Smokin' Six-Shooter Read online

  She thought about calling Renada, but didn’t feel up to it even though there was a message from her friend. Tomorrow, when she didn’t feel so exhausted, so depressed. If she called her now, Renada would hear how discouraged she was and insist on coming out to Montana. Anyway, it was too late to call with the time difference between here and Chicago.

  Dulcie expected to fall into a deep sleep almost instantly, as tired as she was. But when she closed her eyes, she saw the yellow curtains move in the upstairs bedroom and heard the groan of the weather vane on the barn in the hot, dry wind.

  All she could think about was that little girl. That poor little girl.

  JOLENE WOKE TO DARKNESS and sat up, startled, to find she’d fallen asleep in her living-room chair.

  The pages from the short stories fluttered to the floor at her feet as she reached for the lamp next to her chair and checked the time.

  Well after midnight. She must have been more tired than she’d thought. She blamed the relentless heat, which had zapped her energy and left her feeling like a wrung-out dishrag.

  Even this late, the air in the small house was hot and close. She felt clammy and yearned for a breath of cool air as she turned up the fan in the window. All it did was blow in warm air, but even warm air was better than nothing.

  As she leaned down to retrieve the stories, she caught sight of the murder story.

  Her fingers slowed as she reached for it, remembering with a start what she’d learned at the newspaper. Widow Laura Beaumont had been murdered twenty-four years ago and she, like the woman in the supposedly fictional murder story, had a young daughter.

  A daughter who’d been found drowned in the creek.

  The short story had to be about the same woman and her child, didn’t it?

  She put the critiqued story installments into her backpack, although she wouldn’t be returning them until the entire story had been finished, turned in and graded.

  She didn’t want to stifle their creativity with her comments on the earlier assignments, although her comments were very complimentary of their endeavors. The idea was to encourage her students to write freely. She understood the fear some people had about putting words to paper.

  As she zipped up the backpack, she looked down at the murder story on the table where she’d left it. She would hide it in the house for now. She didn’t want to take the chance that someone would find it in the schoolhouse and read it.

  The story was becoming more and more like her dark secret and that should have made her even more uneasy than it did, she thought.

  As she headed to bed, Jolene realized that the author of the murder story had gotten to her. Not only couldn’t she wait for the next part, but she now felt personally involved in solving the mystery.

  Reading Monday’s and Tuesday’s assignments in order, she had looked for some clue as to the writer. Was the writer just someone with an active imagination? Or a local gossip who thought she knew what had happened that summer, if indeed the story was about Laura Beaumont and her daughter, Angel?

  There was nothing in the story that would make Jolene believe it had been written by the killer, she assured herself.

  So why did the details in the story make her so nervous? Because if she was right, the author had known this woman. Had watched the murdered woman closely. Just as the writer might be watching right now to see Jolene’s reaction, she realized with a chill as she snapped off the light.

  DULCIE WOKE WEDNESDAY morning after sleeping later than she had in years. It surprised her given how much trouble she’d had getting to sleep last night.

  She’d told Arlene Evans the truth. She’d had to sleep on it before making a decision as to what to do about the property.

  Common sense told her to just list the property with the Realtor she’d met and return to Chicago and start seriously looking for her next business venture.

  But even as she thought it, Dulcie knew she couldn’t leave without going into that house. She had to know if she’d been there before.

  She groaned at the thought. She would need to buy appropriate clothing for exploring, along with gloves, a flashlight and tools to get into the house. She sat down and made a list before heading to the local clothing and hardware stores.

  “You say you’ll be removing boards?” Kayla at the hardware store inquired. “You’ll want a hammer and pry bar for sure, but possibly a crowbar or even a battery-operated screwdriver. Are these large boards, nailed or screwed?”

  By the time Dulcie left the hardware store, she felt equipped for an exploration to Antarctica. Kayla had suggested canvas pants and a jacket as well as work boots, and Dulcie thanked her for all her help.

  Back at the motel, she changed and, putting all her equipment in the trunk, drove south. The moment the farmhouse came into view, she felt that now-familiar sense of dread and fear wash over her.

  She almost changed her mind and turned around. She was even more persuaded against staying when she saw that someone had closed the damned gate.

  JOLENE WATCHED AS Thad Brooks, one of her fifth-grade boys, collected the writing assignments. She’d felt antsy all morning, waiting for the next installment of the murder story, afraid this would be the day that the story stopped as mysteriously as it had begun.

