The burger was delicious. Lulu’s husband, Jimmy, charcoal–grilled the meat out back, creating a juicy,
tender sandwich replete with organic tomatoes and lettuce. In their sixties, Lulu and Jimmy still wore jeans with peace symbol appliqués, beads and headbands to contain their long gray hair. Had Rachel been one to think in certain directions, she might have thought that between the rows of carefully tended vegetables a weed or two of marijuana might have strayed. But Rachel didn’t think that way, and neither did the sheriff. Lulu and Jimmy were valued local residents.
She bit into the burger again, relishing the taste.
Jake put his sandwich down. “Jesus, Rachel, you act like you haven’t eaten in a week.”
Rachel grinned around a mouthful of meat and bun and wiped her mouth. “I’d forgotten anything could taste this good.”
“Cheap date. How about another glass of tea?”
She shook her head. “Coffee and some chocolate pie.”
Jake signaled Lulu, who personally came over to take the order. “One chocolate pie and two coffees.” He winked at Lulu. “Rachel’s trying to empty my wallet.”
“Get him his own pie because I’m not sharing.” Rachel nodded at Lulu. “Bring him a piece or he’ll eat most of mine.”
“I’ll be sure I make those generous pieces,” Lulu said as she patted Rachel’s shoulder. “You look good in that uniform. Although you turned a few heads when you wore one of my paisley aprons.”
“I like the way you lie.” Rachel smiled up at the older woman. She’d moved with the Ortiz family to Bisonville, and Lulu had given her a job. Waiting tables had taught Rachel a work ethic and a lot about human nature. She’d learned to smile when a customer was being unreasonable and to take a twenty–five cent tip with grace.
Lulu went to get the pie and Rachel found Jake was staring at her. She sopped up the last bit of catsup with her bun and gave him her attention. “What are you thinking?”
“I take it from your interest in Ashton Trussell that you don’t believe WAR had anything to do with the murders.”
Rachel gave a sound of disgust. “I think they destroyed that heavy equipment, but I never put any credence into them killing Welford and Trussell. The profiles of these groups indicate younger members inclined toward sabotage of road and logging equipment but not murder.”
“It’s just that Hank and Trussell were skinned and their heads taken. Exactly like a hunter does an animal.” Jake tapped the table with his forefinger. “WAR is against the use of animals for sport. It fits.”
“I agree. What a boost for WAR to take none of the risk and all of the credit, but what I don’t get is why the real killer didn’t strip the skin that contained Hank’s tattoo. It made identification too easy. As if the killer wanted Hank identified. And that silver thing stabbed into his chest. I hope the lab comes up with something.”
Jake nodded, conceding her point. “Have you talked to the editor at the newspaper?”
She shook her head. “Gordon talked to the publisher. He’s cooperating with us. I talked to the reporter who got the note. It was slipped under the door of the office during the night, not mailed. We dusted it for fingerprints. None. The writing is block print on copy paper with a black ballpoint ink pen. Every store in the nation sells the stuff.”
“The editor should have called before he printed that story.”
“If you’re serious about running for sheriff, Jake, you need to develop a relationship with the local paper.”
“I won’t kiss—”
“Take it easy. I’m not suggesting that you pander to them. But you see how Gordon works with them. They cover stories that he wants covered, and he shares information with them when he can.”
Jake had a burn on for journalists, and Rachel didn’t understand it. As far as she knew, Jake’s dad had been a media darling. The local newspapers and TV stations had made him a celebrity when he stayed out in a snow storm and rescued two lost children.
“They printed a letter claiming two murders without telling us first. Even if it is bogus, that’s irresponsible.”
“Give it up, Jake.”
“That’s what Frankie tells me, too.”
“The editor did us a favor by printing the confession. If the killer is local, maybe he’ll think we aren’t hunting him anymore.” She wondered if Jake had taken Frankie fully into his confidence. “Is Frankie Jackson advising you now?”
“Dad and Gordon think a lot of her. She grew up around here.” He sipped his tea. “You two have a lot in common, Rachel. Ask her about it.” He looked around the café to be sure no one was interested in their conversation. “That plastic surgeon troubles me. If someone flew out here just to kill him in a gruesome way and took Welford down because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, we may never catch the murderer.”
“That’s a possibility, but I think Hank was the target. That silver pinned to his chest must have a special meaning.”
