The Rivals (2 page)

It had been years before she stopped to wonder why her father hadn't had Clay arrested anyway. Years before she'd realized that Clay's father had had enough money and power and influence to keep his son out of jail despite her father's threats.

Because she'd loved Clay, she'd sent him away, telling him enough lies to make sure he never came back.

She'd left home with her two-year-old daughter on the day she turned eighteen. North had given her a refuge at his ranch in Jackson Hole, in an old cabin that was a legacy from their departed mother, a place that must have been used by settlers in bygone days. That was where Clay Blackthorne had found her when he'd finally come looking.

He hadn't come right away. In fact, not long after the fateful day she'd sent him away, he'd gotten engaged. Libby had died inside, wishing she could be the one that he was marrying. She'd felt torn when she'd learned that Clay hadn't gotten married after all, because his fiancée had been murdered a week before the wedding.

Libby hadn't been able to keep from indulging in the fantasy that Clay would come looking for her someday. That they would marry and raise their daughter together.

It had never happened.

In the end, Clay had come, all right—to seek out his four-year-old daughter. That first visit had been awkward. Amazing how cordial two people could be for the sake of a child. Amazing how well she'd been able to hide her aching heart.

Clay had never publicly acknowledged Kate. A bastard daughter sired on a sixteen-year-old mother wouldn't have been good for a politician's career. And Clay's family had great plans for him.

No, that wasn't fair. Clay hadn't wanted Kate to be forced into the spotlight. But with a grandfather like King Grayhawk, the spotlight had been unavoidable. And devastating for a vulnerable child.

The Grayhawks might be Jackson Hole royalty, but King had made a lot of enemies over the years. There were plenty who snickered when his eldest daughter had become an unwed mother. They were quick to brand King's granddaughter with the label of bastard—behind her back. No one would have dared to say such a thing to her face, fearing King's swift and certain retribution.

Nevertheless, Kate had been aware of the slights, the sniggers, the whispers behind her back.

Which was why Libby had spent every penny she'd earned, and money loaned to her by North, to send her daughter to a boarding school in Virginia, where Kate could make friends who didn't know about her birth or her family.

King had offered Libby money for Kate's support, but Libby had known better than to take it. With such webs were sticky familial traps laid. And Libby had told Clay, when he offered, that if he wanted to give Kate money, he should put it in trust for her until her twenty-first birthday.

Libby had been proud of managing on her own, and Kate had never wanted for anything. Except a full-time father.

Over the years, Clay had spent his holidays vacationing in Jackson, as did many other politicians, and found time to spend with Kate. But Libby had borne her daughter's tears each time Clay left. And it had broken her heart.

After Clay married Giselle Montrose, the daughter of the American ambassador to France, he'd spent even less time in Jackson. But he and his wife had never had children, and Giselle had died a year ago of cancer.

Clay was on his own again.

So was she. Libby had tried marriage, and when it hadn't worked out, had gone so far as to get engaged to another man. She'd backed out three weeks before the wedding, realizing that she didn't love her fiancé enough to marry him. She was no more able than her father to find someone to measure up to her first love.

Libby had resigned herself to being alone. That was better than repeating her father's mistake and kept her from putting any more men through what her stepmothers had endured. It wasn't fair to them or to her or to her daughter.

Libby forced herself not to yearn for what she could never have. Clay had loved her once upon a time, and she'd betrayed that love. She wasn't going to get a second chance to make things right. Blackthornes weren't any more forgiving than they were merciful.

Kate had remained the center of Libby's life until she'd headed off to boarding school in the ninth grade. Since then, Libby had focused on her work.

She loved taking city folk into the mountains and showing them the savage beauty of the wilderness. She never embarrassed them by exposing their ignorance, just did her best to ensure they enjoyed the pristine wilderness that still existed in so much of Wyoming. She'd established a reputation as someone who was friendly and competent, and her guide services were much in demand.

It wasn't a perfect life. But it was satisfying.

Libby felt her heart clutch.
Please God,
she prayed,
don't let Kate be pregnant. Anything but that.

