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“Did you find fingerprints on that poster?”

  “Yes, one set – probably the person who rolled and shipped it. But when we identify a suspect, we can compare fingerprints.”

  Cassie shook off her regret at the loss of… She bogged down there. What they’d so briefly had wasn’t a friendship, and certainly not a romantic relationship, but she’d liked him despite herself. She thought he’d felt the same. And, okay, she’d been attracted to him, but there was no future in that.

  Too bad, but she had to do her job, as did he. Cassie persuaded herself to concentrate on the layout. She wrinkled her nose at the editorial. Her father had growled at her ideas for it, and she’d surrendered to his demands and written about an accident out on an icy Beaver Creek Road that wouldn’t have happened if the road department people were doing their jobs.

  Her father, of course, was virulently anti-tax. Just last summer, the head of the department had requested increased funding to add workers and equipment needed to enable a better response come winter. Dad’s editorial response had been scathing.

  The newspaper was his, not hers. Because she didn’t agree with him but wouldn’t directly defy him, her resulting editorial was benign shading into dull. It wouldn’t light any fires, that was for sure.

  She groaned and leaned back in her desk chair, closing her eyes. She wanted to think her father would be back at this desk in a matter of weeks. Soon. Please. But it seemed to her that his progress had slowed. What if a month passed with no discernible improvement? How long could she do this?

  She was conscious all the time of voices in the background. The phone had been ringing all morning as people remembered they had to get their ads or classified listings in. Mostly, she’d quit tensing. He hadn’t called again. She’d like to think he was done with her, but couldn’t delude herself, not after finding that damned poster on the seat of her car. He was probably smart enough to guess that she’d be set up to record him. Could be he’d send a letter, or she’d find a message tucked beneath her windshield wiper.

  Thinking again about the killer had her glad her father wasn’t almost ready to take over here at the paper again. Liberal letters to the editor – few though they were – enraged him. He couldn’t take any more stress than that.

  Cassie yanked at her hair and went back to work on layout. So far, so good.

  Wouldn’t you know, that’s when her cell phone rang.

  She didn’t recognize the number, not even the area code, but it was most likely—

  “Cassandra, did you like my present?”

  Her blood chilled at hearing the mocking, muffled voice.

  “It was certainly a surprise.” How had he gotten this number?

  “You know it only takes a minute to bypass car locks.”

  “I do know that. But violating someone’s personal space seems…intrusive.”

  The silence extended long enough for her to wonder how smart she’d been to poke at a murderer. And didn’t she want him to keep talking to her?

  “I was afraid this week’s newspaper would be a bore,” he said coolly. “So I came up with another story for you.”

  The chill wrapped icy fingers around her heart. For once in her life, she felt no anticipation for what might be a big story. It was all she could do to ask, “Where?”

  “Arrowhead Creek Ranch,” he said, and was gone.

  The ghastly image of a shattered head and a smiley-face balloon hadn’t lost any sharpness of focus. Swallowing back nausea, Cassie didn’t even think of dialing 911. She called Grant.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Grant did some serious swearing during the drive out to the northern reaches of the county. It was lucky he could have driven this particular route with his eyes closed, given his state of mind. Travis Burke had been his best friend in high school.

  The Arrowhead Creek Ranch was well-known in cutting horse circles for breeding and training top quality horses. He and Travis had ridden the extensive range Travis’s father owned, broke horses in the corrals beyond the barn, practiced their roping and dreamed about girls and their futures.

  After Travis chose to stay home and train cutting horses at his father’s side while Grant enlisted to see the world, they stayed in contact that become more occasional than regular as the years passed. Even so, the first thing Grant did after accepting the job here was call Travis, who’d whooped at the news.

  He dialed his friend’s mobile number again, and again reached voice mail after six rings. Ranch number. Same deal. Where was everybody? Somebody should be around. This was a big operation that encompassed family and employees.

  The family part had changed from Grant’s memories. Four years ago, Travis’s mother had died of cancer, and his father had gone on with his routines mechanically.

