly by the arm, ignoring the stares the others directed his way. “Dammit, Lyle, I asked who,” he demanded through his teeth. The fact that Watkins didn’t want to answer was answer enough. J.D. felt as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He stared hard at this man he had known all his life, the neighbor he had worked with side by side at brandings and roundups, and felt as if a member of his own family had turned on him. “Bryce.” He growled the name in disgust. Lyle Watkins looked up at him, his tired eyes soft with apology. “I’m sorry, J.D.,” he whispered. “He’s got more money than God. Me, I don’t have two nickels left to rub together.” He lowered his voice another decibel, his eyes cutting from side to side to make certain no one else could hear his confession. “I sell the place to him, or it goes to the bank. That’s all there is to it.” “The hell it is.” Watkins pulled away and headed for a chair, not looking back. J.D. stared after him, furious, stunned, frustrated. He didn’t even hear the opening remarks of the chairman. He just stood there behind the last row of chairs, his mind spinning, his eyes on Evan Bryce, who sat at the table up front with all the local indignitaries, as J.D. called them. If Lyle Watkins sold the Flying K, Bryce would own everything from Irish Peak south to the edge of Yellowstone-everything except the Stars and Bars and the little chunk of property that had belonged to Lucy MacAdam. Bryce sat up there in his faded denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tan forearms. Christ, the man had probably never done an honest day’s work in his life. Nobody was even sure where all his money had come from. Or where To the credit of the citizens of New Eden, not everyone bought the routine. People rose readily to debate the issues. When one person pointed out that development would bring jobs to the valley, another countered that the jobs would be low-paying service occupations. When one charged that the influx of tourists was a disruption to a way of life, another argued that the town would die without those tourist dollars. Cattlemen spoke out angrily about the political clout wielded by radical left-wing environmentalists who owned second homes here and were fighting to stop everything from grazing on federal land to eating red meat. Environmentalists fought back, slamming the cattle industry for overgrazing and destroying wildlife habitat. Jim Ed Wilcox, chairman of the committee, cut in as the debate edged toward an exchange of blows. He broke in again when a new argument heated up between a Mormon rancher from over on Bitter Creek and the owner of the New Age rock shop, or whatever the hell it was-a tall, fierce-looking woman named M.E. who was some kind of Broadway actress when she wasn’t playing around in Montana. The rancher accused her of practicing witchcraft. She accused him of having a negative energy field and a constipated mind. Wilcox shouted them both down and, when order had been restored, introduced another of the people at the front table. Colleen Bentsen was a squarely built woman with a cap of soft brown curls and large tortoiseshell glasses. She was dressed in a blue silk tunic and slacks with a wildly patterned scarf swathed around her shoulders and pinned in place with what looked to J.D. like a chunk of welder’s solder. She took her place behind the podium as two men carried a draped object in from a side door and set it on the table beside her. “Good evening, everyone,” she said so softly that Jim Ed got up and bent the neck of the microphone down, making it screech in protest. A blush bloomed on the woman’s cheeks. She cleared her throat demurely and started again. “As many of you know, I am a sculptor. I came to New Eden two years ago and made this my permanent home. It troubles me to see so much dissention over the issue of new people coming here. I feel what we all need is a spirit of cooperation. As a symbol of that spirit, I have decided to donate to the town a sculpture that embodies the theme of cooperation and blends harmoniously the rough elements of the ranching community with the influx of sophisticated and artistic qualities from the outside.” She unveiled the model with a flick of the wrist, snapping the white cloth from it. Half the room gasped in awe and wonder. The other half stared in dumbfounded astonishment. J.D. fit squarely into the second group. It didn’t look like anything to him but a big hunk of smooth metal and a big hunk of jagged metal twisted together, like something that could be found on the road in the aftermath of a major car wreck. There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause for the