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  Grant raised an eyebrow. One eyebrow. How many people could do that? “You don’t think this is a little pointed?” he suggested.

  “Well, yeah.” The message wasn’t subtle: why aren’t you publishing the truth?

  She hadn’t argued when Grant took the poster and ribbon.

  “He’s likely too smart to have left fingerprints,” he grumbled, “but with his ego, he may not think you’d show this to me.”

  “Except…” Her head had turned as she scanned the parking lot. “He must have been following me.” And didn’t that make her skin crawl. “Which means he saw you go into the restaurant, too.”

  Grant looked grim. “Whatever you do this afternoon, keep an eye on your rearview mirror.”

  So reassuring.

  Now, she looked carefully around before locking her car – a concept Sheriff Holcomb had espoused – and crossing a different parking lot, this one to the side of a tavern.

  The minute she walked in, the room went completely silent. The several men sitting at tables and the bar all stared at her. No more click of billiard balls, which meant the pair who’d been in the middle of a pool game had sensed greater entertainment. Apparently women didn’t come in here, and, gosh, what a surprise that was.

  The bartender was the only one who looked even marginally receptive. When she asked in a low voice and he pointed out Mason Thayer, Cassie hesitated. This might not be the best time and place to approach him. Although if not now, when?

  She hadn’t found him when she drove out to his ranch this afternoon. Fortunately, on the straight-as-an-arrow, lonely country road, she’d been confident no other vehicle was behind her. After knocking at the front door and getting no response, she’d circled around the back and peeked in the pane of smudged glass inset in the kitchen door. The tower of dirty dishes, the dingy floor and overflowing garbage had her recoiling and almost falling off the tiny back porch.

  The barn wasn’t near as impressive as the one at the Circle S, making her wonder how small an operation this was. A couple of horses in a paddock gazed disinterestedly at her. Could he possibly be making a living from ranching, or did he hold another job, as many long-time ranchers now did? No tractor, so he might be out taking care of cattle. Interesting he actually did live out on his ranch, unlike his buddies Baxter and Warring who’d either bought or rented places in town. Given the squalid house and the isolation, she’d been just as glad not to have found Thayer home.

  That made her options not so good.

  She wished she knew whether Grant had already interviewed him. Talking to a possibly drunken man in this dimly lit bar lacked appeal, but thanks to a tip, she’d run him down. No, there wasn’t any reason to skulk away. If she was lucky, the pitcher or two of beer he’d guzzled would have loosened his tongue. At least she wouldn’t be alone with him.

  He swiveled on the bar stool to watch her approach.

  At least Thayer sat alone, possibly because his stench discouraged closeness. Brown hair looked greasy, and he had a scraggly beard that might be the result of not bothering to shave this past week or two rather than any intent. Neither his jeans nor his red-flannel lined denim jacket had seen the inside of a washing machine in some time. He seemed fixated on her chest. Unzipping her parka had been a mistake.

  “Mr. Thayer?” she said pleasantly. “I’m Cassie Ward, the managing editor of the County Courier. I understand you and Curt Steagall were friends.”

  He took a long drink from his mug, flat brown eyes never leaving her. “I’ve heard about you.”

  She had to hop to get up on a bar stool, leaving an open one between them. The bartender ambled closer. “What’d’ye wanna drink?”

  “A beer. Whatever’s on tap.”

  He nodded and ducked to pull a mug from beneath the bar.

  Mason’s gaze dropped to her breasts again. Cassie resisted the impulse to zip her parka right back up. She wasn’t about to let him see he had her on the defensive.

  “Got yourself some nice tits, there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before she could launch into her spiel, a frosty mug of pale beer slid in front of her. Cassie pulled a ten from her pocket and dropped it onto the bar. If she had to make a hasty exit, it would be good if she didn’t have to stop to pay. The bartender nodded his appreciation and retreated.