“Everything at the scene means something. We just don’t know what.”
She picked up a fry and dragged it through a puddle of catsup on Jake’s plate. “I saw John Henry James.” She gave Jake a brief summary of her meeting with the ex–con.
“You should have taken back–up, Rachel. The man’s a convicted killer. A woman killer.”
She picked up another fry. “He admitted to being on the scene. As a passing witness to the moose killing. Jake, he didn’t know Hank was dead.”
“Rachel—”
“Don’t, Jake. Don’t make me doubt myself. Not now. If I can’t trust my own judgment, I don’t have anything to offer as a deputy.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Any news on the vandalism?”
“We got some prints off the heavy equipment. No match was found in the FBI’s AFIS system, which isn’t surprising if my theory is correct that WAR is behind it. Most of those kids come from good families. They won’t have criminal records.”
“Any luck getting a membership roster of the group?” Jake pushed his plate aside to make room on the table for the slab of pie Lulu put in front of him.
“I don’t think they pay dues. I found an Internet site for them but so far haven’t been able to trace it to a webmaster. It’s mostly an information page–no call to action. The sheriff is working on that angle.” She looked up at Lulu as her pie slid in front of her. “Tell Marge that the meringue is a work of art.”
“Will do.” Lulu patted Rachel’s dark curls. “Be careful. I hear what you’re talking about and it worries me.”
“I will.” She blew Lulu a kiss and waited until she went back behind the counter. “I think it’s a dead end.”
“A charge of accomplice to murder might rattle some information loose.” Jake’s blue eyes were hard.
She nodded. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought of that approach. She just didn’t think it was worth the effort. A bunch of upper class white kids would lawyer up and never give up anything.
“I need to talk to Adam Standing Bear. I gather he’s the official spokesman for the faction of Sioux who are vocal about the four–lane going through.” She cut a bite of her pie and lifted it to her mouth. “Mmmmmm. That is if I can still fit into my pants. I’m definitely going to have to work out tonight.”
“Want me to go with you to talk to Ad—”
The ring of her cell phone cut through his question. It was a good excuse not to answer him. Jake had worked hard to develop a rapport with several of the local factions of Sioux, including the more militant ones. But she wanted to talk to Adam without Jake. If she was going to work Criss County, Adam was someone she needed to develop her own relationship with.
“Deputy Redmond. Can I help you?”
The woman on the other end sounded breathless. “This is Hannah Bellows. My husband should’ve been home today before dark, but I haven’t heard from him.”
Rachel checked her watch. “The bad weather may have delayed him. Where does he work?” She’d have to talk to Gladys about giving out her cell phone number to anyone who called in, especially anyone with a straying husband.
“He and Burl Mascotti went up to plant some…I mean to check out some camping sites. They spent the night up in the woods last night, but he said he’d be home this evening by five. With the storm and all, he should’ve been home by now.”
Rachel’s gaze met Jake’s as she answered. She tried to keep a cool expression but her heart had begun to race. “He’s only an hour late, Mrs. Bellows. I’m sure he’ll be home before long.”
“Mullet never misses the NASCAR races. Never.”
“Mullet Bellows?” She knew him. He hung out in Bud’s most evenings, strutting like a rooster with his outdated hair cut and an abundant supply of what he thought was charm but she viewed as obnoxiousness.
“Mullet never misses the NASCAR. I’m telling you, something bad has happened.”
Outside the café another burst of wind blew rain slashing against the plate glass window. “Do you know where the campsite was located?” Rachel pushed her half–eaten pie back as she focused on the conversation. She had a bad feeling.
“Mullet didn’t talk about it much. He said women didn’t belong in a hunting party, so I never took much notice of what he and Burl carried on about.”
The woman at least sounded calmer. “Does he have a cell phone?” Rachel asked.
“He does.” She gave the number. “There’s no reception up there, though.”
“I’ll notify the deputies on the roads tonight and let them know to call you if they see him.”
“You’re going to look for him, aren’t you?”
Rachel watched the rain lash the window on another gust of wind. The helicopter out of Rapid City couldn’t fly in these winds. Searching on foot would be a waste of manpower until daylight. Between the darkness and the storm, a rescuer could walk right by a victim.
Victim.
