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  He leaned back in his desk chair. “Hostile, huh?”

  Her forehead crinkled as she seemed to consider. “Not outright, but getting there. At a simmer, I’d say.”

  Grant discovered how much he disliked the idea that a killer was focused on this petite, gutsy woman. He wished he could think of a way to divert that focus to him.

  “Tell me everything.” His mouth ticked up. “Please.”

  Her smile came and went so fast, he almost missed it, which would have been a shame. At first meeting, he’d found her to be as sweet and cuddly as barbed wire, albeit sexy, but that smile had been...merry. It looked good on her.

  “He didn’t bother with ‘hello’. After he lectured me about my journalist ethics, I asked what he knew about the killings. What did he want me to tell readers?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “He said, ‘The good citizens of this county would probably like to know whether the law enforcement meant to serve them is even marginally competent. What questions are they asking? How do they imagine they’ll find a ghost? And when they make fools of themselves, I do hope, Cassandra, to read something approaching the truth in your newspaper. Even if no one else believes you.’”

  His chair creaked as he sat back, taking it in. “Crap. He wants to show us up.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “It was odd. At first I thought he mostly sounded contemptuous, but I could feel some anger, too.”

  “As if a cop had let him down at some point?” None of this sounded like Jed, who was on his fourth year working in law enforcement. That was a small bit of reassurance for Grant, who hadn’t seriously investigated one of the few men he’d ever met who could have made that shot.

  “I don’t know. He likes the idea of making you look bad, for sure.”

  “He wants me to know that the murder wasn’t committed entirely for the usual reasons.” Temper, jealousy, financial advancement or a business dispute. Any and all of those seemed unlikely. “It sure as hell wasn’t done on impulse, which the vast majority of killings are.” Grant saw that she knew where he was going with this. “From what you say, showing us up is a big part of his goal. How much of it...that’s something we have to figure out.”

  “And whether he wants to show up cops in general, or you in particular. Or,” she added thoughtfully, “he could have a grudge against the Hayes County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “All possible,” he had to agree. “But I still have to start with the victim. This wasn’t a shooter targeting the next person who pulled in at a gas station. He went to elaborate lengths to kill Curt Steagall and only Curt Steagall.” Grant realized he had leaned forward and flattened his hands on the desk, as if he was trying to project his own frustration, or grim knowledge.

  She nodded. “He either knew Curt well, or he’d spent some time familiarizing himself with his routines. What time he went out, isolating himself, where he fed his herd.”

  “That couldn’t have been where he intended to spread the hay.”

  “You think he might have seen someone?”

  “Or...” Oh, hell. Why hadn’t he kept his damn mouth shut?

  Her eyes widened. “You’re thinking the balloon was already there. That it’s why Curt kept driving.”

  Grant didn’t let himself say a word

  “I’ve heard rustlers sometimes mark a fence to let confederates know where to cut it for access.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But surely they try for subtlety. A bright yellow smiley-face balloon that could be seen from a mile away?” She shook her head. “That would be stupid.”

  “It would be,” Grant agreed. “They might do something like a rag snagged on the wire. Wind could have blown it there. The last thing they want is to draw the rancher’s attention.”

  “And helium.” She jumped right into speculation. “Why not just blow up a balloon once you got out there and tie it to the wire?” Then she shook her head. “DNA, of course.”

  The woman seemed determined to follow every twisted pathway. And, while Grant admired her intelligence and curiosity - was even drawn to her for those very qualities - he didn’t love to have her, of all people, keeping pace with his own guesses. Any attempt to persuade her to back off would be a waste of breath, however. There was also the distinct possibility that she was smarter than him and would have an idea worth pursuing. Grant wondered how he’d feel if that happened.

  “I assume you’re checking to find out if there’s been anything like this elsewhere?” she asked.

  “The balloon? Yes.” He could see in her eyes that she wasn’t done. She wasn’t taking notes, but he doubted she needed to.

  “It might be a good idea to do a count of the Circle S herd,” she suggested.

  “I have that in the works, even though Curt would have said something to Karen, at least, if he had any suspicion some were missing. Anyway, unlike in the old west, cattle rustlers don’t tend to come out shooting.”

  “Well, no,” she agreed.

  Reluctantly, it appeared. Maybe squirrels and ferrets both were too cheerful. She was more of a terrier, fiercely shaking her prey, growling at anyone who tried to pry it away from her.

  “I don’t know what Karen plans to do long-term, or even short-term,” he added, “but while we’re at it, we’ll shift the pregnant cows into a closer pasture before they start dropping calves. So we’re not totally wasting our time.”

  “No.” She eyed him a little warily. “You are aware of Curt’s history with the revolt against the BLM.”

  “I’ve checked. He hasn’t paid his grazing fees since he took over the ranch.”

  She nodded. “He couldn’t understand why his father insisted on knuckling under to the tyranny of the federal government. I heard they had it out a few times.”

  “So I understand.” Would she turn out to have better connections than he did? “But how can Curt’s relationship with his father be relevant? Roger died almost three years ago.” Icy road, semi-truck made an accordion of Roger’s pickup.

