Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) (34 page)

“I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

Dymple cleared her throat. “This is the good part, but I’m losing my voice.” She stood. “I need more water. How about you?”

“Please.”

Dymple brought ice cubes from the kitchen and filled each of their glasses again. After several gulps, she settled into her chair. “When I returned to Copperville, a young mermaid from church, George Jordan—everyone called him JJ, even though his initials were GJ, asked me to go riding with him. We had a good time together and soon became fast friends.”

Kate smiled. The mermaid must have been a man.

“JJ was a very special person. He loved the Lord with all his heart. And he had a wonderful sense of humor. We enjoyed each other so much. On Valentine’s Day, he made me a big card. I was touched that he’d thought of me. After all, we were just friends.

“On the inside, he’d written
Roses are red, violets are blue. From the bottom of my heart, dear Dymple, I love you.
The
I love you
line was in big red letters. If that wasn’t enough of a surprise, after the poem, he wrote,
Please marry me. All my love, JJ
.”

“Must have been the romantic type.”

“He was.” Dymple’s face was soft, her eyes dreamy. “But I knew I could never marry him.”

Kate’s mouth dropped open. “Why not?”

“Because I was a murderer.”

“But it was self-defense. You were acquitted by a jury.”

“Just like you, I couldn’t stop labeling myself. Even if no one else knew, I knew I was a murderess. I pictured living every day of our marriage in fear I’d get a call or letter from a friend in California mentioning Raymond. Or worse yet, they might visit. Or maybe I’d get a notice from the court. Or a reporter could call asking about the murder. Or I’d talk in my sleep. I was terrified by the thought of what I might do to JJ if we had an argument. What if we had children and I did something horrific to them?”

“Oh, Dymple. Not you.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “JJ asked me time and again to marry him. I told him my final
no
the day I got to thinking about how frightening it would be to live with a woman who killed her first husband. If he found out, he might not trust me anymore, might be scared to go to sleep at night. Might want a divorce.”

Once again, tears coursed through the gullies of her cheeks. “I’ll never forget the look on his face when I asked him to stop asking. I broke both our hearts that day.”

Kate wiped her eyes again. She’d never heard anything so sad.

Dymple’s red lips drooped. “Every Valentines’ Day, every single Valentine’s day for the next thirty-seven years, JJ sent me a handmade card. Each poem, except the last one, started with
roses are red, violets are blue
. And each one broke my heart all over again. Yet, I still looked forward to receiving them.”

“You mean he never married?”

“No, and I feel responsible that he never found happiness in that way, although he once told me he was content with our friendship. At least we had that much.”

“What happened after thirty-seven years?”

“He died.”

“Oh.”

“JJ is buried next door in the church cemetery. A bit ironic, don’t you think? I visit his grave every day.”

“So that’s where you disappear to every now and then.”

Dymple nodded. “He died two days before Valentine’s Day last year while writing me a note. I still have it in my bedroom. The others are in a box in the attic.”

She got to her feet and hobbled into the house. When she returned, she handed Kate an envelope.

Kate pulled the card out, opened it and smiled at the picture on the front, one of bright-red Indian paintbrush surrounded by sagebrush. “Did JJ take the picture?”

“I’m sure he did. He loved to photograph wildflowers and wildlife.”

On the inside, in a large, wobbling scrawl, Dymple’s lifelong love had written: “My dearest Dymple—Remember that old song
A Daisy a Day?
If you and I had …” The scrawl slouched into a scribble and slid off the edge of the card.

Kate sniffed. “How sad. He didn’t finish it.”

“Sheriff Gilmer brought the card to me, said I might as well have it. JJ’s relatives would just throw it out.” Her lips quivered. “I cried and cried after I read it. My only consolation is knowing he’s deliriously happy and healthy in heaven, and I’ll meet him there someday.”

“But, Dymple, if only …”

Dymple reached across the table to take Kate’s hand. “That’s the point, Kate.
If only
I had followed my heart. God and the State of California and my family forgave my crime. I knew that in my head, but I refused to let it sink into my soul.

