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  The caller hadn’t said she should go talk to Curt Steagall. He’d said she should go see him. Which meant…

  If he’d used a cell phone, he might still be here. Watching. Someone who’d seen what happened but didn’t want to be named as a witness.

  But remembering what could have been amusement when he said, “A newspaper reporter who will never be believed,” she knew. He’d done a lot more than see. The balloon was commentary. Mockery.

  Rage overcame her nausea and the echo of older horrors, and she fumbled with a gloved hand for her phone.

  *****

  The Quarter Horse moved easily under Grant Holcomb, maintaining a steady lope. Even seemed as if he knew where to go, once Grant had pointed him in the general direction. He’d saddled the first likely looking animal in the Circle S barn, since the two women had taken the ranch’s only ATV. The reason he was out here took away from what otherwise would have been the pleasure of being on horseback on a clear, crisp day like this, quiet but for the creak of leather and the thud of hoofbeats.

  As always, he reserved judgment, but if this was murder versus an accidental death, he’d have to deal with the difficulty of getting a crime scene unit way the hell out here. The body would most likely need to be transported by helicopter. All smaller counties in Oregon borrowed crime scene investigators from the state police. Come to think of it, they were bound to have a plan for deaths in the middle of empty country, not a problem he’d had in his last job with an urban police force.

  The ground rose gradually, until the horse topped what Grant hadn’t even realized was a low hill that had kept his sightline limited. The gelding, a gleaming chestnut, probably saw the tractor before he did, because their course shifted without any signal from him. Grant lifted a hand to his fleece hat – his Stetson sat on the passenger seat of the police SUV he’d driven – to tug it more securely over his ears. The cold burned his face.

  Looking toward him, two women huddled beside an ATV. They disappeared from sight as the bellowing herd shifted while crowding the trailer and tractor beyond. Even bundled up, they had to be freezing.

  He slowed the gelding to a trot, then a walk. Grant started dismounting before the horse came to a complete stop.

  “Ladies.” He took in their pinched faces. The taller one appeared shell-shocked, the smaller woman furious. That made her the one he’d spoken to. Raising his voice to be heard about the din, he introduced himself. “I’m Sheriff Holcomb.”

  “So we got the big gun,” the little one said tartly.

  Under other circumstances he’d have smiled. “A county with a skimpy population like this, I don’t have a lot of minions. Now, I need to take a look around.”

  She held out a gloved hand for the reins. Nodding his thanks, he fought his way through the shifting herd toward the trailer. If not for the nonstop lowing, he’d have heard a slurp with every step, the ever-moving cattle having created a mud hole while depositing steaming manure piles. They were miserable, not understanding why they weren’t being fed. The ones closest to the trailer were trying to pull strands from bales too tight to let them get much. He surely did hope Curt Steagall had either fallen on the far side of the fence, or that the corridor between tractor and fence was too narrow for even a small cow to push her way in. Otherwise, the body was being trampled beneath cloven hooves.

  Rounding the front of the tractor, his gaze stuck on the balloon despite his awareness of the body sprawled on the ground below it – not trampled. Jesus. Cassie Ward had mentioned the damned balloon, but the impact still stunned him. A bright yellow, smiley face right above a dead man – now, that was an obscenity.

  Without getting any closer than he had to, Grant crouched to study the body, lying face down with arms and legs at awkward angles. What he could see of the head was a bloody mess. That had to be the entrance wound, with extensive lacerations around it forming a star pattern, the bullet hole in the center. Grant’s military tours allowed him to recognize the horrific result of a high-caliber bullet. The victim’s head had connected with the split-wood fence post on his way down, doing more damage and leaving blood behind that could be hiding any stippling or fouling – although Grant didn’t expect there to be any. He’d swear this shot had been taken from a distance. The exit wound wouldn’t be visible until the body was moved.

  The wound wasn’t fresh; blood and brain matter had congealed and frozen. So – several hours. Could the victim have been shot while still in the tractor seat, and tumbled down? Grant considered the angles, and ended up doubtful.