  “I found his obituary. There was no mention of his wife.”

  “Divorce. Curt was ten, she left him with his father.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Maybe that’s what he wanted. He may have had regular visitation with her.”

  Cassie’s shrug was meant to be careless, but Grant wasn’t convinced. Did Curt’s history cause a sting because she had something similar in her background? Grant didn’t think this was a good moment to ask why he’d never so much as heard her mother’s name.

  “The mother wouldn’t inherit the ranch, anyway,” Cassie commented, before grimacing. “I sound like I’m acting in one of those melodramatic mystery dinner theaters.”

  Grant chuckled. “That a hobby of yours?”

  She turned the scrunched nose on him. “I attended one once. It was too silly to be interesting.”

  “Because you write about the real thing.”

  Their eyes met and held. He saw a shadow in hers, as she undoubtedly did in his. Murder wasn’t an amusement once you saw the victim with his head blown apart.

  She looked away first.

  “Did anything about the voice stand out this time?”

  “No.”

  “Any accent at all?”

  She shook her head and tensed to rise from the chair. “I need to get back—”

  “A couple of things first.”

  Cassie stayed in the chair, but she didn’t relax.

  “You have a problem if we set up a way for you to record the conversation if he calls you again?”

  “No, if I can control it.”

  He nodded thanks. “I take it you’re investigating Steagall.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Can I ask you to keep it to background information, instead of doing a Nancy Drew?”

  “No.” It was almost polite.

  He hid a grin. “You’ll tell me if you stumble on anything important?”

  “I will.” She had her h
ands clasped in her lap now and looked sweetly inquiring.

  Grant braced himself. “Everything we speculated about here? Off limits.”

  She jumped to her feet, probably to enable her to look down at him for a change. “That’s ridiculous. Your speculations...sure. I’d prefer you feel comfortable talking to me. But my job is to follow up on unanswered questions. Rustling has been an on-going issue here in eastern Oregon. Of course I have to address it! Once you’ve had your roundup, there’s no reason not to tell me your conclusions.”

  He chewed on that for a minute before sighing. “As long as you don’t wonder why he stopped the tractor where he did and got out of it.”

  “He didn’t...fall?”

  Something about her made him careless. “No,” he said tautly.

  “That’s not for public consumption?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll need to issue another statement soon.”

  He rubbed a hand over his head. “I had it in mind.”

  She studied him in silence for long enough, he had to wonder what she was seeing. His tiredness must show. Grant could only hope he wasn’t betraying his fear that the creep had already succeeded in making a fool out of him. Usually a confident man, it wasn’t like him to indulge in much self-doubt. In this case, a ghost was a good description for a killer who had left no trace behind him. If he stayed smart, if he didn’t kill again, didn’t get too chatty with Cassie...he’d get by with murder. Grant didn’t have so much as a wisp of an idea who he was.

  What ate at him was wondering whether this killer was done. He didn’t like the idea of a multi-pack of those damn balloons, for one thing. Mostly, though, having a killer contact the press was unusual. What fun would this be as a competition if he won so easily?

  That particular bit of speculation, Grant didn’t share with Cassie.

  “Okay.” She collected her outer garments and eased toward the door. “Let me know about the recording idea. Either way, I’ll, uh, call if I hear from him again.”

  Grant was gentleman enough to have stood, too. “I appreciate it.”

  “Bye, then.”

  “Wait.”

  Already in the hall, she turned back in surprise.

  Damn, he wanted to take her to dinner. Find out how her mind worked, what drove her. Get her to tell him her regrets and triumphs, whether she had a man in her life. Let her know him a little better.

  But the two of them could easily end up in an adversarial position, if not over this investigation then over some other. There’d be a lot he couldn’t tell her, a lot she wouldn’t tell him. No relationship could go far with them both withholding significant parts of their lives.

  Sex, that would be different. But he was also too much the gentleman to say, Can we skip the conversations and go straight to bed?

  So he settled for shaking his head. “Never mind. You have a good day, Ms. Ward.”

  Her eyebrows rose at his deliberately distancing tone, but she only nodded, said, “Sheriff,” and shrugged into her parka while she walked away.

  Grant was left with no idea whether he’d just done the wise thing, or been an idiot.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I don’t know what’s right.” Karen Steagall spoke softly, stumbling, days later still appearing numb. “What Curt would want.”

  Her mother sat beside her on the couch, back stiff, knees pressed together, hand hovering but not quite touching her daughter.

  Cassie perched on an oversize recliner, her butt barely on the cushion. If she’d scooted back, her feet wouldn’t have reached the floor. One of the pitfalls of being short. She’d decided to do without notes to keep from alarming Karen.

  Watching the other woman’s troubled expression, Cassie had been unusually tentative since she arrived back out at the Circle S. Today was Saturday, only three days since Karen’s husband had been murdered. She even let herself wonder if she might be wrong to mine the grieving widow for insights into what had made Curt a target.

  Her hesitation didn’t last long, though. That wasn’t her nature. Her instincts always demanded she go for it. She’d decided long since that she must have taken some qualities from her father, after all.