She focused on gaining control of her own anxiety and the conversation. “We’ll do what we can, Mrs. Bellows. Someone isn’t considered missing until he’s gone for twenty–four hours. Although it’s raining, the temperature is mild. He isn’t in any danger of freezing.”
“What if he’s hurt up there? What if that killer has him?” Hysteria made her voice shrill.
“I know Mullet, and he’s a competent guy. Chances are he’s just hunkered down for the night.” She stared into Jake’s eyes and saw his concern grow. “If he isn’t home by morning, we’ll launch a full–scale search. There’s just not much we can do in this storm. If you had some idea where he was camping, we could check that.”
“Well that’s a stupid damn answer. My husband is missing up in the woods where two people were murdered, and you can’t look for him because you might get wet.”
Rachel slowly inhaled. There wasn’t any point in explaining to Mrs. Bellows that if she and Scott and Jake and all the volunteers went up to search right now, without a specific location to begin, it would be futile.
“I’m calling the sheriff. He’ll make you do your job.”
“We’ll do what we can, Mrs. Bellows. I’ll let you know if I find him. And you call the S.O. if he shows up, okay?”
Mrs. Bellows slammed the phone down and disconnected.
Rachel put her cell phone on the table. People didn’t understand that deputies and volunteers for search and rescue didn’t automatically get special powers with the job title. They couldn’t see in the dark or fly in gale–force winds.
“Mullet gone astray?” Jake asked, deliberately keeping it light.
“Yeah. Maybe Burl Mascotti, too. Mrs. Bellows said they went up into the wilderness to check out campsites and haven’t come back.” She bit her lip, then stopped herself. It was an old habit she’d worked hard to break. She knew it made her look about fourteen.
“Those two are probably up to a little illegal hunting.” Jake nodded toward the window. “Nothing you can do about it tonight.”
“Not with the storm. The winds are too high to call out the rescue helicopter. I’ll stop by the office and give Gordon a heads–up on this. Call the state troopers just in case he’s on the road to Rapid City instead of up in the woods.”
Jake nodded. “Mullet isn’t known for his fidelity. He and Burl will probably show up home when they run out of beer.”
It was the logical assessment of the situation, but Rachel couldn’t shake the disquiet that had settled at the table with them. “I saw the storm coming this afternoon about three. What would make an idiot stay out until it hit?”
“You’ve answered your own question.” Jake placed a twenty on the table. “They’re idiots. Mullet and Burl are two–thirds of the three stooges and neither of them are half as smart as Moe.”
# # #
The candles lit the table with a glowing luminescence. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain pounded the windows, but at Frankie’s dinner table, conversation softened the sounds of the storm. It was a select gathering, one more step on the yellow brick road to the Emerald City of Paradise. She rolled one shoulder, then the other. She’d had a busy few days with lots of physical exertion.
“Frankie, are you going to be able to keep the four–lane on track?” Harvey Dilson’s question cracked like a whip amidst the genteel murmur of her guests.
She met his gaze. Her family had known him since his first election to the state house. Power had coarsened his features and sharpened his tongue. Harvey was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it.
She gave him a cool smile. “Let’s save that for later, Harvey, and talk about more pleasant things.” Several of the multi–million dollar investors in the Paradise project—and in Dilson’s political future–were at the table, yet Harvey didn’t have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. “How is your re–election campaign shaping up?” she asked.
His blue eyes were flinty, but he nodded his head, the candlelight catching in his silver mane. “I never underestimate an opponent, but I don’t see any serious problems ahead.”
“You have the advantage of incumbency,” Frankie noted. “The people of this region have come to rely on you to look out for their best interests.”
“Senator Dilson, is it true that the new highway is your idea?” The woman who spoke was young and beautiful, her thick auburn hair pulled back from her face by exquisite pearl barrettes. Her tone was sharp. “I hear you stand to sell a good bit of property for the right of way.”
“Young lady, are you an investor in Paradise?” Harvey leveled his gaze at her.
Frankie arched an eyebrow. “Harvey, Justine’s parents are the cardiac specialists in the valley. She graduated early and returned to the area after finishing her master’s at Yale. Business, wasn’t it, Justine?”
“Accounting.” Her gaze never left the senator. “My parents supported your campaign last election, and we have some concerns about this four–lane. So I ask you again, was the new roadway your idea?”
