Unforgiven. B.J. Daniels

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      Her brother snickered. “It did seem like a better idea in Vegas than in Beartooth, Montana. She doesn’t exactly fit in here, does she?”

      “Is she bored to tears?”

      “Yep, and worried about grizzly bears coming down and eating her in the middle of the night. She can’t believe the closest big-box store is over an hour away.” Carson laughed. “I hate to think what will happen if she breaks a nail.”

      The sound of her brother’s laughter filled Destry with such love for him. She leaned back, letting the warm morning and the gentle slap of the water on the side of the boat lull her. Overhead, a red hawk circled on a warm thermal.

      “You haven’t asked me if I killed Ginny,” Carson said, and she felt the boat rock as he leaned up on one elbow to look at her.

      She thought she could see the hawk circling overhead reflected in his gaze. “You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

      He scoffed and lay back again, the arm back over his face. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we’re all capable of despicable acts when we’re backed into a corner. But thanks for believing in me, sis. It means a lot.”

      * * *

      NETTIE FELT SICK TO HER stomach as she stared at the shattered window, the shards of glass glittering on the floor. Who had done such a thing?

      She took a step back, her heart pounding as she realized whoever had broken the window could still be somewhere in the store.

      Rushing to the phone, she dialed the sheriff with trembling fingers. “I’ve been burglarized!” she screamed into the phone the moment the dispatcher put her through.

      “Who is this?” Sheriff Frank Curry asked in a voice so calm it set Nettie’s already frayed nerves on edge.

      She’d known Frank Curry since she was a girl. “Who the devil do you think it is?” she snapped. “My store was burglarized.” She dropped her voice. “He might still be here.”

      “Lynette,” the sheriff said. He was the only person who called her by her given name. The way he said it spoke volumes about their past. In just one word, he could make her feel like that lovestruck, teenage girl again. “Perhaps you should wait for me at your house. Where’s your husband?”

      She knew only too well what Frank thought of her husband. “Just get up here and don’t you dare send that worthless Deputy Billy Westfall instead.” She slammed down the phone, shaking even harder than she’d been before. She was fairly certain whoever had broken in wasn’t still here. At least not on the lower floor.

      The upper level was used for storage. Moving to the second-floor door, she eased it open and peered up the dark steps. She listened, didn’t hear a sound and closed the door and bolted it.

      If the burglar was up there, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. She checked her watch and, leaving the closed sign on the front door, settled in to wait. As she glanced across the street to the café again, she realized she’d never had a break-in before Kate LaFond came to town.

      * * *

      “WHERE’S CARSON?”

      Margaret turned from the stove, eyes narrowed. “Good morning to you, too, Waylon.”

      WT cursed under his breath. He hated it when she called him Waylon. She only did it because she knew it annoyed him. Or to remind him where he’d come from. As if he needed reminding.

      “Don’t act as if you didn’t hear me,” he snapped.

      “Why? You do.”

      He didn’t know how many times he’d come close to firing her. But they both knew he’d pay hell getting anyone else to cook and clean for him—let alone put up with him.

      The real reason he hadn’t sent her packing was that she knew him in a way that no one else did, not that he would ever admit it to her. Like him, she also knew the pain of poverty. Of wearing the same boots until even the cardboard you’d pasted inside couldn’t keep the rocks from making your feet bleed. She knew about hand-me-down clothes and eating wild meat because there wasn’t anything else.

      Christmases had been the worst. That empty feeling that settled in the pit of the stomach as the day approached and you knew there would be no presents under the tree. It was hell when even Santa Claus didn’t think you deserved better.

      A couple of do-gooders in the area had left presents for him one year. WT had been too young to know what it had cost his parents to accept them. He’d greedily opened each one. A football. A pair of skates. A BB gun.

      He remembered the feeling of having something that no one had ever worn or used before him. He’d run his fingers along the shiny BB gun, seeing his reflection in the blade of the skates and holding the warm leather of the football thinking it the happiest day of his life.

      The next Christmas, though, he’d seen the look on his father’s face and realized his mother’s tears weren’t those of joy. There was no Santa Claus, only people who felt sorry for him and his family. He’d made sure the do-gooders skipped his house from then on and swore he’d never need or take charity again.

      No one knew about any of that—except for Margaret. Yes, that shared past was one reason he didn’t fire Margaret—and that she put up with him. Also, they knew each other’s secrets. That alone was a bond that neither of them seemed able to break. Margaret knew him right down to his black, unforgiving soul.

      “I was looking for Carson,” WT said, tempering his words now as he wheeled deeper into the kitchen. “Have you seen him?”

      “He left with his sister. I believe they’ve gone fishing.”

      “Fishing?”

      “Yes, fishing. They haven’t seen each other in more than a decade. I would imagine they want to spend some time together.” She didn’t add, “Away from you,” but he heard it in her tone.

      He grunted and spun his wheelchair around to leave.

      “Even if you can get him cleared of a murder charge, you can’t keep him here against his will,” she said to his retreating back.

      “We’ll see,” he said, gritting his teeth.

      * * *

      CARSON SURREPTITIOUSLY studied his sister as he pretended to sleep in the gently rocking boat. Everything about this grown-up Destry impressed him. There didn’t seem to be anything she couldn’t handle on the ranch. This afternoon he’d heard that she was planning to ride up into the high country to finish rounding up the cattle. He’d never been able to ride as well as her. Nor did he have her knack for dealing with the day-to-day running of a ranch. The ranch hands had always respected her because she’d never been afraid to get her hands dirty, working right alongside them if needed.

      He felt a wave of envy, wishing he were more like her. There was a rare beauty about her, a tranquility and contentment that he’d have given anything for. Was she really that at peace with her life? Or was she just better at hiding her feelings than he was?

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