  He swiveled on his heels. Assuming there was an exit wound, the bullet had ended up somewhere. If Curt Steagall had been on his feet, it could have pinged off the tractor, but from here Grant couldn’t see any obvious dents the right size and shape. If it had had enough force after passing through a human skull… Shit. Odds put it inside one of those bales of hay.

  First time in his life he’d had to search for an almost literal needle in a haystack.

  He rose to his feet again. He could be wrong; he couldn’t be positive the shot hadn’t been taken up close and personal. Say, two men arguing across the fence, the shooter on federal land. He sure as hell hadn’t shoved his way through the herd to get his shot.

  The balloon ruled out any possibility of an argument having accelerated into a shooting, anyway. The killer had brought the damn thing out here, already full of helium. Grant couldn’t think of any reason for him to do that, except as an F-you to the dead man – or to the police who would investigate the death.

  Teeth clenched, Grant scanned for a footprint on the other side of the fence, but couldn’t pick out anything on the frozen ground. He swept the landscape for a likely hide. Once he got everything else started, he’d find it. Even most hunters couldn’t make a shot that accurate from very far out. Grant had a crawling sensation up his spine when he realized that the only cover within a hundred yards or so was sagebrush. You’d think Curt would have seen someone lying in wait that close. Unless the killer had waved a greeting at him and been approaching, holding the rifle in a relaxed way. Could well have been someone he knew. Then…bang.

  Grant’s gut said this had been an ambush. Hard to make that shot if the gunman had been on his feet, moving. If he’d stopped and raised the barrel, wouldn’t Curt have dived for cover?

  Either way, the killer had had to walk right up to the body to tie that damn balloon in place. Couldn’t get much more callous than that.

  Still scanning the colorless landscape, Grant asked himself what had drawn Curt to this spot. He wouldn’t have fed his herd here, boxing himself in. Had he seen someone he knew? Or the balloon, already tied on the fence?

  Grant fought his way back to the women. He hated to ask, needed to be certain. He hadn’t been able to see the victim’s face very well. “Mrs. Steagall, did you get a good enough look to be certain that’s your husband?”

  Her face crumpled, but she nodded.

  He made himself utter the formal words. “I’m sorry for your loss.” With her face buried in her hands, she didn’t respond. Damn. Tears would freeze on her face.

  He shifted his attention to the woman beside her. “Ms. Ward, can you drive the ATV?”

  “Yes. My dad runs cattle and has used one for years.”

  “All right. I’m thinking the two of you need to get out of the cold. Especially Mrs. Steagall, given her shock.”

  She nodded. He wished he could see her face better, but didn’t blame her for using a purple fleece scarf as a shemagh. Not much showed but her eyes, big and brown with some gold striations.

  “Persuade her to drink something hot – tea with a lot of sugar, cocoa.”

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  “What got the two of you worried enough to come out here? Was it just the phone call?”

  “Just?” she said sharply.

  “Poor choice of words,” he acknowledged. “I should say, were there any additional reasons for concern?”

  “Karen expec
ted Curt for lunch,” she explained. “He was late. Me showing up with questions made Karen uneasy, too, so she tried repeatedly to call him. When he didn’t pick up or call back, I could tell she started to really worry.”

  “Okay. I’ll have to ask you to stay at the ranch house until I can get free to talk to you both.” He laid a hand on Mrs. Steagall’s arm, waiting until she at least tried to focus on him, her face wet. “Can you tell me when Curt headed out here?”

  It took her a minute to dredge up an answer. “He had to load the hay. Between eight and nine?”

  “Thank you. Mrs. Steagall, Ms. Ward is going to drive you back to the house. I need you both to wait there for me. All right?”

  Incomprehension.

  He helped steer her to the four-wheeler, and half-lifted her on. A belated thought had him extending a hand to stop Cassie before she could climb on in turn.

  “I need to ask whether you took any pictures.”

  She eyed him for a minute. “I’m a reporter. Of course I did.”