piece, which, Miss Bentsen said, would stand as a focal point in front of the county courthouse. She would begin work on the project immediately, and would create the piece on the site so people could witness the progress. “I expect that’s a nice gesture, Miz Bentsen,” J.D. said neutrally, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. “But I don’t see how a big ol’ hunk of metal is gonna help me pay taxes that have been raised to the moon because of inflated land prices. A gesture doesn’t keep my neighbors from selling out prime ranch land to people who think food is manufactured in a room out back of the A amp;P. Bottom line here is, we dig our heels in now and hang on to what’s ours, or in five years we’ll all be steppin’ and fetchin’ for rich folk. That’s not what my ancestors came west for a hundred-some years ago.” While the sculptress turned scarlet with embarrassment, Bryce rose gracefully from his chair, steepling his bony fingers in front of him in a scholarly pose. His pale eyes locked on J.D. “Mr. Rafferty, are you saying only natives should be allowed to live in Montana? That this land and freedom you so cherish shouldn’t be offered to anyone born in another state?” J.D. narrowed his eyes. He didn’t raise his voice above its usual low growl, and yet each word snapped in the air like the crack of a whip. “I’m saying I won’t sell my heritage to some slick-ass smart-mouth rich boy so he can impress his witless, feckless friends from Hollywood. “I can’t stop people from coming here, but they can damn well respect my way of life and leave me to it in peace. I won’t be bought out. I won’t be run off. And I sure as hell won’t stand by and smile while speculators turn this place into some kind of snotty elitist playground.” He settled his Stetson on his head, signaling to one and all that the argument was over as far as J. D. Rafferty was concerned. “If I want to live in an amusement park,” he said softly, firmly, “I’ll move to Disneyland.” Will sat at the bar, one arm on the polished surface, fingers absently stroking a sweating mug of imported beer. He swiveled sideways on his stool to survey the place. It was a little tony for his tastes. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, chasing off the chill of the spring evening. Soft guitar music drifted out of hidden speakers, calm enough to lull a man to sleep. Will preferred the Hell and Gone down the street for its noise and truculence and nightly mouse races. The juke there played country as loud as thunder and nobody talked below a shout. The liquor was better in the Moose, but hell, after two or three, what difference did it make? About half the tables in the Mystic Moose lounge were filled with newcomers and vacationers, pretty people in expensive clothes. One exotic-looking blonde sitting alone at a nearby table caught his eye, returning his stare with open boldness, but Will looked past her. He hadn’t come in to get himself picked up by some rich bitch looking for a cowboy to lay. He had come in because his wife moved among the clientele with a serving tray and a smile that was softer than silk and warmer than the sun. Damn, but she was a pretty thing. Somehow, he hadn’t managed to realize just how pretty until after they had split up. He had always thought of Sam as cute-when he thought of her at all. A cute kid, a tomboy with a crush on him. Now he looked at her as she bent to set a glass of wine in front of a customer and her jeans snugged up tight against her bottom, and he wished to hell they’d never gotten married. He would have loved nothing better than to charm his way into her bed tonight, but he couldn’t do that, things being what they were. He shook his head and swilled his beer. He liked his life a whole lot better without complications. Samantha felt his eyes on her the instant she set her tray on the bar, and her heart jumped up into her throat. Two weeks had passed since Will had moved back out to the Stars and Bars. She hadn’t seen him up close since their last fight. The memory of the blonde from the Hell and Gone warred with the image of him sitting there on the bar-stool, looking too handsome for his own good, his eyes too blue and his smile too tempting. The pressure made her heart feel as if it were swelling and cutting off her air. “Aren’t you even gonna say hello, Sam?” he said softly. She turned her head to look at him squarely, wishing he would see cool indifference in her eyes, knowing he would see pain instead. “What are you doing here?” Good question. He bit the inside of his lip and tried to think of something clever, something that didn’t sound as screwed up as he felt. He was the one who wanted out