Rancher's Hostage Rescue. Beth Cornelison

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       Chapter 1

      Five excruciating months had passed since Helen had been murdered. Five months of grief, loneliness and, most of all, guilt. He hadn’t taken her life, but that didn’t exonerate him from his other wrongs. He’d taken her for granted, not given her what she deserved, acted the fool when he’d had a good woman who loved him.

      Dave Giblan sat at Helen’s graveside, his bad leg stretched in front of him and the moisture from the latest spring rain soaking through his jeans. He made biweekly visits to her grave, often bringing flowers to brighten the still-raw earth from her burial. Flowers he should have given her more often while she was alive. Instead, he’d laughed at his boss’s advice to show Helen his feelings, his appreciation of her. Now it was too late.

      Grunting as he shoved to his feet, he swiped at the damp seat of his jeans and whispered, “Bye, Helen.” Turning, he headed back to his pickup. He still had a slight limp, minor pain and stiffness following the surgery to repair his broken leg last December. The accident, a fall from a ladder, had been so random, so senseless...and just a few days before Helen was murdered. He lost both his girlfriend and his job within days of each other.

      The McCalls swore that he’d have a job again when his leg was fully healed, and he could do the work of a ranch hand again. But since making that promise, they’d hired two new hands. Although he’d heard the Double M was climbing out of the financial quicksand it had been sinking in, he was skeptical they had the means to pay a third hand. Especially one who had a limp that may or may not ever go away.

      He moved slowly down the grassy cemetery hill, using the cane he’d borrowed from the McCalls for use on uneven terrain. The handcrafted wooden cane with a simple scalloped design near the hand grip had belonged to the late father of the senior McCall, Michael.

      Once back to his truck, he checked the list he’d left on the passenger seat. He’d been by the hardware store, taken his rent check to the post office, refilled his prescription for his anticlotting medicine and visited Helen. Only thing left on his list was a stop at the bank to cash his unemployment check.

      He drove back into the business district of Boyd Valley, a small town nestled at the intersection of the Rocky Mountains and the plains of eastern Colorado. The country station on his radio played a sad song about loss and regret, and he reached over to turn it off. He didn’t need a song to tell him that story. He lived it.

      Five minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of First Bank of Boyd Valley. The lot was largely empty. Only a couple of cars in the customer section. The convenience of online banking was rapidly shrinking the need for brick-and-mortar banks, human tellers, personal service. Just one more way the town, and the sense of community, was shrinking, dying in this age of technology.

      Call him old-fashioned, but Dave preferred to do his banking in person, preferred to see the face of the teller who cashed his checks. His mother had been a teller in this very bank when he was growing up, and although she was gone now, buried in the cemetery just a few rows over from Helen, Dave felt her presence in the bank. Rose Charmand was the only teller there who still remembered working with his mother, and she always had a smile for him. Most days she’d also share a story about her memories of him as a kid, afternoons he’d spent behind the counter doing his homework, eating the lollipops that were supposed to be for the customers and waiting for his mother to drive them both home.

      Today as he approached the window where Rose worked, her smile flashed brightly, as usual, before an odd shadow crossed her face. When her gaze darted toward the vault, Dave glanced in the same direction, curious what had distracted Rose. A woman with glossy gold hair and a knockout figure stood just inside the vault at the wall of safe-deposit boxes. A sense of déjà vu skittered down Dave’s spine as he watched the woman. Brow furrowed in confusion, he faced Rose.

      “Morning, beautiful,” he said with a half grin for the older woman. He slid his check across the counter. “How’s life treating you?”

      “As well as a woman my age can expect,” Rose quipped. “The usual? Deposit half, half in cash to you?”

      He nodded, then glanced back at the golden-haired woman in the vault. “Who’s that?”

      Rose glanced up briefly from counting out bills. “You don’t recognize her?”

      “Her back’s to me. Maybe if I saw her face...”

      The teller kept shuffling money, her eyes down, as she mumbled, “Honey, that’s Lilly Shaw.”

      Even as the name registered, the woman turned. Helen’s sister.

      His breath stuck in his throat. Though they didn’t resemble each other in more than hair color, the sight of her brought a flood of memories that drowned him with fresh waves of guilt and grief.

      Why was she in town? Why had he picked this moment to deposit his check? He really couldn’t bear a confrontation with Helen’s last living relative. The one person who loved Helen as much as he had. Maybe more so. Lilly hadn’t taken Helen for granted. Hadn’t needed to be badgered for demonstrations of affection. Would never forget an important anniversary. Could never be accused of half-assing their relationship.

      His gut rolled. The last time he’d talked to Lilly, at Helen’s twenty-fifth birthday celebration, she’d looked him straight in the eye and called him a first-class jerk. She threatened him with bodily injury if he hurt Helen, a vow he’d laughed off. He’d told Lilly she had nothing to worry about, that the complaints Helen had about him were just her sister blowing off steam. Things between him and Helen were fine.

      He knew the instant СКАЧАТЬ