  “Then I have to ask for your phone.”

  She snorted. “You think I’ll hand it over? In your dreams. Besides, you’re too late. I sent them off.”

  “To?”

  “My email at the newspaper.”

  Of course she had.

  “They’re saved in the cloud, anyway,” she added.

  “You could really screw up this investigation,” he said in a hard voice. “Don’t you want us to find out who murdered Curt?”

  The eyes narrowed to slits and she tried to get right up in his face. Which she couldn’t pull off since he was a foot taller than her. “Were you born thinking most people are scum you’re forced to wipe off your boots?”

  He didn’t know how to take that, but it didn’t make him any less mad. “In my experience, reporters and editors think first about circulation, or getting a story picked up by larger outlets. The people along the way…” He shrugged dismissively.

  She made a disgusted sound and yanked her arm free from his grip. “For your information, Sheriff, I took a picture of the balloon with the landscape beyond it. I plan to pause on the way back long enough to get a shot of the tractor and trailer surrounded by the herd. I did not photograph the dead man or anything else.”

  She swung herself up on the ATV, started it with a roar, and after saying something quiet over her shoulder to her passenger, made a U-turn maneuvering through the shifting herd, and headed back toward the ranch house.

  Grant was left with the rueful knowledge that he’d put his horns down and charged before she whipped out any red cape. Good job – alienate a critical witness first thing.

  Shaking his head, he started making calls.

  CHAPTER TWO

  First thing, Cassie called Karen’s parents, wintering in Arizona, and, after a brief explanation, handed the phone to Karen, who blubbered for a minute then thrust it back. As Karen sat weeping, her mother told Cassie her husband was already online booking a flight.

  “We’ll be there as soon as we can, but the earliest will be late tonight. And I’m not so sure there are any evening flights from Portland into Bend. Driving over the mountains wouldn’t get us to Fort Halleck much sooner than waiting for morning to fly as far as Bend.”

  Bend was the hub for central and eastern Oregon. The airport here in Fort Halleck mostly handled small planes owned by local residents.

  “I understand,” Cassie said. “I’ll try to reach some of Karen’s friends. Maybe one of them would stay with her tonight. No matter what, I won’t leave her alone, I promise.”

  She decided to put off making the calls to friends, however, to avoid saying something the sheriff preferred to keep to himself. Like the balloon, for example. Besides, she’d already promised to stay until he turned up.

  Karen’s grief subsided into apparent numbness that had her sitting at the kitchen table staring into space. In Cassie’s experience, there was no consolation for someone living a nightmare. Even time, the universally offered remedy, didn’t prevent scars or choke off the worst memories. All she could do right now was persuade Karen to take another few swallows of cocoa. Cassie had to deal with her own ghosts, the betrayal and grief reawakened by seeing a death so much like her mother’s.

  It didn’t help that she and Karen felt like an odd couple, despite being close in age. Karen was tall and thin with straw-colored hair now slipping out of a braid. Cassie didn’t identify with the décor, including an apparent fondness for Thomas Kinkade. She didn’t see books of any kind, although the Steagalls did have a good-size collection of DVDs.

  When the doorbell rang, Karen didn’t seem to notice. Cassie hustled to the front door, and found a tall man wearing a badge and gun on the porch.

  “Ma’am,” he said, dipping his head. “I’m Detective Dawson.”

  “Cassie Ward.”

  He eyed her with keen blue eyes. “You’re the newspaper woman.”

  “Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

  “Ah…I need to ask permission to borrow the ATV or a horse. Trailering my own out would have taken too long.”

  Cassie glanced over her shoulder. Karen hadn’t so much as poked her head out of the kitchen.

  “I think that would be fine,” she said. “You need a hand?”

  He declined but thanked her. Looking out the kitchen window a minute later, she saw he’d chosen the ATV and hoped he’d checked the fuel level. But detectives were supposed to be smart, right?

  Maybe twenty minutes after that, the sheriff called.

  “Wonder if you’d do me a favor. Can you find a rancher close enough to come out and feed the Steagall herd? They’re driving me nuts,” he admitted.

