Christmas at Cardwell Ranch. B.J. Daniels

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      “I need to ask you something. Who was at your cabin yesterday when I showed up unexpectedly?” Tag asked.

      “I told you there wasn’t—”

      “I saw her leather jacket on the couch.”

      Harlan met his gaze. “My personal life isn’t—”

      “A woman wearing a jacket exactly like that one was just found murdered on the Cardwell Ranch.”

      Shock registered in his father’s face—but only for an instant.

      That instant was long enough, though, that Tag’s stomach had time to fall. “I know you couldn’t have had anything to do with her murder—”

      “Of course not,” Harlan snapped. “I don’t even know the woman.”

      Tag stared at his father. “How could you know that, since I haven’t told you her name?”

      “Because the woman who owns the leather jacket you saw at my cabin came by right after you left this morning. She is alive and well.”

      Tag let out a relieved sigh. “Good. I just had to check before I said anything to the marshal.”

      “Well, I’m glad of that.”

      “I had to ask because this woman is the same one who stumbled into me last night at the Canyon—the same bar where you and Uncle Angus were playing. After seeing that leather jacket at your cabin...well, you can see why I jumped to conclusions.”

      “I suppose so,” his father said, frowning. “Let’s have that beer now. We’ll be lucky if your uncle hasn’t drank them.”

      “The woman worked at the Canyon Bar,” Tag said, wondering why his father hadn’t asked. Big Sky was a small community—at least off-season. Wouldn’t he have been curious as to who’d been murdered? “She was working last night while you were playing in the band. A tall blonde woman? I’m sure you must have noticed her. Her name was Mia.”

      Harlan looked irritated. “I told you—”

      “Right. You don’t know her.” He opened the door and followed his father back to the bar. Angus was talking to the bartender. Their beers hadn’t been touched.

      The last thing Tag wanted right now was alcohol. His stomach felt queasy, but he knew he couldn’t leave without drinking at least some of it. He didn’t look at his father as he took a gulp of his beer. He couldn’t look at him. His father’s reaction had rocked him to his core. A young woman was murdered last night, her body dumped from a snowmobile on an old logging road on the Cardwell Ranch. He kept seeing his father’s first reaction—that instant when he couldn’t hide his shock and pretend disinterest.

      “You two doing all right?” Angus asked, glancing first at Tag, then at Harlan. Neither of them had spoken since they’d returned to the bar. Tag saw a look pass between the brothers. Angus reached for his beer and took a long drink.

      Tag picked up his, taking a couple more gulps as he watched his father and uncle out of the corner of his eye. Some kind of message had passed between them. Neither looked happy.

      “I’m sorry but I need to get going,” he said, checking his watch. “I’m meeting someone.” He’d never been good at lying, but when he looked up he saw that neither his father nor his uncle was paying any attention. Nor did they try to detain him. If anything, they seemed relieved that he was leaving.

      Biting down on his fear that his father had just lied to him, he reached for his wallet.

      “Put that away,” his uncle said. “Your money is no good here.”

      “Thanks.” He looked past Angus at his father. “I guess I’ll see you later?”

      “I’m sure you will,” Harlan said.

      “Dana’s having us all out Christmas Eve,” Tag said. “You’re planning to be there, aren’t you?”

      “I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” his father said. He hadn’t looked toward the door even once since they’d returned from the back room.

      Tag felt his chest tighten as he left the bar. Once out in his rented SUV, he debated what to do. All his instincts told him to go to the marshal. But what if he was wrong? What if his father was telling the truth? He couldn’t chance alienating his father further if he was wrong.

      On a hunch, he pulled around the building out of sight and waited. Just as he suspected, his father and uncle came out of the bar not five minutes later. They said something to each other as they parted, both looking unhappy, then headed for their respective rigs before heading down the canyon toward Big Sky.

      Tag let them both get ahead of him before he pulled out and followed. He doubted his father would recognize the rented SUV he was driving. It looked like a lot of other SUVs, so nondescript it didn’t stand out in the least. He stayed back anyway, just far enough he could keep them in sight.

      His uncle turned off on the road to his cabin on the river, but Harlan kept going. Tag planned to follow his father all the way to Big Sky but was surprised when Harlan turned into the Cardwell Ranch instead. Tag hung back until his father’s SUV dropped over a rise; then he, too, turned into the ranch. Within sight of the old two-story farmhouse, Tag pulled over in a stand of pines.

      Through the snow-laden pine boughs, he could see his father and the marshal standing outside by Hud’s patrol car. They appeared to be arguing. At one point, he saw Hud point back up into the mountains—in the direction where Tag had found the dead woman’s body. Then he saw his father pull out an envelope and hand it to the marshal. Hud looked angry and resisted taking it for a moment, but then quickly stuffed it under his jacket, looking around as if worried they had been seen.

      Tag couldn’t breathe. He told himself he couldn’t have seen what he thought he had. His imagination was running wild. Had that been some kind of payoff?

      A few minutes later, his father climbed back into his SUV and headed out of the ranch.

      Tag hurriedly turned around and left, his mind racing. What had that been about? There was no doubt in his mind it had something to do with the dead woman his father had denied knowing.

      * * *

      DANA STARED AT the Christmas tree, fighting tears.

      “It’s not that ugly,” her sister, Stacy, said from the couch.

      Last night, Dana, her husband and her two oldest children had decorated it. It hadn’t taken long, since the poor tree had very few limbs. Hud had just stared at it and sighed. Mary, five, and Hank, six, had declared it beautiful.

      Never a crier except when she was pregnant and her hormones were raging, Dana burst into tears. Her sister got up, put an arm around her and walked her over to the couch to sit down next to her.

      “Is it postpartum depression?” Stacy asked.

      She shook her head. “It’s Hud. I’m afraid for him.”

      “You knew he was a marshal when you married him,” her sister pointed out, looking confused.

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