  She forced herself to take a sip, even though she hated beer, smell as well as taste. “I’m hoping you’ll talk to me about Curt,” she said. “I’d like to do a follow-up article about him. The Steagalls have been one of the prominent ranching families around here for close to a hundred years, I understand.”

  “Prominent.” With a sneer, Mason drew out the word.

  “I know the two of you were friends and you’re a rancher, too, so I thought you might be able to tell me more about the life and what drove Curt to refuse to pay his grazing fees.”

  “Let’s talk about me and you ’stead.” His lips were wet, his words slurred.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the two guys who’d been sitting at the nearby table stand up and walk toward her. Hefty and bearded, too, he grinned and straddled the bar stool on her other side.

  “Hey, pretty little thing,” he said, and reached out to finger her hair.

  She jerked her head away. “I’m here to talk to Mason. Privately.”

  “I don’t mind sharing,” Mason said.

  O-kay. Time to leave. Mason wasn’t just uncooperative, he was hostile. In the last minute, the other guy’s leer had curdled.

  “Something wrong with me?” He laid a meaty hand on her thigh.

  Oh, ew. Dirt was embedded in the creases on his knuckles and made dark crescents beneath his fingernails. She pushed his hand off. The bartender watched without any apparent interest.

  The door opened, allowing a blast of frigid air to enter along with another man in jeans, cowboy boots and sheepskin-lined leather jacket. Ignoring her flutter of relief, Cassie started to slide off the stool. Before her feet touched the floor, Mason grabbed her arm with one hand and squeezed her right breast with the other. Without a second thought, she slapped him hard enough to rock his head to one side.

  “You bitch.”

  The next thing she knew, he levitated. Grant flung him to the floor. The other jackass stood, feet braced apart, and said, “This is none of your business.”

  Poised for a fight, Grant pushed back his shirt to reveal the badge he wore on his belt. “I’d be happy to arrest you, too.”

  Cassie stayed right where she was, between two bar stools.

  Their eyes locked, neither man blinking. Narrowed, gun-metal gray eyes won. The would-be gang rapist backed off.

  “We was just bein’ friendly.”

  “When a woman says no, she means it.”

  He snorted. “Where you been living? No’s a tease for most women.” But he sauntered back to his table, probably hoping his buddies didn’t notice that he’d circled well around Grant, who swiveled and watched his every step.

  Then, with the pointed toe of his well-worn cowboy boots, Grant nudged Mason Thayer, who’d stayed down but was whining that his arm was broke and he’d sue for police brutality.

  “Your call. Shall I arrest this piece of shit?” Anger roiled beneath his stony demeanor.

  “Nah.” Cassie glared at the creep on the grungy floor. “With a little luck, his arm really is broken. That’ll teach him not to touch without an invitation.”

  “Then we’re going.” Grant planted a hand in the middle of her back and marched her out of the tavern. If her feet hadn’t moved, she had no doubt he’d have thrown her over his shoulder. He didn’t say a word until they’d reached her car. Then he flattened one hand on the roof of the car and scowled at her. “You annoy the piss out of me, but at least I thought you were smart.” His voice had risen to a roar by the end.

  She yanked herself free from the hand that still gripped her upper arm. “I’m a journalist. We don’t get stories – or quotes – only from people
who are happy to talk to someone from the press. You think I haven’t been in low-rent bars before?” So, okay, she was yelling, too.

  He bent, getting in her face. “Then you had a plan to get yourself out of there safely?”

  “Yes!” Not exactly, but she’d been in tight spots before. “I was going to ram the heel of my hand down on Mason’s balls, then slam my knee into the other guy’s balls. A twofer. Works like a charm.”

  “Unless you miss. That second guy outweighs you two to one.” He was still mad. “Even Thayer could hold you down with one hand tied behind his back.”

  She huffed. “Not on his best day. I’m nastier than either of those drunken idiots.”

  Grant growled, then shook his head. “You’re welcome. And on your own.” He stalked toward a shiny black Ford F-150 that hadn’t been here when she arrived.