  “Can’t you just throw out some hay?”

  The pause told her there was something he wasn’t sure he wanted her to know. At last he sighed. “It’s possible a bullet ended up buried in one of those bales.”

  “Oh.” Visualizing the scene, she thought he could be right. “Okay. I’ll make some calls. Only…what do I tell them?”

  “Say Curt is dead, police are investigating whether it was an accident, but we’d sure appreciate it if someone would get out here and spread some hay. Ah…we’ll want it on the far side of the pasture.”

  “I can do that,” she agreed.

  He thanked her extra nicely, which made her grin despite a day that had turned shockingly grim.

  She coaxed the names of some neighbors from Karen, who bestirred herself enough to produce her address book. The first person Cassie called, Walt Whitney, said of course he could. Apparently, he owned the spread directly north of the Circle S. He sounded shocked, and offered to send his wife over to sit with Karen. “They have coffee a couple times a week,” he added. “Different ages, but friends.”

  After some thought, Cassie said, “That’s a really kind offer. Her parents are on their way, but it’ll likely be morning before they get here. Can I have your wife hold off, though? The sheriff wants to talk to both of us again, which means I’m staying anyway for the time being. She…doesn’t seem up to talking. Can I call later?”

  “You bet,” he said. “Tell Sheriff Holcomb it should take me half an hour or so to get out there. Fortunately, I already had a load ready for morning, which’ll speed me up. I can toss it over the fence from my place.”

  That would draw the cattle away from the crime scene, which ought to satisfy the sheriff.

  “Bless you,” she said, and called Holcomb back to tell him rescue was on the way.

  “Thank God,” he said fervently. “No, thank you.”

  “Better thank Walt.”

  “You two okay?” he asked.

  “She’s…about what you’d expect.” She took the phone down the hall to the bathroom and closed the door. “There’s something you should know.”

  “What’s that?” He sounded wary.

  “Karen is pregnant. With their first child. I overheard something she said to her mother, or I wouldn’t know.”

  He swore. “
They on their way?”

  “Yes, but from Arizona.”

  “No family closer?”

  “It doesn’t sound like it. I don’t know about Curt’s family. She didn’t mention any.”

  Cassie had been so alone in her grief back then, she desperately wanted Karen to have someone she trusted, someone who loved her.

  Grant must have covered the phone, because his voice became muffled for a minute. Then he came back. “I should be able to break free in another hour or so.”

  She agreed that would be fine.

  Cassie coaxed Karen to lie down in a dark bedroom, albeit not the master bedroom. She balked at that for reasons Cassie fully understood. Cassie heaped on the blankets, tucking her in like a child, and said, “Now, you just call if you need anything.”

  Unresponsive, Karen curled onto her side.

  Left alone in the kitchen, Cassie started the coffeemaker, then tried to block out darker thoughts by remembering what she knew about the sheriff.

  He was young for the job, but had grown up here. He was a couple years older than Curt, she thought, which would make him about thirty-six. She did remember when he was the star high school quarterback who led the Fort Halleck Mustangs to a state championship in their bracket. A seventh grader then, she hadn’t been interested. The success hadn’t been repeated since, which lent Grant Holcomb fame in these parts. She supposed it was the local boy/football star deal that had made a man in his thirties acceptable as county sheriff to the traditionalists. Most residents being traditionalists. Beyond that background – well, she’d been meaning to get over to the sheriff’s department to meet him and the even newer detective who had just made the brief appearance on the Steagall doorstep.

  Andy Sloane covered the crime beat for the paper, which mostly meant compiling a column of the previous week’s dire happenings: break-ins, vandalism and the like. He’d know both men. She probably should hand this story off to Andy, but knew she wouldn’t. Partly, she’d been suffering from deprivation. She needed a story with some meat to it like some people needed air. Too, the killer had made her a part of this, whatever this was. The fact that he’d chosen her was disturbing but also exhilarating in a way she didn’t like to examine too closely.