Libby wondered if she ought to call the sheriff's office to report the accident with Drew but realized if she did they were liable to tie her up filling out forms and answering questions. Instead, she called the local garage that had towed her car in the past.

“Hello, Theresa? I need help. A friend of mine went into the Hoback south of Jackson. He's sitting in his pickup in the middle of the river. He needs a tow.”

Libby gave Theresa the mile marker where Drew's truck had gone into the river. “Please hurry,” she said. “Oh, one more thing. I haven't reported the accident yet.”

Theresa said her husband Mike would be there as soon as possible. And if the police needed to be called, Mike could call them.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” Libby said. She clicked off her cell phone and hurried through town toward home. Kate's plane had long since landed. Libby only hoped her daughter had come home and stayed there. She called her home number but got the answering machine. Then she called North. She felt her heart race when he picked up and said, “Hello.”

“North, is Kate there with you? Did you pick her up from the airport?”

“She's not here, but I found a message on my machine when I got home that she's in town. Is something wrong?”

“She probably hitched a ride home with someone, but she's not answering her cell phone. Will you go by my place and see if she's there? I'm coming home now. Give me a call to let me know either way.”

“Will do,” North said.

North's ranch was north of Jackson, and Libby broke the speed limit again getting there. She hit the brakes hard in front of her cabin. The lights were on inside, and she shoved her way through the door, expecting to see Kate.

“Oh. I thought Kate was here,” she said, when North rose from a leather armchair. Her eldest brother was tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped. His blue eyes cut at her like two chips of ice, and his mouth was thin, almost cruel.

“There's a message from her on your answering machine,” North said, “saying she's in town and that she needs to talk to you. Nothing else.”

“Oh, God,” Libby said.

“What's she doing here, Libby?” North asked. “What's wrong?”

Libby clenched her teeth to keep her chin from quivering. “I don't know. But when she finally shows up, I'm going to give her a good piece of my mind!”

“I'll start some coffee,” North said.

An hour later, Libby said, “I can't sit here doing nothing. I'm going looking for her.”

“I'll go with you,” North said.

“No. Please. Stay here. Something terrible must have happened for her to come home like this. She'll need someone to be here when she shows up.”

Libby bit her lip to keep from blurting out her fear that Kate might be pregnant. She was terrified, but if she'd learned one thing growing up, it was to hide her fears. She met North's piercing gaze and realized he wasn't fooled.

She wished they were the sort of family that hugged one another, but they never had been, and she didn't expect North to start now. She needed someone to tell her everything would be all right, that Kate would turn up in a minute safe and sound. North wasn't that person.

Sometimes Libby wondered if her eldest brother had any feelings at all. He never lost his temper. He rarely smiled. He made every decision with cold-blooded reason. And he never made a mistake—or at least, never admitted to one.

“Anywhere in particular you plan to start looking?” he asked.

“I've called all her friends,” Libby said. “None of them have seen her.”

“You might try the bars.”

Libby frowned. “Kate's too young to drink.”

“Your choice,” North said.

He never imposed his will. Just made it impossible to ignore his reasoning. And he was always right. “All right,” she said. “Maybe she went to a bar with a friend to wait until she could reach me by phone. I'll check them out.”

Libby looked in every bar she could think of in Jackson. No one had seen Kate. She returned to the house at seven o'clock, her heart in her throat, her stomach a knot of pain.

“No sign of her?” North said, as she stepped inside.

“Nothing. It's as though she's disappeared into thin air.”

“I called the hospital. They haven't checked in anyone matching her description. It's time to call the police, Libby.”

Libby felt the blood drain from her face. “You don't think—”

“She would have called,” North said. “She wouldn't have made you worry like this. So yes, I think something has happened to her.”

Libby's knees buckled and she sank into the nearest chair. This was every mother's nightmare. Even worse was the knowledge that two other young women had disappeared from Jackson Hole over the past fifteen months. Someone bad was out there. And he might have taken her daughter.

“Wait,” she said, rising abruptly. “Before you call the police, let me make a call.”

“Have you thought of someone who might know where she is?” North asked.