“Though I was a free woman, I allowed myself to remain a prisoner of my past. I don’t want that to happen to you. I want more for you. So much more. Be open, be honest with yourself and with others. Face your history so you can have a future, so you can live your dream. And if God so leads, allow Mike to share your dream.”

Kate rubbed the condensation on her glass. The Mike part sounded good, but no way would she tell him or anyone else about her past.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THE BLOOD TRAIL WAS
harder to track once they got into the woods, but it was evident something large had been dragged through the pine needles.

Clint stopped. “If it’s a wolf pack …” His voice was a whisper. “We don’t want to tangle with them while they’re eating.”

“How could wolves drag a buffalo through the fence?” Mike’s voice was also hushed.

“The gate could a been down.”

“Maybe.”

“Should I get my rifle?”

“Good idea. I’ll wait here.” Mike leaned against a tree. He closed his eyes and allowed the heat and the smell of pine sap to slow his racing heart. Still, the tremor in his gut persisted. Would he ever relax again? He plucked a pine needle and stuck it between his teeth. At least Clint was acting more like his old self again.

Clint returned with his gun. Together they crept across the forest floor, ducking under branches, skirting bushes and rocks, squinting to keep the trail in sight. At the base of a stack of boulders, they saw a dark huddle of crows.

Clint whispered, “Bet that’s it.” He ran into the clearing waving his rifle. “Git!”

The big black birds scattered into the treetops, squawking their resentment.

Mike squatted next to the riddled carcass. “This is the one.”

“What one?” Clint lowered the gun and squatted beside Mike. He whistled. “Ugh, the Slasher strikes again.”

“Though it’s hard to be sure, I think I saw a picture of this calf right after it was killed.”

Clint eyed Mike. “Where?”

“On Kate’s computer.”

“Why would Kate …? I mean, she treated that calf like a baby.” His forehead creased. “Do you think she’s the killer, that she killed both calves?”

“Kate couldn’t have killed either one. She was in the hospital when the first one died and is still in a wheelchair, as far as I know.” He remembered how hard it was to tell her Trudy was dead. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to tell her about this one, even though he still longed to share his world with her.

“So, what do we do now?”

“I suppose we should leave the carcass here and call the sheriff’s office again. With a few more clues, they might actually figure out who’s destroying our herd—and who broke into our office. Maybe the person who stole the money uploaded the picture on the computer. Maybe that’s the one who’s killing off the herd.”

They walked out of the trees to the fence and stood in silence, watching the bison. A cow several yards away ogled them for a few minutes before it resumed grazing.

Mike stuck his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t know what to do, Clint. I’ve thought of hiring guards, but round-the-clock security would get pricey fast. You have any ideas? If we don’t do something soon, we won’t have a herd left.”

“How about livestock protection dogs? I read somewhere that they’re fairly effective at discouraging predators.”

Mike lifted his hat to run his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’ve heard that too, but they’re no match against a degenerate human with a rifle. Maybe I should sell the entire herd to Marshall Thompson—before I no longer have any buffalo to sell.”

On the road below them, a rusty Chevy pickup topped a hill. A cloud of dust swirled in its wake.

Clint squinted. “Whose rig is that? Doesn’t belong to any of the employees.”

“Looks like truck the Clifford brothers drive. What’re they doing on our property?”

“Maybe they’re the bison killers.” Clint shook his head. “Nah. They’re too old, plus I don’t think either one of them has all his marbles. But just in case, I’ll have the guys keep an eye out for them.”

The vehicle passed from view.

Clint turned to Mike. “What’s the deal with Marshall?”

“He wants to start a herd and asked me to sell him as many animals as I can spare. I’m beginning to think I can spare them all.”

“You can’t do that. You’ve got to fight for what’s yours.” He slammed his fist into his palm. “If you let these fools win with the buffalo, they could go after your cattle and your horses—maybe those of us on staff or your guests. Your Mom and Dad worked hard to build Whispering Pines and make it the successful, reputable ranch it is today. You can’t let some idiot destroy their dream.”

A cold chill speared Mike’s stomach. “You’re right. I have to fight this.”

“I’ll be right beside you. All the way.”

Mike grinned. “Thanks. I appreciate your support.”

The cow moved closer, still grazing.

