Crime Scene at Cardwell Ranch. B.J. Daniels

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СКАЧАТЬ had told her last night that he’d noticed the boards were off the old dry well again. “I think I’ll just fill it in. Safer that way. Give me something to do.”

      Like a lot of Montana homesteads, the well was just a hole in the ground, unmarked except for maybe a few old boards thrown over it, and because of that, dangerous to anyone who didn’t know it was there.

      “Whatever you think,” she’d told him the night before. She’d been distracted and really hadn’t cared.

      But she cared now. She just hoped Warren was wrong about what he’d seen in the bottom of the well.

      They’d know soon enough, she thought as she turned to watch the Gallatin Canyon marshal’s black SUV come roaring up the road from the river.

      “Scrappy’s driving faster than usual,” she said frowning. “You must have lit a fire under him when you called him this morning.”

      “Scrappy Morgan isn’t marshal anymore,” Warren said.

      “What?” She glanced over at him. He had a strange look on his weathered face.

      “Scrappy just up and quit. They had to hire a temporary marshal to fill in for a while.”

      “How come I never hear about these things?” But she knew the answer to that. She’d always been too busy on the ranch to keep up with canyon gossip. Even now that she worked down in Big Sky, her ties were still more with the ranching community—what little of it was left in the Gallatin Canyon since the town of Big Sky had sprung up at the base of Lone Mountain. A lot of the ranchers had sold out or subdivided to take advantage of having a ski and summer resort so close by.

      “So who’s the interim marshal?” she asked as the Sheriff’s Department SUV bounded up the road, the morning sun glinting off the windshield. She groaned. “Not Scrappy’s nephew Franklin? Tell me it’s anyone but him.”

      Warren didn’t answer as the new marshal brought the black SUV with the Montana State marshal logo on the side to a stop right next to her side of the pickup.

      All the breath rushed from her as she looked over and saw the man behind the wheel.

      “Maybe I should have warned you,” Warren said, sounding sheepish.

      “That would’ve been nice,” she muttered between gritted teeth as she met Hudson Savage’s clear blue gaze. His look gave nothing away. The two of them might have been strangers—instead of former lovers—for all the expression that showed in his handsome face.

      Her emotions boiled up like one of the Yellowstone geysers just down the road. First shock and right on its heels came fury. When Hud had left town five years ago, she’d convinced herself she’d never have to lay eyes on that sorry son of a bitch again. And here he was. Damn, just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse.

      OVER THE YEARS as a policeman in L.A., Hudson “Hud” Savage had stared down men who were bigger and stronger. Some had guns, some knives and baseball bats.

      But none unnerved him like the look in Dana Cardwell’s whiskey-brown glare.

      He dragged his gaze away, turning to pick up the heavy-duty flashlight from the seat next to him. Coward. If just seeing her had this affect on him, he hated to think what talking would do.

      Her reaction to him was pretty much what he’d expected. He’d known she would be far from happy to see him. But he had hoped she wouldn’t be as furious as she’d been when he’d left town. But given the look in her eyes, he’d say that was one wasted hope.

      And damn if it was no less painful than it had been five years ago seeing her anger, her hurt.

      Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t just left town, he’d flat-out run, tail tucked between his legs.

      But he was back now.

      He picked up the flashlight and, bracing himself against the wind and Dana Cardwell, he opened his door and stepped out.

      The sun glinted off the truck’s windshield so he couldn’t see her face as he walked to the front of the SUV. But he could feel her gaze boring into him like a bullet as he snugged his Stetson down to keep it from sailing off in the wind.

      When Warren had called the office this morning, Hud had instructed him not to go near the well again. The ranch foreman’s original tracks to and from the well were the only ones in the soft dirt. It surprised Hud though that Dana hadn’t gotten out to take a look before he arrived. She obviously hadn’t known the order was from him or she would have defied it sure as the devil.

      As he looked out across the ranch, memories of the two of them seemed to blow through on the breeze. He could see them galloping on horseback across that far field of wild grasses, her long, dark hair blowing back, face lit by sunlight, eyes bright, grinning at him as they raced back to the barn.

      They’d been so young, so in love. He felt that old ache, desire now coupled with heartbreak and regret.

      Behind him, he heard first one pickup door open, then the other. The first one closed with a click, the second slammed hard. He didn’t have to guess whose door that had been.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Warren hang back, waiting by the side of his pickup, out of the way—and out of earshot as well as the line of fire. Warren was no fool.

      “Are we goin’ to stand here all day admiring the scenery or are we goin’ to take a look in the damned well?” Dana asked as she joined Hud.

      He let out a bark of nervous laughter and looked over at her, surprised how little she’d changed and glad of it. She was small, five-four compared to his six-six. She couldn’t weigh a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, but what there was of her was a combination of soft curves and hard-edged stubborn determination. To say he’d never known anyone like her was putting it mildly.

      He wanted to tell her why he’d come back, but the glint in her eye warned him she was no more ready to hear it than she’d been when he’d left.

      “Best take a look in that well then,” he said.

      “Good idea.” She stood back as he trailed Warren’s tracks to the hole in the ground.

      A half-dozen boards had once covered the well. Now only a couple remained on the single row of rocks rimming the edge. The other boards appeared to have been knocked off by the wind or fallen into the well.

      He flipped on the flashlight and shone the beam down into the hole. The well wasn’t deep, about fifteen feet, like looking off the roof of a two-story house. Had it been deeper, Warren would never have seen what lay in the bottom.

      Hud leaned over the opening, the wind whistling in his ears, the flashlight beam a pale gold as it skimmed the dirt bottom—and the bones.

      Hunting with his father as a boy, Hud had seen his share of remains over the years. The sun-bleached skeletons of deer, elk, moose, cattle and coyotes were strewn all over rural Montana.

      But just as Warren had feared, the bones lying at the bottom of the Cardwell Ranch dry well weren’t from any wild animal.

      DANA STOOD BACK, her hands in the pockets of her coat, as she stared at Hud’s broad back.

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