  She was glad he wouldn’t see the tremor that rattled her. Still, she lifted her voice. “Thank you.”

  He stopped for barely a fraction of a second, his back to her, before he kept going. He got behind the wheel, slammed the door and drove away without ever looking back.

  *****

  Monday evening, Cassie tossed a couple of boxes of rotini into her shopping cart, then added two boxes of spaghetti. Susan had been cooking a lot of Italian food, which was fine by Cassie, and apparently her father, too. He grumbled about almost everything but the food. She backed up a few steps and added lasagna, too.

  The last thing she’d felt like doing was grocery shopping, but last night Susan had hinted that the larder was getting skimpy. There was still plenty of beef in the freezer, but not much of anything else. Cassie was working off Susan’s list, and adding extra, too.

  Squeaky wheels drew her attention. The woman pushing the other cart was familiar, and about her age… “Melinda.” The last name slid into place. “Melinda Allard.”

  No taller than Cassie, the blonde grinned. “I’d heard you were back in town. I’m not Allard anymore, though. I married Ben Renfrow. Remember him?”

  “Vaguely.” Although she saw a face, round-cheeked and cheerful. In a town this size, she’d known everyone she went to school with by sight. “He was a couple of years ahead of us, wasn’t he?”

  “Yep. We started seeing each other the summer between my junior and senior years. He went off to the community college in Bend, but he came back to take me to senior prom. Once he finished the two years, he came home for good. His dad owns A-1 Motors, you know. Ben’s smart with engines.”

  “What about you?” Cassie grinned. “I know for a fact you weren’t blonde.”

  Melinda smirked and fluffed her hair. “Why live with plain old brown hair? You weren’t purple then, either.”

  “No, and I might be pink next time you see me. Or neon green? What do you think?”

  They both laughed and exchanged more news. Melinda and Ben had two kids, and thought that was enough. Melinda brought Cassie up to date on other classmates still living in the area – which plenty were.

  Cassie listened in bemusement, learning who had children and who didn’t, marriages and divorces, how Jimmy Hinton had become a rodeo star. How could she not have read about him? Melinda marveled. He was a bull rider, and who’d have thought, skinny as he was in high school.

  “I guess you know Grant Holcomb is our sheriff now,” she said. “You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Tell you the truth, I barely did,” Cassie said. “I wasn’t that interested in sports. But, sure, I’ve interviewed him about that murder.”

  “Isn’t that the worst thing?” Melinda’s puzzlement and distress appeared genuine, making Cassie like her better. “Why would somebody shoot Curt? His wife is so sweet. Now what will she do?”

  Since she had no idea, Cassie only shook her head. “Listen, it was great seeing you, but I need to finish shopping and get home. You know about my father?”

  “Yes, I’m so, so sorry! But he’s getting better, right?”

  “Improving by the day.”

  They parted with an agreement to have coffee or lunch someday, although Cassie suspected that would never come to be. They’d been lab partners in biology, but hadn’t had a lot in common back then, and less now.

  Cassie’s stomach complained, despite her substantial lunch. Possibly because it was almost seven in the evening. Dad would long since have eaten.

  She wheeled into the canned vegetable and fruit aisle, almost T-boning another cart. Unfortunately, this guy looked familiar, too, which obligated her to smile and nod.

  “Cassie,” he said. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Cassie Ward,” she agreed. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.” But she should. A memory nudged at her, but escaped when she grabbed for it.

  Brown-haired, he was five foot seven or eight, maybe, and thin. She guessed he might be a runner. He was on the short side for a guy, but she still had to tip her head back to meet his eyes. She’d probably end up with arthritis in her neck. Everyone was taller than her.

  “Oh, I was at least four years ahead of you.” He sounded amiable. “Rick Oberg. Ah…I was on the football team. You might remember that.”

  “Never went to a game.” Really? Was that all anybody in town thought about?

  “Seriously?”

  No, she’d lied. “Cross my heart.”

  “And that was the year we went all the way.”