“Yes,” Libby said. “I don't know why I didn't think to call him sooner.”

North raised a brow. “Who did you have in mind?”

“Kate's father.”

Sarah was making oatmeal raisin cookies after dinner when she got the call from her sister-in-law that Sarah's brother Mike was drunk again and had run the tow truck off the road on his way to a job. Theresa couldn't leave the kids alone and wanted Sarah to please rescue Mike and then go tow some idiot out of the Hoback River.

“The call came in more than an hour ago,” Theresa said. “The guy must be going crazy waiting for his tow.”

“No problem, Theresa,” Sarah said. “I'm leaving now.”

Sarah yelled for her stepson. “Nate, can you come and keep an eye on the cookies in the oven? I've got to go do a tow for Uncle Mike.”

“I'm playing Metroid,” Nate shouted back. “I'm about to defeat Mother Brain. Can't Brooke do it?”

“Brooke is getting Ryan ready for bed.”

“Is Uncle Mike drunk again?”

Sarah headed into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and got there in time to meet Nate's eyes as he finished speaking.

“Yes, he is,” she said. “Which should be a lesson to you about the dangers of drinking.”

Nate flushed. He'd been caught the previous Friday night drinking at the Valentine's Day dance at school and had been suspended for three days. He set down the controller and rose from his seat on the floor facing the TV, heading for the kitchen. “You've made your point, Mom,” Nate said. “Endlessly,” he muttered under his breath.

Once upon a time, Sarah would have ruffled her stepson's hair as he passed by her. But Nate was already six feet tall and still growing. He had her husband Tom's wiry build and Tom's warm brown eyes, sandy hair and freckles. She brushed a hand down the sleeve of Nate's black-and-gold Jackson Broncs sweatshirt instead, wanting the contact, wanting to reassure him that they were going to be all right, despite the hardships of the past fifteen months.

“Thanks, Nate. I appreciate the help. Don't eat all of them before I get back,” she said with a grin. “Save one for me.”

“Sure, Mom,” he said, shrugging free of her touch.

As she was putting on her coat, her eight-year-old son Ryan came running toward her, his pajama top still unbuttoned. Brooke came stalking in behind him, her hands on her hips—her jeans a few inches below that—and her fifteen-year-old eyes so caked with mascara that it was hard to tell they were hazel behind the black fringe.

“Where you going, Mom?” Ryan asked as he launched himself at her.

Ryan was too big to be picked up, really, but Sarah picked him up anyway. If Tom were still around, he could easily have hefted Ryan's weight. But Tom was gone.

Sarah knew there was debate in town about whether Tom Barndollar had finally gotten tired of his wife wearing the pants in the family and taken off. In fact, she and Tom had argued the morning he'd disappeared about the long hours Sarah was spending as a Teton County Deputy Sheriff hunting for some missing teenage girl, instead of staying home and taking care of her own family.

Sarah might have believed Tom was mad enough that morning to walk out on her, but she couldn't believe he would have left without a word to Nate and Brooke, his children by his first wife, and Ryan, who was Sarah and Tom's son.

Sure they'd argued, but in the past, they'd always worked things out. Only, that long-ago morning Tom had given her an ultimatum. He'd threatened to leave her if she didn't put her family first.

He'd only
threatened
to leave. Which meant he was giving her a chance to change her priorities. But when she'd come home that evening, both Tom and his truck had been missing.

That had been fifteen months ago. She hadn't heard a word from him since.

Sarah knew her husband was dead. Because if Tom Barndollar had been alive, he would have contacted her. Whatever the town of Jackson thought, Tom had loved her. And he would never have walked out on Nate and Brooke and Ryan.

Nate had been seven and Brooke six when Sarah married Tom. She'd been twenty-two and looking for an escape. She'd found it in Tom's arms. It hadn't been easy winning her stepchildren's love. She'd persisted, despite the setback when Ryan had been born, and Nate and Brooke had feared she wouldn't love them anymore, now that she had a child of her own.