of the marriage; he couldn’t very well tell her he missed her. “It’s a free country,” he said at last, all but wincing at how lame that sounded. Samantha tightened her expression into a glare, hoping the hurt wouldn’t show through. In her heart she had wanted him to say that he missed her, that he needed her, that he wanted to try again to make their marriage work. Over and over she had envisioned him coming to her and begging her forgiveness, telling her with tears in his eyes that he wanted her more than anything, that he wanted her to have his baby. That was what “Well then, you’re free to go on down to the Hell and Gone,” she said sharply. “I’m sure there’s a bimbo or two waiting for you.” Will’s protest caught in his throat as she wheeled around and stalked away with a loaded tray in her hands. Heaving a sigh, he leaned both elbows on the bar and hung his head. “Hey, Tony,” he muttered to the bartender, “gimme a shot of Jack in the black, will you?” J.D. intercepted the whiskey. He tossed it back, slammed the glass down on the bar and fixed his brother with a steely glare. “We’re leaving.” Will shot him a look. “What’s your problem?” “Besides you?” “That meeting can’t be over yet.” “It is as far as I’m concerned.” “Oh, well, then,” Will drawled sarcastically, stretching his arms out in an expansive gesture. “Then we can “Save your lip for someone who wants to hear it. Let’s go.” Will shook his head, only mildly incredulous at his brother’s high-handedness. “Contrary to what you seem to think, big brother, you are “Yeah. And some night you might even be sober enough to drive it home.” “I’m driving it home tonight,” Will said tightly. “Before or after you lose another grand or two in Little Purgatory?” Will squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, shit.” “Yeah,” J.D. said, his gaze cutting around them to make certain no one was within earshot. He signaled the bartender for a refill on the Jack and leaned heavily against the bar. “Jesus, Will,” he whispered. “How could you? Sixty-five hundred!” “I had a straight, J.D.,” he said, cupping his hands in front of him as if he could call up a vision of the cards across them. “I had it right there and I kept looking at that pot and thinking, Judas, that’s the loan on my truck, that’s three payments to Stark Implement, that’s a down payment on that hay ground across the valley…” “It’s sixty-five hundred dollars you could just as well have flushed down the toilet.” Will glared at him. “Thanks, J.D. Make me feel worse about it than I already do. I was trying to win.” “But you didn’t, Will.” He held his tongue as the bartender refilled his glass. He tossed the whiskey back and set the glass down with a dull thunk. “You never do.” Will reached for his beer mug and J.D. slid it beyond his grasp. His temper was simmering. He felt as if everything in his world was slipping beyond his control, sliding through his hands like wet rope. “We got cattle to move in the morning. Remember that. If you’re not downstairs by four-thirty, I’ll haul your sorry ass out of whatever bed I find it in and tie it on a horse. You hear me?” “I hear you fine.” J.D. leaned down into his brother’s face, his voice a razor-edged whisper. “You might try to remember once in a while that the Stars and Bars is your responsibility too. Responsibility, not a toy, not something you bet on in a goddamn poker game. Responsibility. Look the word up in the dictionary if you have to, college boy.” Tossing some crumpled bills on the bar, Will slid off his stool. “I’m out of here. I don’t need to take this bullshit from you.” He headed for the front lobby of the lodge, his mind turning to thoughts of the Hell and Gone and drowning his troubles in Coors and the charms of a cowgirl with a tight ass and loose morals. J.D. stalked across the room to a side door that led out into the parking lot, tipping his hat to Samantha as he went. Neither of them paid the least bit of attention to the pair of eyes that had taken in every detail of their argument. Sharon Russell sipped her scotch and smiled to herself. Dissension among the Rafferty ranks. Bryce would be pleased. Outside, J.D. was able to breathe a little better. The Jack Daniel’s seeped into his bloodstream and calmed him a bit. He turned away from the refurbished lodge and focused on a view he had loved since boyhood. The night sky was a sheet of deep blue velvet studded with diamonds. A wedge of moon was scaling the peaks of the Absarokas to the east, spilling its white glow down the forested slopes. As he stood there, staring up at it, the anger that seemed so much a part of him these days slipped away, the tension ebbed. The madness of life