Conversation at the table stalled. Frankie considered taking action to put the dinner party back on foot, but she rather enjoyed the discomfort that now marred Harvey’s features. He wasn’t used to being confronted, especially by someone young, passionate, idealistic and female, which was exactly why she’d invited Justine. A successful dinner party depended on the proper mix of guests. Justine’s youth and brains balanced Harvey’s political power. If Harvey couldn’t handle her, it would at least provide for a bit of entertainment.
“Young lady, the road is necessary for future development in our area. Paradise is a dream, a pollution free industry that will grow our economy in ways you can’t begin to comprehend. Folks won’t live in a place where access is difficult.”
Justine speared a tender asparagus tip and daintily ate it. “You make several points, Senator, which are completely inaccurate. First of all, any development that requires miles and miles of asphalt to prepare for thousands of polluting automobiles is not what I’d call pollution free. Secondly, we already live in paradise; we don’t need a high–tech city. Why change perfection? Tell me, why do politicians equate growth and development with progress?”
Frankie watched the reactions of her guests with casual alertness. Richard Jones, the man with the Midas touch when it came to computer technology, had stopped eating completely. Paradise was his dream, his concept, his existence. And he was riveted by Justine. He was a shy man to begin with, and Justine’s passion had unsettled him even further.
The sheriff, another big investor in Paradise, put down his fork. She’d noticed his discomfort from his hip surgery, but he’d maintained a stoic front. His wife, though, was flushed, whether from embarrassment or too much wine, Frankie couldn’t say for certain. The only one who seemed to enjoy the moment was Douglas Sparks, an investor from Omaha. The party was designed to introduce him to some of the people backing the Paradise project.
“The dinner table isn’t the place to debate politics.” Harvey picked up his knife and cut the prime rib. “Not when this delicious repast is growing cold while we talk.”
“I’d like to hear your answer,” Douglas said quietly. “Since I’m thinking of investing, I’m interested in hearing how the…locals view Richard’s project. I mean ‘the Emerald City of technology’ will affect everyone in the area. Is this what the population wants? Do the residents want Oz in their backyard?”
Harvey’s cheeks, already pink from the wine, colored more deeply. He’d been caught off–guard at a dinner where he expected only praise and the closing of a deal that would feather his nest for the rest of his life. Frankie knew for a fact that he’d invested close to a million dollars of his own money in Paradise.
“Senator Dilson, we’re all very interested in this question,” Justine said. “As our elected representative, I’m sure you’re well versed in the public’s desires.”
“You know damn good and well–” He looked at the shocked faces at the table. “We haven’t consulted the locals, as you so quaintly put it. But we will. Once we have the architectural renderings for Paradise and figures on the potential employment and payroll this technology center will generate, you can bet we’ll let the constituency know. We’ll put it on the ballot for a vote. We certainly don’t intend to ram anything down the throats of the community and I resent–.”
“So far you’ve managed to ram the four–lane down our throats.” Justine folded her napkin. Frankie noticed she’d eaten the vegetables on her plate but the meat was untouched. Frankie studied the beautiful young woman. Had she come home to join up with WAR?
“This great country was built on the ability of the population to move westward, and this highway is no exception. We need access to Bisonville and Criss County if
Paradise is to become a reality. This development will bring thousands of high–paying jobs to an area that’s been economically depressed since the 1800s. It’s a good thing, young woman, so don’t try to paint it as something bad.”
“Do the Native Americans feel this way?” Justine was completely unruffled by Harvey’s bravado.
Frankie signaled the servant to refill the wine glasses. Justine was a ballsy little thing to sit at her table with such cool aplomb. She had no doubts now. Justine was a member of WAR. Frankie sipped the crisp shiraz. Life was about passion. Even misplaced passion was better than none. Justine was enchanting, as long as she didn’t become too much of a thorn.
Harvey was almost spitting. “The Indians have no say whatsoever in this matter.”
“Except that the Black Hills were deeded to them in the Fort Laramie Treaty. I believe the wording reads that the lands are granted ‘in perpetuity’ to the Sioux.” Justine licked her lips.
Silence filled the room, and Frankie saw that now Douglas, as well as Richard, was enraptured with Justine. Not exactly what she’d planned. She rose. “Let’s have an after–dinner drink in the parlor.”
She left the room, wanting only to corner Justine somewhere private. If WAR was planning another raid on the road project, she needed to be one step ahead of them.