Sarah's relationship with all three kids had been tenuous lately. A second girl had disappeared from Jackson three months ago, and Sarah was suddenly spending more time at work than ever before. She'd called on Nate to take care of the housework and on Brooke to keep an eye on Ryan.

Neither of them were happy about the additional responsibility. Both of them had heard that final argument between Sarah and Tom. Both of them had recently accused Sarah of reverting to the behavior they believed had caused their father to leave home.

To make matters even worse, Sarah's husband and her brother Mike had run the tow service together, but since Tom's disappearance, Mike had had trouble managing on his own. The added pressure had caused him to start drinking again.

Sarah didn't see that she had any choice but to help out when Theresa asked. Her sister-in-law needed the money too much to send the business elsewhere. And Sarah would rather do the tow herself than let her brother drive drunk. In any event, some reckless cowboy needed his pickup hauled out of the Hoback River.

“I shouldn't be gone more than a couple of hours,” Sarah said. “Ryan, you can have some cookies and milk before you go to bed.”

Brooke had already dropped into the spot on the floor in front of the couch her brother had occupied and picked up the controller to finish his game of Metroid.

“Is your homework done?” she said to Brooke.

“Why should you care?” Brooke shot back.

Sarah felt her stomach clench at the defiant—and hurtful—response. “I'm still your mother, young lady. I asked you a question.”

When Brooke ignored her, Sarah's hands balled into frustrated fists. She was at the end of her rope with her stepdaughter, who grew more rebellious by the day. “Well?” she demanded.

“It's Friday,” Brooke muttered. “I don't have any.”

“Fine. Help yourself to some cookies when they're done.”

“I don't want any of your damned—darned—cookies,” Brooke quickly corrected, eyeing Sarah sideways from beneath straggly brown bangs.

Sarah surveyed Brooke's thin frame, wondering if the girl was eating enough. A few months after Tom had disappeared, Brooke had stopped eating entirely for a twenty-four-hour period—something no healthy, happy teenager would do.

Sarah had caught Brooke, who was swaying, ready to faint, when they were cleaning out the garage one Saturday morning and confronted her about whether she was ill. Brooke had denied being sick. When Sarah asked when she'd eaten last, Brooke admitted she'd had “a potato chip” at a party the previous evening, but that was all she'd eaten since Thursday supper.

That same afternoon, Sarah had handed her stepdaughter all the books she could find in the Teton County Library on anorexia. Nowadays, she made sure Brooke at least ate dinner—when she was home to make sure Brooke ate.

Lately, that was less and less often.

Sarah released her balled fists and said, “I'd appreciate it if you'd help Ryan read the next chapter in
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
before he goes to bed.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Sarah knew her stepdaughter loved Ryan, and that she'd likely help him for his own sake, rather than Sarah's.

“Thanks, Brooke,” she said. “Good night, Ryan,” she called. “Thanks for the help, Nate.”

Then she was out the door.

She drove her Teton County Sheriff's vehicle, a white Chevy Tahoe, to pick up her brother and returned him to his home above the Teton Valley Garage. She picked up a pair of waders, since she was going to find herself in cold water before the night was out.

As she headed south out of Jackson in the tow truck, she could see how the cowboy's pickup might have ended up in the river. The roads were icy and fog hindered visibility. She slowed when she neared the mile marker she'd been given and looked for signs of a vehicle off the road. A pair of headlights flashed on in the river, and she pulled to the side of the road, angling the tow truck so its headlights lit the vehicle, and hit her overhead flashing yellow lights.

As she stepped out, the driver rolled down his window. She shouted to him over the rush of water, “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “I'm waiting for a tow.”

“I'm your tow,” she called back, as she began unwinding the cable she would need to pull the pickup out of the river. She stumbled down the hill, sliding in the shale, a flashlight in one hand and the frame hooks attached to the winch cable in the other.

As she headed into the river, the driver's door opened and the passenger started to get out.

“Stay in your truck until I get you to the edge of the river,” she said.

“You're going to need help,” he said.

“Stay in your truck,” she said more firmly, flashing the light in his eyes. “You'll only be in my way.”

