Revenge (68 page)

“I know,” Skye said, patting Dani's shoulder. “Things'll work out for you.”

“Of course they will,” Dani replied, searching in her pocket for a pack of cigarettes. She'd given up smoking years before, but the stress of the divorce had driven her back to her old habit. “I'm going to remain single for the rest of my life. Men are nothing but pains in the butt—well, maybe not Max.” She shook out a filter tip, lit up, then blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

“He can be a pain, too,” Casey said, trying to lighten the mood. Dani's life hadn't been easy. She'd been a rebel in her youth and there were rumors that she'd had a baby out of wedlock and given it up for adoption; no one really knew the true story or the name of the father. For years she'd hated the McKee family, though Jonah's death had seemed to mellow her, and she'd accepted the rest of the family, even been happy for Max and Skye. But now that her marriage to Jeff Stewart was falling apart, she was caught up in her own problems.

She scowled at her cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray Kiki had provided. “I've got to give these up again.”

“You will,” Skye predicted.

Surprisingly the day flew by, plans for the wedding, flowers, caterers, photographers and the minister being melded together between phone calls from Rex Stone, the sheriffs department and FBI. Both Christmas and wedding seemed surreal considering the circumstances.

Later that afternoon, the entire family gathered together for an early dinner. Jenner brought Beth and their son Cody, Hillary was with Skye and Max, Virginia and Mavis sat in their usual seats, leaving Casey and Sloan seated next to each other, as if they, too, were a couple, another part of this big family. Sloan didn't seem to mind being included and Casey's heart ached to think that he'd never belong to the McKee clan. She'd finally come to terms with the very simple and awful fact that she loved him. Despite the fact that he was a loner, a drifter, a cowboy with no intention of ever marrying again, she loved him. Blindly. Desperately. Passionately. She probably would for the rest of her life. As the others laughed and talked about the weddings or the holidays or worried over Barry White and the possibility of more treachery being leveled at the Rocking M, Casey was pensive, caught in her own quiet thoughts of ill-fated love.

When would she ever learn?

 

That night, Sloan couldn't sleep. He felt like a caged animal. He couldn't leave the ranch and yet sensed that he was getting close to breaking the case wide open and finding the culprit. He needed some freedom of movement, but he had to stay close to Casey. Everyone was now in bed and he walked through the house, checking the locks on the doors and windows. Security at the Rocking M had never been strong.

Rimrock was a community where no one had ever locked their doors, where leaving the windows open wide in summer was natural, where people were more concerned about drought or a cattle virus than they were about safety from their fellow man. Most of the windows did latch—those that didn't were in the process of being fixed and were jury-rigged with stakes to keep them shut. The rusty bolts on the doors had been thrown closed so the house was as secure as it could be. Still he was restless.

He didn't bother returning to the bed in Jenner's room, just stayed in Jonah McKee's old recliner in the den, near the center of the house where he could hear noises that didn't belong, see through the windows to the barn and outbuildings. Ears straining, eyes ever watching, he waited.

He heard the sound of feet coming from Casey's room, listened as her door unlatched. His stomach slammed into his diaphragm. He didn't want to see her in the middle of the night, didn't want to be tempted by her wide eyes and soft lips. He steeled himself as she padded into the den and stood before him—a little thing in her white robe and bare feet.

“You gonna stay in here all night?” she asked, yawning.

“Probably.”

“Won't you sleep better in—”

“I don't plan on sleeping.”

She looked at him with those eyes of hers and his determination started to seep away. Damn, she was beautiful with her hair all mussed from tossing and turning, her eyes still slumberous. “Want some company?” The white robe gaped just a bit, showing a hint of cleavage above the ruffle of her nightgown.

“I'm fine.”

“I know but—”

“Casey, please,” he said, his voice quiet. “What happened last night—”

“Is over. I know.”

He wanted to tell her that it would never be over, that what they'd shared would last forever and could never be matched, but then he thought of Jenner and the condemnation in his friend's eyes. “You should go back to bed.”

“Can't sleep.” She wandered over to the couch and tucked her legs beneath her.