# # #
The dance studio/dojang looked abandoned, except for Rachel’s truck in front. Frankie cruised to a stop in the parking lot and considered her next move. Her body hummed with tension. Justine had given very little away, but enough for Frankie to believe she was involved with WAR. The question was what to do with the information. She thought she knew, but she’d have to be careful how she went about it.
During her years at Lida Jane’s Preparatory School for Young Women, Frankie had played field hockey, soccer and danced. It was the discipline, both mental and physical, of ballet that had won her heart. Lithe and quick, she’d been a natural. In fact, she enjoyed any intense workout that demanded all she had to give. Living in that moment of total concentration and focus on a goal was one of her biggest thrills. She smiled to herself at the thought of such pleasures and rolled the tension out of her shoulders. Right now she needed a workout as much as she wanted to talk to Rachel.
The front door of the building opened easily with the key Rachel had helped arrange for her, and she stepped into an anteroom where a reception desk filled one corner. The smell of sawdust and sweat brought back a memory from high school. She’d danced the lead in Swan Lake and been told repeatedly of her “potential.” She hadn’t been interested in pursuing a career on stage. Dance wasn’t her destiny, and though she loved it, it was an aside.
Beyond the reception area she could hear the sounds of someone breathing heavily. Rachel. She walked in that direction, her slippers soundless on the polished oak of the floor. When she entered, she was struck by the serene emptiness of the room. The lone figure executing a series of side kicks showed practice, skill, determination and speed.
Frankie watched silently. Rachel was good. Very good. The black belt that tied her dobok held four white stripes that represented long years of hard work. While the movements Rachel executed were as precise and beautiful as ballet, they could also be deadly.
She continued to watch as Rachel leapt into the air and kicked with such force that her body shifted horizontal to the floor. She landed on the balls of her feet with a soft thud.
Frankie applauded, causing Rachel to whirl. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You were absorbed in the movement. I think that’s the point.”
Rachel wiped her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. “I figured I’d be the only Criss County resident working out at two in the morning.”
Frankie heard the message beneath Rachel’s words. “I saw your truck here and presumed too much. I’ll see you later.” She turned to leave.
“Wait up!” Rachel walked toward her. “It’s okay. I don’t mean to act like I own the space. The exercise…helps me sleep.”
Frankie nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. When I can’t sleep…I just thought…” she shrugged and rolled her eyes. “Obviously I didn’t think at all.”
“Stay.”
Frankie considered. “Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. I’m almost finished anyway. If I don’t get home and get at least a few hours sleep I won’t be able to work tomorrow.”
Frankie saw the doubt in her face. “Has something else happened?”
“Probably not. A couple of local hunters are missing.”
“Who?”
“Mullet Bellows and Burl Mascotti.”
Frankie nodded. “Mullet works on the road crew. When he feels like it. But you sure can’t start a search party tonight. It’s pouring and the winds are hitting gale force at times.”
As if to emphasize her words, a gust of wind howled against the front door causing it to knock against the jamb.
“I alerted the troopers who’ll pass the info on to the road and power crews. I’ve got a search party lined up for first light, and Gordon talked to Mrs. Bellows. Mullet apparently has a history of staying out overnight. It’s just that–”
“The murders. I know. But no point jumping to conclusions. If you need some help looking for them in the morning, I’d be glad to lend a hand. I’m a pretty fair tracker. My dad taught me. He was a great man.” She felt Rachel’s assessing gaze. The deputy was green, but at times she could be a little disconcerting. Frankie enjoyed that. Most people were so easily manipulated. Rachel was difficult to manage.
“Jake told me you moved down South just before you hit your teen years. Alabama, I think.”
Frankie wondered how much Jake had told her. “I spent most of my life in Montgomery, but my early childhood was here. On a ranch.” Frankie hesitated. “Because of a head injury, I don’t have many memories of those early years. I can’t remember birthday parties or playing with friends. But I never forgot how to do certain things. Like tracking or riding a horse. Setting up a camp or building a fire. I remember the skills, but not the emotional aspects.”
“What kind of injury?” Rachel motioned to a wall where several folding chairs had been stored. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
Frankie followed more slowly. When they were seated and facing each other, she answered. “I was shot in the head when I was twelve.”