receded for a moment, and he was left with something that was real and enduring. The mountains would always be here. The moon would always rise. Not wanting to think beyond that, he stepped off the veranda and headed toward his truck at the back of the lot. He didn’t want to think about Will and the resentment that always managed to seep into their conversations from both sides. He didn’t want to think about the mental slip he’d made in calling Will “college boy.” He didn’t want to think why he should consider it a slip at all, the showing of a weakness. It wasn’t Will’s fault J.D. hadn’t been able to finish his time at Montana State. That was Tom’s fault for dying-which was Sondra’s fault for breaking him. Nor was it Will’s fault he had gotten a full ride to the university in Missoula. That had been Sondra’s doing too. She had insisted her baby get a complete education; had seen to it with the money of her lover. Never mind that Will had majored in partying and minored in rodeo and let his grades skid down the shitter. The memory set J.D.’s teeth on edge. Waste. God almighty, how he hated waste. The sound of music caught his ear and he pulled up short, glancing at the lodge. Lights glowed through the array of French doors along the back of the bar. From farther down the street came the drift of noise from the Hell and Gone. But this music was softer, warmer, nearer. He walked on, scanning his surroundings with a narrow gaze. A split rail fence marked the back of the parking lot. Beyond that lay the rumpled hills that formed the feet of the mountains, dotted with trees and rock outcroppings that loomed in the stark contrast of moonglow and shadows. J.D. slipped between the rails of the fence and walked out into meadow, his senses filling with the scent of grass and wildflowers, the sounds of a warm, smoky voice and the sweet, tender notes of a guitar. A woman’s voice, low and strong. The song she sang was poignant and reflective, poetic in a way that went far beyond simple rhyme. It was the song of a woman trying to navigate her way through life despite the obstacles and her own stubbornness, despite mistakes and missed opportunities. The beauty and the truth of it stopped J.D. from walking up on her. He just stood there and listened as she sang of the moon and St. Christopher. And when it was over and her fingers had plucked out the final notes, he almost backed away out of respect. Then it struck him who she was. Mary Lee Jennings. She sat on a small boulder, the guitar cradled across her middle and a tall bottle by her side. She wasn’t alone. Zip, his cattle dog, sat at the base of the rock, staring up at her, his ears perked attentively. It was Zip who noticed him first and bounded toward him with a jubilant yip. Mari followed the dog with her eyes, her heart slamming into her breastbone when she saw the man standing no more than a dozen feet away. The brim of a pale gray hat shaded his face, but almost instantly she recognized the set of his shoulders and the stance he had taken with his hands jammed at the waist of his jeans. It seemed odd that she should know him by such subtle signs when she had met him only twice. “You missed your calling, Rafferty,” she said, her tone wry. “You would have made a great spy the way you sneak up on people.” J.D. ignored the commentary. He waded a little closer through the lush grass, until he could almost read the label on the bottle that sat beside her. “You always sit and sing to the moon?” “Doesn’t everyone?” “No, ma’am. Not around here.” She raised a shoulder in a careless shrug and tugged a hand back through her tangled hair to anchor it behind one ear. A lazy smile turned the corners of her mouth. “Oh, well. At least I’m not naked.” The joke was almost lost on him as the image filled his head. He could too easily picture her sitting there on that smooth boulder in nothing but pale creamy skin and her moon-silvered mop of hair. Mari sensed the tension in him. It was telegraphed to her on a wavelength of instinct she didn’t understand, nor did she care to understand at the moment. Not at this time and certainly not with this man. Pretending ignorance, she lifted the bottle that sat beside her and held it out to him. “Champagne? Compliments of the Mystic Moose.” “You’re staying here?” She gave him a look. “While the place you sent me to had an undeniably unique ambience, I prefer not to listen while the trucker in the next room gets a lube job.” He almost smiled at that. Dangerous thinking, letting her charm him. He focused on the bottle she held by the neck. “You always offer drinks to men you consider jerks?” Mari had the grace to wince, though more for what she was about to do than for anything she’d said before. She needed information from J. D. Rafferty. It seemed only politic not to antagonize him, even if it did make her feel like a hypocrite, even if he deserved to be antagonized. She slid down off the rock, holding both the champagne bottle and her guitar out away from her. The guitar she propped carefully against the boulder. The champagne she took with her as she moved toward him, holding it out as a peace offering. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Maybe we should just take it from the top, huh?” J.D. narrowed his eyes, assessing her from head to toe. She wore a pair of old black leggings, a T-shirt from a Cajun bar in New Orleans, and a blue cotton shirt five sizes too big for her. She hardly looked dangerous, but his guard stayed up just the same. “Why? What do you want from me?” “Civility?” Mari ventured, swallowing back the question she had held inside her most of the afternoon and evening. When he only went on watching her, she forced a laugh and shook her head. “Christ, you’re a suspicious son of a gun.” “I’ve got reason to be. I knew your friend Lucy, remember? She never offered a damn thing that didn’t have strings attached. Why should I think you’re any different?” She put her head on one side and hummed a note of consideration, the champagne dulling the edges of her temper. “This is a first. I’ve never posed a threat to anyone before. Unless you count social embarrassment. My family has always lived in fear of me eating with the wrong fork at dinner parties-to say nothing of eating with my fingers, which I have an uncontrollable urge to do. My mother considered my lack of social grace a birth defect. I’m sure she would have organized a telethon for the cause if the shame hadn’t been too much for her.” He just stared at her for several moments until she began to wonder if she hadn’t suddenly begun speaking in a language he didn’t understand. A blush of embarrassment and champagne fizzies warmed her cheeks, and she anxiously shifted her weight from one sneaker to the other. Finally he said, “You always talk this much?” “No. I am capable of deep and abiding silences. But not after half a bottle of champagne,” she confessed. “I tend to wax poetic and bay at the moon.” He gave a snort that might have been disgust or a sinus condition, and started to turn away, motioning the dog to follow him. “Wait!” Mari rushed to catch up, the grass and the lethargy of alcohol pulling at her feet. “I have to ask you something.” He stopped, but didn’t turn around, forcing her to step in front of him. His expression was inscrutable, but she could feel tension emanating from him. She wondered where the wariness came from, wondered if Lucy had been the one who jaded him. She thought of chickening out, but forced the words past the knot in her tongue before she could. “Who is Del Rafferty?” “Why?” “He found Lucy’s body. Is he a relative of yours?” “You thought you had to ply me with liquor for that?” J.D. sneered, letting his temper run freely through him and heat the blood in his veins. He welcomed it. This was the face of femininity he knew best-deceit. She wanted something from him. Plain and simple. Like every other leech who had come into his domain from the outside world. They all wanted something-a piece of this, a scrap of that, a chunk, a rock, an acre, a ranch, a pound of flesh. They wormed their way in with smiles and platitudes and stroked with one hand while they stole with the other. They insulted his intelligence and mocked his basic honesty, and suddenly he wanted very badly that someone pay. “Damned city bitches,” he snarled. “You don’t know how to ask a straight question, do you? Everything has to be wrapped in some kind of disguise. Why didn’t you just ask?” “I did just ask!” Mari said, feeling at once both wrongly accused and justly convicted. His lip curled in derision, he took a step toward her, looming over her. “‘Sorry, J.D., we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start again? Do you want some champagne?’ ” He snatched the bottle out of her hand and flung it aside, sadistically gratified by the way she jumped back, eyes wide. He wanted her scared of him. “What else do you want to know, Mary Lee?” he demanded, backing her toward a cottonwood tree that grew at the edge of the parking lot. “What else?” “N-nothing,” she stammered, stumbling back. “Are you like your friend Lucy? You want to know what it’s like to tease a cowboy?” “No-” “You want to know what it’s like to fuck a cowboy?” “No! I-” “I’m more than willing to accommodate you. Or did Lucy already tell you all about it? Huh?” “No, she never-” He gave a rough laugh that held no humor. “ Mari collided with the trunk of the tree, hitting her head hard enough to snap her teeth together. The rough bark bit into her through the fabric of her cotton shirt as she pressed back against it, as J.D. pinned her against it. There was nothing about his body that was softer than the tree. His thighs were like pillars flanking hers. His fingers were like bands of steel as they wrapped around her upper arms. He leaned down close, until she could see the glitter of anger in his eyes. Her pulse fluttered in her throat like a trapped bird. “You want to find out, Mary Lee?” he whispered, his gaze boring into hers, penetrating in a way that was disturbingly intimate. His breath came in warm, whiskey-scented puffs that seemed to go directly into her mouth. She wanted to slap him, but he had hold of her arms. She might have kneed him, but he was too close. And then there was the fact that she didn’t feel as if she had an ounce of strength left in her body. She managed to form the word “Liar,” he growled. He didn’t assault. He didn’t attack. He lowered his mouth to hers slowly, but Mari did nothing to stop him. She gasped a little at the first touch of flesh to flesh, and he took advantage, easing his tongue into her mouth slowly, deeply. She shuddered at the blatant carnality of it, but did nothing to stop him. She felt caught in the pull of some incredible magnet, unable to draw away, unable to stop her body from responding as he tasted her. The internal monologue fogged out as he slanted his mouth across hers and increased the pressure and the hunger of the kiss. He was heavy and solid against her, and impressively, undeniably male. He wanted her. Badly. Damn near beyond reason. Another woman he didn’t trust or respect. Another outsider. Another of the jackals who had come to scavenge at his life. The taste of desire soured in his mouth. As he eased away from her marginally, Mari’s senses came rushing back like a chill wind. In their short acquaintance, J. D. Rafferty had frightened her, offended her, embarrassed her, and now this. This went beyond assault, beyond humiliation. He had invaded her, robbed her of her sanity, stripped her of her good judgment. Locating the hands she had wound into his shirtfront, she balled them into fists and hit him in the chest as hard as she could. She may as well have hit an elephant with a tennis ball. All she managed to do was annoy him. “How dare you!” she demanded, breathless. He looked down at her with slit-eyed disgust. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it, Mary Lee. You didn’t exactly try to fight me off.” He was right, but that didn’t lessen her outrage. He had no business touching her in the first place. “Those are your rules of dating etiquette? Screw anything that doesn’t hit you in the head with a brick first? Where I come from, that’s called rape. This is the nineties, Rafferty. In the civilized world men ask permission.” “Then maybe you ought to go back to the Mari gaped at him as he moved away from her to pick up the hat he had lost in the heat of the moment. She blew out three hard breaths, trying to jump-start her tongue. “Me-? Your-? Oh, that’s rich! Like I asked you to get up close and personal with my tonsils! Who the hell do you think you are-” “J. D. Rafferty,” he growled, jamming his hat down and tipping the brim in a mocking salute. “Del Rafferty is my uncle. He doesn’t like strangers, he doesn’t like blondes, and he can shoot the balls off a mouse at two hundred yards. Stay away from him too.” “Yeah, he sounds about as charming as you,” Mari tossed after him as he strode away with his dog at his heels. “How will I ever control myself?” He didn’t even give her the satisfaction of looking back, but climbed into the cab of his pickup, fired the engine, and drove away. The dog stood in the back of the box, staring after her until they turned onto Main Street. Mari watched them drive away and then she just stood there in the moonlight with a hand across her mouth. He crouched among the trees, waiting. The moon glowed down on the meadow. Coyotes crooned mournfully, unseen, their hollow cries drifting down the valleys. The silvery pall of death lingered like a sticky mist above the ground. He watched it, hidden among the trees on the hillside, and waited. From the mist the bodies would materialize-the blonde, the dog-boys, the tigers. They would take shape and dance their gruesome dance beneath the half-light of the moon, tormenting him, luring him. He sat among the ranks of limber pine and Douglas fir, his hands slick with sweat on the stock of his rifle, and he waited. |
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