“Casey...”

“I just want to be out here with you, okay? It's not a crime or anything, is it?”

He snorted. “You'd be better off in bed.”

“I'll decide where I'm better off,” she said, yawning again, and he didn't contradict her. She stared at him awhile and he kept his vigil, gaze moving from the interior of the house to the outside where the security lights blazed blue against the blanket of snow. “Tell me how Jenner saved your life.”

“It's a boring story.”

“Come on.”

He shifted in the chair, but didn't answer. The swelling in his jeans was commanding most of his attention. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Even in this room filled with the smells of old, long-banked fires, cold coffee, leather furniture and tobacco from the cigars in the humidor on old Jonah's desk, the fragrance of her perfume lingered and teased his nostrils, conjuring up forbidden images. She was still watching him, waiting for an answer. “Ask Jenner sometime. Now go to sleep.”

The old dog, Reuben, lying on a rug near the front door, let out a quick bark and a low growl. Sloan was out of his chair in an instant, but motioned Casey to stay still. He walked to the window and stared out, straining to hear or see whatever it was that had disturbed the retriever.

Ignoring Sloan's warning, Casey climbed to her feet. Reuben was still growling, his eyes on the door, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Casey's heart was a drum, beating with fear. The dog could have heard anything—one of the barn cats or a night bird or the rustle of a rodent in the shrubbery—but whatever it was, it was still there.

“Get down!” Sloan yelled. “Casey, duck!”

CRASH!

Shards of glass sprayed through the entry hall. She heard a scream and realized it was her own voice. Sloan hurtled forward, pushing her to the floor and holding her down as if he expected another attack. Reuben was barking and jumping at the front door. A rock, larger than a baseball, rolled across the hardwood.

Virginia raced from her room. “Oh my God,” she said, her face white, her eyes wide with fear. “What happened?”

“Shh! Don't turn on the lights, and get down, for God's sake!” Sloan ordered, then whispered into Casey's ear. “Are you all right?”

“I—I think so.”

Virginia was sobbing. “Why? Oh, Lord, why?”

“Hush!” Sloan moved on his belly back to the den.

Mavis clomped down the hall. “What the devil's going on—Oh, my goodness!”

“Get down!” Sloan ordered again as he reached the den. He grabbed Barry White's shotgun, extra ammunition and pistol and, still crouching low, dashed back to Casey, who was leaning against the wall. “You know how to shoot?”

She let out a nervous laugh. “I'm Jonah McKee's daughter, aren't I?”

“Then use this if you have to,” he snapped, shoving the shotgun into her hands and handing her extra shells.

“Where are you going?”

“After him.”

“No, Sloan! It might be what he's waiting for. He only threw a rock through the window, and if you run outside he'll probably shoot you.”

“If he was planning to shoot, he would've tried to break in.”

“You can't take the chance—” She clung to him, but he peeled her hands from his shirt.

“Stay here. Call Max. And if the dog starts barking again, shoot first and ask questions later.” Without thinking, he kissed her long and hard on the mouth, his fingers twining for a second in her hair. “Don't forget, call Max and the police.”

He unlocked the dead bolt and threw open the door. The fool dog took off, barking and carrying on loudly enough to wake the dead. Somewhere in the lane, an engine sparked to life and tires screeched.

“Hell!” Sloan muttered as he rushed out through the open door and flattened against the wall of the porch. No crack of a rifle. No whine of a bullet. Crouching low, he raced to his old truck, flung open the door and slid quickly behind the wheel. This time he wasn't going to give up. This time he'd catch the bastard. Or die trying.

 

Casey's stomach was knotted with fear. She sat near the door, sweaty hands gripping the shotgun, silently praying that Sloan was safe. She'd called the sheriffs department as well as both her brothers, and now she was huddled near her grandmother and mother. Waiting. The wind whistled through the broken window of the darkened house.

The sound of a truck's engine split the night and her heart soared. He'd come back. She waited patiently, then heard the welcome sound of boots. “Casey? Mom? Grandma?” Her brother's voice boomed through the air.