  Because Grant Holcomb had been quarterback. Or maybe he’d been incidental. Who knew? Not her.

  “I remember all the talk,” she conceded. But not how she’d known him. “You live here in town?”

  “Temporarily. My father died. I’m here to take care of things. Sell his business and probably the house. Finding out how much there is to do can make you insane. Me, I’m a fan of lists to keep me on track.” He sang, “And checking them twice.”

  Cassie laughed, but weakly. She had an awful picture of her father’s house and how many closets she hadn’t so much as opened in the past decade. The garage. Oh, lord, what was in it? Had Dad weeded possessions since he got rid of everything that might remind him of his wife? Probably not.

  “What business did your dad have?” she asked.

  “Plumbing.” Rick grimaced. “If I can’t sell it, I’d put four people out of work.”

  “I know that feeling. I’m home because my dad had a stroke. I’m running the newspaper until he’s on his feet again.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Right, right. Somebody told me.”

  About to make polite excuses, she gave way to curiosity. “How come you recognized me? I must have still been in middle school when you graduated.”

  “You don’t remember? I spotted you out in the cold one night beside the road and gave you a ride home.”

  “Oh, yeah! I’d have probably frozen to death if you hadn’t stopped.” She grinned at him. “That was after one of my many fights with Dad, of course.”

  He laughed. “I already knew who you were. Maybe because I went out on jobs with Dad sometimes.”

  She frowned, thinking about it. “He had a leak in the wall behind the shower. Had to have the bathroom gutted. That might have been it.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s your hair, too. It’s kind of memorable. Especially now with the accent color.”

  Cassie laughed. Nobody in town had missed noting her purple streak.

  He suggested they have coffee one of these days while he was home, and she said, “Sure, give me a call,” but suspected he wouldn’t. It was just one of those things people said. If he’d been flirting with her, he’d probably try to pin her down to a day and time, but he didn’t.

  Since they were kind of in the same boat regarding their reasons for coming home, it might have been good to exchange notes. As if she had time, she thought ruefully.

  They parted on a friendly note.

  Really wanting to get this shopping trip over with, she tried to keep her head down after that, but had to pause and make conversation with three other people, including he
r English teacher in high school who told her at length how proud she was of Cassie’s success as a writer.

  She escaped at last, stowed the groceries in her trunk, and ducked when she saw another woman who looked familiar pass, carrying a baby in one of those slings. Agh! The last couple of weeks, she’d shopped on Monday evening, when the store was a lot less crowded.

  Not that she was unsocial, but she hadn’t returned to her hometown to renew old acquaintances. Nope, she was making new ones, instead. People like Mason Thayer.

  And then there was Grant Holcomb.

  *****

  After multiple calls, by midday Wednesday Cassie had enough quotes to put together a respectable – and, she thought, fair – front page article on the public land-use issues. And about time, since she’d be emailing this week’s issue to the printer before she went to bed tonight. Her father would probably hate it, “fair” not being one of his objectives, but she had done her best to withhold her own opinions while framing the continuing disputes as a possible motive for Curt Steagall’s murder. Had a man passionate about his cause died for it?

  Even so, she was dissatisfied, although not, she suspected, as much as Grant probably was at his stalled investigation. Her last call, not half an hour ago, had been to him, asking for any progress or comments. All he gave her was a standard quote about not being able to share details from an active investigation.

  “In other words, you aren’t any closer to identifying a potential suspect, never mind making an arrest,” she’d countered.

  “I’d like to think you understand what harm could come from me dropping a tidbit that doesn’t lead anywhere but blackens someone’s name,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Good day, Ms. Ward.”

  He sounded as if he was talking to a complete stranger – or to someone he didn’t much like.

  Stung, she said, “My hope is to be able to reassure the ranchers and ranch hands who have to tend cattle in isolated pastures every day. If every one of them is a possible victim…”

  “I can’t reassure them,” Grant said flatly. No, grimly. “Now, if you don’t mind…”