  “He’s not home in there anymore” was how Travis had put it. Two years of grieving later, Patrick Burke had announced he was taking a world cruise. “Of all damn things,” Travis said in bewilderment, calling to tell Grant about it. “The man hardly liked having to go to town.” He mimicked his dad. “’Waste of time.’ And now he wants to see China?”

  On the cruise, he’d met and married a widow around his own age. Upon his return, he handed over day-to-day ranch operations to Travis and his younger brother, Alex, although he and his new bride moved seasonally between the ranch and her condominium in Florida.

  Not Travis. Please not Travis, Grant kept thinking, although, damn, he didn’t want to find Alex dead, either, or Patrick or Patrick’s new bride, whose name Grant couldn’t seem to remember. The ranch employed eight or ten hands, too. It could be one of them. Or – Jesus – all of them. With no one answering the phone, he’d begun having visions of a massacre.

  A glint of reflected sunlight drew his gaze to his rearview mirror. If Cassie was right on his heels— What he saw was a pickup truck that might even be gaining ground on him. Had to be Dawson, who’d also been at work when Cassie’s call came, but wearing a suit and tie after an early appearance in court. Thank God for the court schedule that had brought Dawson in on his day off. Grant was grateful to be able to dismiss any suspicion that his detective could be the shooter. There’d been a sardonic glint in the Jed’s blue eyes that Grant couldn’t blame him for.

  Even in his current state of mind, he couldn’t help turning his head when he passed the ranch right before Arrowhead Creek. It hadn’t been here in his day. All he knew was that a woman had bought up the land four years ago and now bred Kiger Mustangs, descendants of the horses brought here by the Spanish conquistadors. Mostly shades of dun, with spectacular long manes and thick, arched necks, they were rare, most living wild down Steens Mountain way in southern Oregon, where the BLM managed the herds. Grant hadn’t actually set eyes on one yet.

  Spotting the peeled-log arch ahead with a sign hanging from chains that had Arrowhead Creek Ranch burned into it, Grant forgot anything but the fear driving him. He skidded in a too-fast turn off a road that was little-traveled at this time of year, and passed under a peeled-log arch with a sign hanging from chains that had the ranch name in burnt letters. With just about any other ranch in the county, he’d be driving on gravel now, but Arrowhead Creek’s private lane had been paved for as long as Grant could remember, the asphalt surface smoother than county or city roads.

  He accelerated again, a lodgepole and ponderosa pine forest rising gradually to his right, eventually becoming part of the Ochoco National Forest. To his left, a peeled pole fence separated the ranch road from a brown and gray pasture that would be lush green in spring and summer.

  Five minutes later, he braked at the ranch complex, which included two log homes – the original home where the Burke boys had grown up, and the one Travis had had built a few years ago for himself – and stables, paddocks and barns.

  The broad double doors to the nearest stable stood open, a shadowy aisle within. Grant let go of his fear that he’d be finding multiple victims when a tall, spare man in jeans and sheepskin-lined coat holding a pitchfork stepped out
side, his expression inquiring. The deep wrinkles scored beside his eyes and the grooves in his cheeks put him in his fifties if not sixties. Grant knew he’d met the guy before, but the name didn’t come to him right away.

  He climbed out and slammed his door, deciding to leave the Stetson on the passenger seat. “I’m looking for Travis. Or Alex.”

  “Alex took his truck into town this morning to have some auto body work done. Came home real steamed yesterday ’cuz some idiot dinged his fender good and didn’t even leave a note. Travis, now, he’s out riding the fences. Got a call from a neighbor saying one of our mares showed up in his pasture.”

  Son of a bitch. A setup.

  “Patrick here?”

  “Nope. Florida.”

  Right. He and his second wife spent most of the winter down there. The cold exacerbated his arthritis, Travis had said.

  A gray pickup truck – a Silverado in contrast to Grant’s Ford –

  parked beside his county vehicle and Dawson got out, already wearing a fleece hat and heavy gloves. He’d arrived behind Grant only because he’d needed to go home and change clothes.