Rachel’s face registered concern, and Frankie felt her gaze searching for the bullet wound. Everyone did it. “Was it a hunting accident?”
“Sort of.” Frankie shrugged. “I don’t really remember what happened exactly, but my mother said my father went up in the hills looking for some cattle that had strayed. He told me to stay home, but I waited until he had a lead and then I saddled Dolly and went after him. He had a head start, but I was a good tracker.” Her voice grew husky with emotion. “I don’t remember anything else. I was shot. No one really knows what happened.”
She could almost see Rachel’s thoughts. “If you’re thinking illegal hunters shot me, you may be right. My personal theory is that my dad caught some poachers and they panicked and killed him. I rode up on them and they shot me and left me for dead.”
“Your father was shot, too?”
“I can’t answer that. His body was never found. Some folks think he abandoned the family because he was losing our ranch. Cattle prices had bottomed out and things were bad economically. It was a tough time, or at least that’s what Mother always told me. So the gossip was that he couldn’t face it and left.”
“But you were shot. He wouldn’t have left you.”
“They found horse tracks that led to the main road and then some tracks from a horse trailer pulled by a dually.”
“That could indicate foul play to me.” Rachel took a deep breath trying to contain her frustration. “Did they question any witnesses or find any evidence? Your father wouldn’t have left you wounded in the wilderness.”
Frankie tried not to show the strange elation she felt. Rachel understood. She was smart, and she saw the obvious.
“Gordon was a deputy then, and he and Mel Ortiz, who was the head of the state parks, figured Dad was too far ahead of me to know what had happened. He said Dad had probably loaded up his horse and was down the highway before I was even shot. Had he known, he wouldn’t have left.”
“That makes a certain kind of sense, I guess.” Rachel rubbed at the deep furrow between her eyebrows. “But—”
Frankie wanted to hug her. She was a stranger, but she saw the stupidity of thinking Dub would abandon his family.
“They did put out a missing person’s report and they got a couple of calls. Someone saw Dad working the rodeo circuit in Amarillo and Houston. Then there was an airline ticket purchased in his name in Missoula. I was really sick then and my mother didn’t pursue any of it. She said if Dad would abandon us, she wasn’t going to track him down and force him to take care of his family.”
“But you never believed that?” Rachel asked.
Frankie shook her head. “I think the same people who shot me shot him.”
“But a body just doesn’t disappear.”
Frankie nodded. “I was shot on state land. Gordon and Mel worked it together, sort of like the way you and Jake are working this double murder. Anyway, they found where I’d been shot, and what looked like a practice target deeper in a clearing in the woods. There was no trace of my father or any sign of a struggle.” She met Rachel’s gaze squarely. “The official version was that I was shot accidentally and that Dad left. I think Dad was killed and they took his horse and his body. I don’t believe the shooters even knew they’d hit me.”
Outside a gust of wind whipped a branch into the building. Both women looked toward the front door.
“How long ago was this?”
“Sixteen years.”
“You never saw who shot you?”
“The bullet went in here.” Frankie pulled her hair back to show her scalp just above her forehead. “It came out over here.” She knew the scar was faint and it was unlikely Rachel could see it. “Small caliber, the same that matched the holes in the target.”
“So Mel and Gordon figured that someone was practice shooting and a stray round got you?”
“That’s right. The damage from the bullet and resulting swelling affected the part of my brain that controlled motor skills and memory. I don’t remember anything. When I came to, I didn’t know my own mother. I lost my father in more ways than death.”
“How did you get home?” Rachel stared at the towel in her hands.
“I can’t say. All I know is that Mother told me everyone was looking for Dad and me. Gordon and the search and rescue were out. Mel had mobilized all the volunteers to comb the state lands. She said she looked out the kitchen window and saw Dolly, my horse, slowly walking toward the house. I’d somehow managed to get up in the saddle and hang on to the horn. Dolly brought me home. Dad’s horse was never found. Never a trace of him anywhere, except for those tracks leading to a horse trailer.”
“Jesus, Frankie.” Rachel wiped her forehead with her palm.
“Hey, it’s not as bad as it could be. I don’t remember any of it. Everything I told you is only what my mother told me. My childhood, except for an occasional flash or a splinter of memory or emotion, is simply gone.” She tapped her head. “I started life at twelve with a clean slate.”
“And your dad? Nothing ever turned up?”