Clint kicked at a short, round cactus. “Sorry about the way I acted the other day, like a junior high kid.”

“It was my fault.” Mike adjusted his hat. “I was evasive and secretive, which is how Kate was. Weird things kept happening, all associated with her. Then the sheriff had her car towed …” He trailed off. Maybe he was saying too much. But maybe Clint, who now studied him with raised eyebrows, needed to know.

“Don’t tell anyone, but the Sheriff’s Department confiscated her car for evidence. Mom and I think it has something to do with the money that was stolen from the office. And then …” He looked away. Hughes was not a reliable source, but the documents appeared authentic. “It was brought to our attention that Kate’s past may not be all that …” He searched for the right word. “Pristine.” He paused. “I admit, I kind of had a thing for her, too, but believe me, we’re both better off—.”

The blast of a high-powered rifle sucked the words out of his mouth, and the cow in front of them collapsed onto her knees, her protest drowned by the reverberation.

***

Hearing Dymple make an unusual sound, Kate glanced up from the book she was reading on the patio.

“Someone’s been tramping around my yard.”

Kate picked up her bookmark, the receipt Mike had given her the night they first met. She placed it in the book and wheeled across the patio. The sheriff had said Ramsey was still in jail. So, who else would walk around her backyard? Tara? The deputies? She rolled to where Dymple knelt behind a lilac bush, staring at boot prints. Big boot prints. That ruled out Ramsey. And no high-heel marks, which eliminated Tara.

Dymple motioned with her trowel. “I cultivated this little patch of dirt several days ago, so I could plant some more daisies, which I was just about to do. But a prowler visited us in the meantime.” One noisy joint at a time, she stood, using a shovel for support. “See the direction the prints are aimed?”

Kate looked at the imprints and then at the house. “The patio.” The bush was about five-feet high. A person her size or taller could easily see into the house if the blinds were open.

Dymple snorted. “That just fries my gizzard. Some pervert stood right here behind this bush and spied on us through that window. I’ve got to call the sheriff.”

Kate’s shoulders slumped. “It’s my fault.”

Dymple’s blue eyes snapped to a steel gray. “Why do you think everything is your fault?”

Kate pushed a wheel back and forth over a pebble. “You didn’t have to call the sheriff every other day, and neither did the Duncans, until I came to Copperville.” She felt like a trouble light that attracted swarms of bad-luck moths.

“Get over yourself, Kate.” Dymple stepped away from the bush, careful to not disturb the footprints. “I’m going to go call. If the department sends out deputies right away, they can photograph the prints while they’re fresh—plus look for other clues.”

Stunned by Dymple’s retort, Kate stared at the print. She wasn’t happy about another visit from the deputies. But maybe they’d find the missing link to all the insanity.

***

Mike slouched in the passenger seat of Clint’s pickup. They’d driven back down to the road. His hat in his lap and his head against the seatback, he wondered if his life would ever be normal again. Or his pulse, which buzzed with the aftershocks of a bullet whizzing past his ear.

“I didn’t even try to shoot back.” Clint picked at the stickers he’d gotten in his fingers when he dropped behind a boulder.

“They caught us off-guard.”

“We should have chased them.”

“We did.”

“Yeah, all the way to the top of the hill.”

“And just in time to see the ATV disappear into the woods.” Mike scratched his forehead. “We were on foot, Clint. No match for an ATV.”

Clint smacked the door panel with the side of his fist. “If that deputy ever gets here, what’ll he do? Take more pictures to bury in some file cabinet? This has gone on all summer.”

“Yeah, too long. I’m thinking we need to do some sleuthing of our own.”

Clint raised his chin. “So, why did you call the sheriff?”

“For the record. We need to chronicle all that’s gone on in case things get really hairy.”

“You expect things to get worse?”

Mike watched a coyote chase a jack rabbit into a pile of rocks and dash back and forth between the cracks, poking its nose inside each one. “It doesn’t seem like we’re dealing with normal upstanding citizens. Who knows what could happen next.”

A white SUV crested the top of the road.

Mike and Clint stepped from the truck to wait side-by-side, hands in their pockets, while the deputy parked a few feet away. Mike grunted when Bernard got out. Didn’t they have any other officers on the force?