Sarah picked her way carefully across the shallow river to the front of the pickup and bent to locate the openings in the frame and attach the mini-J-hooks. She swore when icy water splashed her leather gloves. She finished the job as quickly as she could, then pulled her leather gloves off and substituted a pair of fleece ones she'd brought along.

When she flashed her light at the driver a second time, she realized his head was bleeding. “You're hurt! Why didn't you call the paramedics? An accident with injuries needs to be reported to the police.”

He dabbed at his head with a bloody kerchief and said, “It's just a bump. I'm fine.”

She eyed him dubiously, then said, “I think I can get your truck out of here in one piece. Be sure the brake is off and the transmission is in neutral. You can help by steering till I get you closer to the riverbank. Then you're going to have to get out. There's always a chance this rig will tip and roll when it comes out of the water and heads up that incline.”

Sarah climbed up the hill and began winching the pickup toward the edge of the river. The tires bumped over the stones in the river bottom, then came up against some sort of obstacle that held the truck fast. She eased the slack on the cable and headed back down the slope.

“I should have known this wasn't going to be easy,” she muttered.

When she got to the truck, the driver already had the window down.

“It's stuck,” he said.

She nodded curtly, then did a quick search with her flashlight to see if she could find the problem. When she checked the right rear tire, she found it hooked on a submerged log. She kicked at the log a couple of times with her booted foot, but it wouldn't budge.

She came around to the driver's window and said, “It's stuck on a log. Try starting it up. Maybe you can back it off.”

“The engine won't turn over,” the man said. “I've already tried it.” He looked down at the water. “Damn. Guess I'm going to get my feet wet after all.”

“I can attach the winch to—”

Before Sarah could explain how she planned to rearrange the mini-J-hooks, run the cable around a nearby pine and winch the truck backward, the man had stepped down into the frigid river.

He almost fell face-first into the water. Sarah caught him with an arm around his waist and felt him sag against her.

“You
are
hurt,” she said.

“I'm fine,” he said, straightening. “I was a little dizzy there for a moment. Water's freezing.”

Sarah lifted his arm around her shoulder, slid her arm more snugly around his waist and said, “Next time the roads are icy and it's foggy, maybe you'll take your time around the curves.”

“It wasn't my fault.”

Sarah sighed. “It never is.”

She couldn't help noticing how tall he was. She was five feet ten in her bare feet, and he was several inches taller, lean and lithe and muscular, like most cowboys she knew, who spent their days doing physical labor from the back of a horse.

“I'm fine. Really,” he said, straightening and freeing himself from her supporting grasp. “Let's take a look at that log.”

“I can winch it from—”

He was already slogging through the frigid water toward the rear of the pickup. “Mmm. I see,” he said as Sarah focused her flashlight on a branch of the log that stuck out above the waterline.

He gave the submerged log a couple of hard kicks with the heel of his boot, and it broke in half. He reached down and yanked the log from under the wheel. “That should do it,” he said.

Sarah caught him as he swayed and almost fell. He tried shrugging her away, but she slid her arm firmly around his waist and said, “All right. You've proved you have the muscle. Now let's see if you have brains enough to let me help you.”

The flashlight was in the hand she was using to support him, with the light aimed up at his face, and she saw a grin flash as he sagged against her.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “Whatever you say, ma'am.”

Sarah helped him up the hill and into the cab of the tow truck, where the heater was running full blast. In the light that came on when she opened the door, she saw his face was pale, and his teeth were clenched to keep them from chattering.

“Those boots need to come off,” she said, suiting word to deed. It wasn't easy getting wet cowboy boots off his feet, but she knew he'd warm up faster that way. She peeled his socks off, revealing feet that were long and narrow and ice cold. She rubbed each of them briskly and realized his Wranglers, wet from the knees down, were dripping ice water onto her hands.

She tugged at his soggy jeans and said, “Those better come off, too.”

He lifted a brow suggestively, then reached under his anorak for his belt buckle and undid it, before unsnapping and unzipping his jeans. He lifted his hips and she pulled on the hems of both legs until they came off. He was wearing some kind of snug black underwear that hit him midthigh.