  Or had she spent too many years wishing she’d been able to ask, “Why, Mommy?” The hard-taught lesson never let her forget. Answers were rarely found to questions never asked.

  “You knew Curt best,” she said. “But you did say he liked to speak out.”

  “He did.” Karen looked grateful for the reminder instead of apologetic. “If he died because he was willing to fight for what he believed, he’d want everyone to know, wouldn’t he?”

  What that would make him was a martyr. Cassie had trouble believing the killer had any such intention.

  “Honey,” her mother said. “You shouldn’t put yourself through this. He’s gone. You have to think about yourself. About the baby.”

  Cassie ignored the mother. “What did he believe?”

  Karen’s head came up. “You know. He thought the federal government was trying to put him and the other ranchers out of business. The Circle S has been grazing cattle out on the range for a hundred and fifty years. Where were those environmentalists fifty years ago? They weren’t taking care of the land! Curt’s granddaddy was.” She quivered with intensity. Her voice had gained passion. Her own, or borrowed from her husband’s? “He got so mad when the BLM started cutting down junipers. The Hammonds went to prison for controlled burns meant to give the grasses a chance to rebound, the way they once were. Why’s it a crime for them, when everyone says the sagebrush and juniper are taking over and we should be doing something about it?”

  There was a certain irony in the BLM project to clear junipers, Cassie could agree.

  “Curt thought, like the Bundys, that it’s just wrong that the federal government hogs all that land they don’t even have a use for. Did you know that over half the land in Oregon is kept by them? Those people in Washington, D.C. don’t know a thing about cattle or our way of life or sagebrush or ground water or what’s good for…for grouse or tortoises or any other creature they’ve never seen. What gives them the right to make all the decisions?”

  Cassie had heard or read all of this before. The militants argued that states should have sovereignty over all the land within their borders, that, in fact, nothing in the constitution permitted the federal government to have seized and held onto all that land, or to administer it in a way detrimental to the livelihoods of citizens of the states. Some thought they had a divine right to fight what they saw as tyranny.

  “I’ve heard the arguments.” Cassie’s father had blinders on where it came to the issue, too. “Curt wasn’t the only one making them. So why do you think him speaking out might have led to his murder?”

  The sheriff was going to be furious when he found out Karen was speaking to a journalist instead of to him. He’d either get over it, or he wouldn’t. His choice.

  “Well…” Karen wavered, stealing a look at her mother. “I don’t know that I should say. I could get other people in trouble.”

  “People who opposed him? Or who agreed with him?”

  “See, Curt had been forming a group.” The words tumbled out, as if she’d choked them back as long as she could. “Sort of a militia, I guess you could say. He kept wishing he’d gone down to Malheur National Wildlife Refuge when the call went out. One of his friends did, see, and Curt was jealous. Except, I always wondered—” Karen nibbled on her lower lip.

  “What did you wonder?”

  “Whether Mase— I mean, the friend really went there at all. He says he slipped out, right there near the end of January, before the FBI set up blockades. Only, I’ve read about it, and I’ve never seen his name. He could say anything, couldn’t he? He’s smug, because he did something even Curt hadn’t had the guts to do, which riled Curt into wanting to do something important.”

  Mase. A nickname? Or had she started to say ‘Mason’?

  Cassie didn’t move, kept h
er gaze locked onto Karen’s. “What did Curt have in mind?”

  Karen let out a shuddery breath that had her mother scooting over and putting an arm around her – and glaring at Cassie. Cassie felt a familiar pang at seeing something she’d never had.

  “They talked about setting a big fire. He wanted to get every rancher in Hayes County to help. Who’s going to arrest all of them?”

  Given that Ammon and Ryan Bundy had been acquitted after leading the armed takeover of the wildlife refuge, Curt had had a point. Whether he’d given a thought to all the creatures his fire would kill, or how to stop it before it consumed ranches and even towns in its fiery path, that was another story.

  “Was this a recent plan?”

  Karen looked down at her hands. Saying what she had seemed to have doused her own fire. “I hoped it was all talk,” she said softly. “He and I…fought about it. Because, you know, the Hammonds both had to serve five years in prison because of that fire.”

  Down in Harney County, south of here, the Hammonds were long-time ranchers like the Steagalls. Their act of arson didn’t only burn junipers and sagebrush; it also heated the long-running feud between ranchers and the BLM to the verge of explosion. The Hammonds hadn’t wanted anything to do with the takeover of the refuge or any of the theatrics the Bundys indulged in, but their prison sentence was flammable fodder for other outraged ranchers to burn.

  “He scared you,” Cassie guessed.

  “It would have been bad enough, but then I found out I was pregnant.” She laid a hand over her still-flat belly. “What if he got arrested? Couldn’t be there when his own baby was born? What was I supposed to do? He claimed he wasn’t any kind of man if he didn’t live up to his beliefs, but…wasn’t I important, too? I couldn’t run a ranch and be a mother without him.”

  And yet, that was exactly what she now had to do if she didn’t sell this third-generation ranch. In fact, all three women sat in silence for a moment, acknowledging that truth.