  Grant nodded at him, and said, “I suppose you know I’m Sheriff Holcomb, and this is Detective Dawson. We had a call that worries us. I’d sure like to find Travis, if you can lend us a couple of horses and point us in the right direction.”

  “Irv Dempsey.” The guy nodded toward the broad aisle behind him. “You’ve been out riding with Travis often enough. Expect you can handle any of our horses.”

  Tension tore at him, but he said a civil, “Thank you.”

  Irv raised his eyebrows at the sight of the rifle in a plain, worn leather scabbard that Jed lifted from the truck bed, but didn’t comment. Riding the range, whether on horseback or on an ATV, ranch hands likely went armed in case of predators.

  The cops just had a two-legged predator in mind.

  Within minutes, a pair of geldings were saddled and ready to go. They were beautiful animals with the powerful builds of purebred Quarter Horses. Dawson hung his scabbard in a way Grant hadn’t seen – the butt of the rifle was to the front at about horn height, the barrel angled toward the back. Seeing Grant’s interest, the detective said, “This way, I don’t have to dismount to pull it out.”

  “Good you thought to bring the rifle.” He carried one in his county-issue vehicle, but was more comfortable with his Glock.

  The two men mounted right there in the aisle, listened when Irv explained where he thought Travis had gone, and were trotting by the time they emerged into the open.

  Grant thought he heard a vehicle engine, but the buildings blocked any view. If it was Cassie, she could chat with Irv all she wanted. She didn’t need to see another murder victim.

  The sorrel Jed rode drew up beside Grant’s blood bay. Grant shared what he’d learned from Irv, and saw from Jed’s stony expression that he’d reached the same conclusion Grant had. There was nothing unusual about that. Maybe the instinctive understanding they shared so often had to do with the military service and the unspoken experiences they had in common.

  They were able to open and close gates from horseback, and, cantering when it was possible, were a twenty minute ride from the ranch buildings before they reached the pasture where the wandering mare had been confined. Once spring came, the country here would be a lot prettier than the Circle S land. Closer to the mountains, the property received more rainfall. A good-sized creek wound through the ranch, too, flowing eventually into Desperation Creek. Instead of sagebrush and bunchgrass, well-tended pastures would turn emerald green in spring, accented by clusters of cottonwood and aspen along the creek and a view of mountains rising from forest.

  “Up ahead,” Dawson said suddenly.

  The guy had sharp eyes. Grant squinted. The horse was dun-colored, not easy to spot in the tan and gray and white landscape. It wasn’t moving. Beyond it… Shit, shit, shit. Was that a flash of bright yellow?

  He kicked his mount into a gallop, Dawson doing the same. As they neared, the dun lifted its head and shifted restlessly, but stayed where its rider had dropped the reins. By the time they pulled up, Dawson had binoculars in his hand and was already surveying the land beyond the ranch fence.

  Feeling sick, Grant dismounted and dropped his reins, too, circling the horse to get a better look at the man lying on his back staring sightlessly at the sky – and, just above him, the bobbing, cheerfully smiling balloon tied to the top pole of the fence.

  Grief was a powerful blow to his chest. The fury that followed let him do his job as if he hadn’t just lost a lifelong friend.

  *****

  Five hours later, Grant wearily reined his obliging gelding while leading the dun-colored mare into the aisle of the stable, stopping short of what looked like an Arabian cross-tied, Irv at its head, another man crouching to lift a hoof. As Grant dismounted, Irv said something to the other man and came to take the mare’s reins from Grant. He’d have seen the helicopter from the Oregon State Police pass overheard and known what it meant.

  Irv’s throat worked as he patted the mare. “It’s Travis, then.”

  “It is.” Grant rubbed a gloved hand over his numb face. “We were best friends growing up.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Shouldn’t have. Then he saw Irv’s face contort before he half turned away. “I’m sorry,” Grant said.

  “He’s a good man.” Irv’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes were red when he looked back at Grant. “This wasn’t like that other rancher, was it?”

  God damn it. “I’m afraid I can’t share details, but he was murdered.” He hesitated. “Alex back?”