Frankie inhaled slowly. “I have this one picture of him. I don’t even know if it’s real or if it’s something I saw on TV and incorporated as my own.” She swallowed. “It’s hard not to have memories like other kids. But in this image, I see my dad. His name was Dub. I see him lifting me into a saddle on a horse. His eyes are blue like the South Dakota sky, and he’s laughing and telling me I’m going to be the best cowgirl ever born. Mother said I was really good. Dad preferred working the cattle with me over the ranch hands because I was so adept at cutting.”
Rachel pushed her hair back. “I feel like I’m playing forty questions with your life, but why did your mom move down to Alabama?”
“I want you to know this, because in some ways we share a lot. We’ve both lost our parents. We’ve both grown up and made something of ourselves. We both had to learn to be tough. And I’d rather you hear it from me. That way I know you got the straight story—or at least as straight as my mother’s version can be. When they got me down off Dolly, I couldn’t walk or talk. The local doctor wanted to send me to a brain center in Omaha, but Mother had family in Montgomery. We went there so her sister could help. The therapy was intensive and it took a lot of physical work. I had to learn to sit up, to crawl, to stand. I was like a baby.”
Frankie realized her tone had gotten harsher. “I hate to think of those years. It’s humiliating not being able to go to the toilet without help. I was deaf at first. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even ask for water. It took months of intensive therapy. My mother and aunt devoted their lives to helping me heal, and in the end I think the stress of it all took a toll. Mom died of a heart attack.”
Rachel put a hand on her arm. “To look at you, no one would ever think you’d been through anything worse than a bad hair day. Frankie, I’m amazed at you.”
“Survival is the strongest primal instinct, Rachel. I didn’t do anything spectacular. I merely did what we’re all biologically programmed to do. I survived.”
“A lot of biologically programmed humans would’ve given up. You’re a superb athlete. You didn’t just learn to walk again, you’re an advertisement for fitness.”
Frankie stood abruptly, fueled by a surge of impatient energy. Whenever she inched too close to emotion, her body demanded action. She paced the area. “I made a promise to myself that I’d never feel helpless again. I won’t.” She faced Rachel. “I won’t.”
Rachel rose also. “I don’t know what I could do, Frankie, but if you want me to look at the old case files on your dad’s disappearance, I will.”
Frankie stopped. “No one has ever offered to do that. After the initial investigation and the fake leads that never panned out, folks assumed that Dad had abandoned the family. It was hard times. Like a lot of other ranchers, Dad was overextended, and the bank was going to foreclose. We moved south, and folks let it slide into the past.”
“It’s hard to let go of something until you know the truth. Once we find Welford’s killer, I’ll look into your dad’s disappearance.” Rachel picked up her towel. “It’s late. I need to get some sleep. I’m going to be out in the wilderness looking for Mullet and Burl.”
“If he shows at the job site, I’ll give you a holler, but Mullet doesn’t work regular. In fact, best I can tell, he prefers not to work at all.”
Frankie followed Rachel to the front door. “If it’s okay, I’m going to stay another half hour and do some stretches. I’ll lock up.”
“Enjoy yourself.” Rachel opened the door and was almost pulled into the street by a gust of wind.
She ran to her truck and was backing out of the lot when Frankie waved her to a halt and ran to the driver’s window. “Rachel, I had another dinner party tonight. Investors for Paradise. Justine Morgan, the cardiologists’ daughter, I could be wrong, but she might be a place to start with WAR.”
“Justine Morgan? She graduated from Yale or some Ivy League school and came back home, right?”
Frankie nodded. “I’m not trying to interfere—”
“It’s okay. Why would Justine be messing with WAR?”
Frankie shrugged one shoulder. “Because she’s always had everything handed to her and never had to work for a damn thing. I think her heart’s in the right place. Look, I understand the objections to the road. I do. It’s hard to imagine what this area will be like in fifty years with growth and development. But it’s coming, and I’m trying to make sure there’s at least some wilderness left to preserve.”
“I’ll check her out.” Rachel put the truck in reverse. “Thanks for the tip.”
“I could be wrong about Justine. She’s a beautiful young woman with passionate political views.” She shrugged. “Since when is that a crime?”
“That’s not a crime. Burning two bulldozers is.”
Frankie stepped back as the truck reversed and then slowly pulled onto the empty, windswept road.