Max! Casey shoved open the door. “Oh, Max!” she cried, falling into her brother's arms.

He held her fiercely. “Has Sloan come back yet?”

“No,” Casey said, her lower lip trembling a little. “He's still off chasing whoever did this.” Max snapped on the lights just as the Casey heard sirens wail in the distance.

“Is anyone hurt?”

“No.” Casey shook her head. “They probably threw the rock just to scare us...or lure us outside.”

“Why?” Max asked, his eyebrows drawing together as red and blue lights flashed in the lane, splaying over the walls, and the shriek of sirens rent the air. The temperature in the house had plummeted and Max's breath was a cloud. “Why would anyone do this?” He stared at the broken window and the black rock lying against the hallway wall, still wet from being buried in the snow.

“I wish I knew,” Casey said, peering out the window as Hammond Polk and a deputy raced from their cars to the house. Why a rock through the window—a warning of some kind? Or just another way to scare them? She opened the door for the sheriff, but her thoughts were miles away. On Sloan.
Please God, keep him safe. Don't let him be hurt because of me.

 

Sloan's truck slid to a stop at the first red light in town. He'd never seen a hint of the attacker, not even a glimpse of his vehicle. The bastard had either pulled onto a side road and waited until Sloan passed by, or driven like a bat out of hell without the use of his lights.

Fear congealed in his blood. What if the man had waited near the ranch, lured Sloan away, then returned? He reached for the cellular phone, punched out the number for the Rocking M and felt an immense sense of relief when Max answered. The authorities were already at the McKee ranch and Max was boarding up the window until a glass company could be called in the morning. Everyone was safe, though jittery. Max had even taken the precaution of sending Skye back to her apartment house to be with Jenner, Beth and Cody, rather than leave her alone. Hillary, too, was safe, asleep in her bed at Colleen's place in Dawson City. So everyone connected with the McKees was accounted for.

But Sloan wasn't going to give up.

It was near closing time at the Black Anvil, but a few rigs were still parked outside. Jimmy Rickert's vehicle was in its favorite spot and Sloan decided to gamble. Jimmy seemed to know everything about everyone in town and for the right amount of money he could be convinced to talk. Except during all this McKee business, Jimmy had been closemouthed. Sure, he'd told Jenner about old Jonah being in some kind of argument with a guy on the night he'd been run off the road, but the details had been spotty, the story incomplete, and Sloan was willing to bet that Jimmy, given the proper inducement, could be persuaded to spill his guts. One man wandered out of the bar, hitched up his pants and spit tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth before finding the keys to a big Chevy Suburban and driving away.

Sloan's fingers drummed on the steering wheel. Who hated the McKees—not just Jonah but the whole lot of them? He dismissed Randy Calhoun as a suspect because, even though Jonah had fired Randy, Jenner had stuck up for the hired hand. Casey seemed to like him, too, and it didn't make a lot of sense that Randy would try to take out his frustrations not only on Jonah, but on the entire family, as well.

Slim Purcell was low on the list, too. He wasn't clever enough. Though he'd been cheated out of a racehorse, he didn't seem to hold a grudge, and between him and Barry they didn't have enough brains to plot and execute Casey's kidnapping.

Fred Donner was a possibility. He'd lost his family's homestead and he might hate the rest of the McKees as well as Jonah, and also envy them their ranch. But would he kidnap Casey and put Jenner's kid's life in danger? For what? Half a million dollars—his split of the take—when Max was trying to work a deal with him to give him back his land? It didn't seem likely, but men had been known to do much worse for a lot less. Half a million wasn't anything to sneeze at. Fred was definitely a candidate, but certainly not the most likely.

Sloan rubbed his jaw impatiently. Who?

Corey Stills blamed Jonah for stealing his wife. Would he be vindictive enough to kill Jonah and torture his family? Would he gain some sick sense of satisfaction in nearly killing Jenner and scaring the bejesus out of Casey? But why? He couldn't even rub Jonah's nose in the family's terror. It would have made more sense for Corey to do the terrorizing first, make Jonah twist in the wind a little by seeing what havoc was being wreaked on his family before killing him.