  “Just got here. He’s out with that reporter gal. If not for her badgering him, he’d already be mounted up and out looking for you.”

  Grant managed a nod. “Can you handle this boy?” He ran a hand along the sleek neck beneath the fall of wiry mane. The horse shook his head and snorted. “We took it easy on the way back. Walked the last ten or fifteen minutes.”

  Irv accepted the second set of reins. “Yup. You go do what you have to.”

  Grant nodded his thanks, slapped the gelding on the neck, and walked out front where he saw Travis’s brother and Cassie in what might be a face-off. Her gaze flicked his way, but Alex didn’t see him until Grant laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Alex spun to face him. “What the—?” The flare of anger on his face reverted to tight anxiety. “There’re cops all over out here, and nobody will tell me anything!”

  ‘All over’ was an exaggeration, since Jed had stayed out at the crime scene, but a state trooper leaned against his vehicle, arms crossed as he watched Alex and Cassie. He’d been asked not to allow anyone to leave the ranch.

  Grant looked hard at her and said, “Excuse us for a minute, Ms. Ward.”

  Wordlessly, she backed away, but he felt a spasm of…something because of the softness in her brown eyes. Sympathy. She knew what he’d seen, and it was possible Alex or Irv had mentioned Grant’s friendship with his brother so she knew that, this time, he’d taken a personal hit.

  He led Alex another twenty yards or so toward the house before stopping. Damn, the kid looked like his brother. Same height, leaner, his jaw subtly different, but they’d both had the blue eyes and straw-colored hair they’d gotten from their mother. Not a kid anymore, either; he had to be thirty-one or –two.

  Cassie’s age.

  Just get it out, Grant told himself. “Travis was murdered. I’m sorrier than I can say.”

  Alex dropped his head forward and, just like Irv, turned away. “Oh, Christ.” A sob shook his shoulders, and Grant pulled him around into a rough embrace. He might be a man now, but this was still the kid who’d trailed him and Travis everywhere they went, who’d been a pain in the butt but also something of a comedian. He’d been able to make Grant crack up like no one else.

  Alex regained control and lifted his head. “Fuck,” he said, swiping his forearm across his wet face. “Just…fuck. Why? Why would somebody kill a guy everybody lik
ed?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Grant said, voice raw even to his own ears. “But I’ll find out. You know I won’t stop until this son of a bitch is behind bars.” Or dead. Serving overseas, he’d killed, but never felt any desire to do it again. Until now.

  Travis’s brother looked him in the eye. “This have anything to do with Curt?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “But keep that to yourself.”

  “I have to call Dad.”

  “Okay, but can you answer a few questions first?”

  “Anything.” He pinched the bridge of his nose hard. “Whatever you need, man.” His head swung, as if he’d forgotten where they were. “You want to go inside?”

  “Thanks. I could stand to thaw.”

  Today was part of a warming trend, relatively speaking, but a high in the twenties still wasn’t shirt-sleeve weather.

  Grant couldn’t not glance over his shoulder at Cassie, half-sitting on the hood of her Toyota. She had to be freezing, too, but she only gave him a small nod, as if to say, it’s okay.

  Grant couldn’t forget this monster had her cell phone number. He knew her car. He’d been watching her, following her. The clutch of rage Grant felt was for Travis, but the fear, that was all for her. He wanted her to go back to Portland, but knew without asking that she’d refuse. He didn’t like that he understood, or discovering how much this prickly, contrary woman had gotten to him, however little time they’d actually spent together.

  Once inside, Alex led him to the huge kitchen. “Coffee?”

  “Thanks.” Without waiting for an invitation, Grant pulled out a chair at a table long enough to seat all the hands and family, too, and sat. He should be hungry; he remembered the enormous sandwich and slab of cake Cassie had fed him in the Steagall’s kitchen. This time, his stomach might as well have been full of rocks. It took some serious effort to focus on the questions he needed to ask.

  Alex brought mugs of coffee and sat directly across from Grant. His usually handsome face was ravaged, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. Grant doubted he looked any better.