  She could hear the dried grasses outside the open window rustling in the hot, dry wind and fanned herself as the student placed the stack of papers on the edge of her desk.

  “How are you all doing on your stories?” she asked and listened to a variety of complaints from being stuck to being bored.

  “At this point in your stories, I want you to sit down and write down ten things that could happen next,” she told the class. “When you get stuck and can’t think of anything else to write about your character, it helps if you do what is called brainstorming. Let your imagination run as you write down as many things as you can think of that could happen.”

  “What if you can’t think of anything?” whined Luke Raines, her other fifth-grader.

  “Then you have to think harder. Concentrate. Think about your characters. Think about the weather. Think about where you are in the story. The middle parts are the hardest because you have to keep the story going. It helps if something exciting happens that changes the direction of your story. What is the worse thing that could happen to your characters? What is your hero or heroine most afraid of? For instance, what if there was a huge storm? What if your character was caught in it? What if someone new came to town? What if some old enemy came to town? What if your character found out a secret?”

  Jolene saw Mace Carpenter writing like crazy. Amy Brooks was also writing. Thad and Luke were mugging faces at each other. Codi Fox was staring at the ceiling, but Jolene could see her mind working.

  “I need the next segment of your stories tomorrow, so keep up the momentum.”

  “Do we really have to write something every night this week?” Thad asked.

  “Yes—and this weekend you will write the ending, to be turned in on Monday for a total of six parts of the story.”

  Thad and Luke groaned.

  “That’s why you have to brainstorm more ideas,” Jolene said. “Open your mind to new possibilities. What kind of trouble can your character get into? Today is only Thursday. You have another night. Now make a list. I want at least ten things that could happen before you leave today.”

  She waited until each student had at least ten things written down before she dismissed the students for recess. She hadn’t planned to read any of the stories until later at home. But she had to see if the murder story was in the stack.

  Hurriedly she thumbed through them, trying to keep an eye on the door just in case one of the parents should stop by. Ben Carpenter’s visit yesterday had spooked her. That and realizing that the author of the story was probably now keeping an eye on her just as he had Laura Beaumont, twenty-four years ago.

  She was trying to imagine Ben authoring the story when, with a start, she realized the murder-stor
y installment wasn’t in the stack.

  Frantically, she leafed through the stack again, this time more slowly. With relief she found it sandwiched between sixth-grader Codi Fox’s and eighth-grader Mace Carpenter’s.

  Her heart sped up again. Had Mace turned this in with his? Then she remembered that Luke Raines had been gathering the assignments and putting some on the top of the stack and others on the bottom.

  She thought about picking up the assignments herself tomorrow, but that might alert whichever student was bringing the extra copy. No, she didn’t want to call attention by changing things. The chosen student enjoyed being the one who got to collect the papers each day. Tomorrow though, she would pay more attention when the student was collecting the stories.

  She pulled out the murder story, glancing toward the door before she read the installment quickly, guiltily.

  DUSK HAD SETTLED OVER the land, but the heat was relentless as her lover sneaked away from the old farmhouse, believing she loved him and only him.

  She stood at the window and watched him go, but he hadn’t gone far down the road before a restlessness overtook her again.

  She pulled the lightweight yellow robe around her. Her favorite color, yellow. She liked it because she said it made her feel good.

  Colors altered her moods, she said. Green calmed her. Blue made her nostalgic. Red, well, red made her amorous. As if she needed any encouragement.

  He hadn’t been gone long, the air stifling, heat radiating up from the baked, dry earth, before she poured herself a bath.

  She slipped down into the big claw-footed tub full of cool water and closed her eyes. Her fingers teased the water around her body as she daydreamed of another life far away from this dusty, hot farmhouse.

  In the next room, her daughter played quietly, ignoring the sound of the vehicle that pulled into the yard, the heavy footfalls on the stairs, the creak of the bathroom door as it opened and closed.

  As voices rose from an argument behind the bathroom door, the little girl covered her ears and sang a song her mommy had taught her until she heard the bathroom door slam open and the angry footfalls on the stairs again, and finally the sound of her mother crying softly across the hall.

  RUSSELL CORBETT COULDN’T believe his eyes. The city girl’s rental car was parked in front of the old Beaumont place again.

  But that wasn’t what had him throwing on the brakes and skidding to a dust-boiling stop.

  The woman had a crowbar in her gloved hands and appeared to be trying to remove the boards barring the front door.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he strode past the gate lying oddly in the dead grass. “Tell me you didn’t cut the barbed wire on that gate to get in here.”

  She turned slowly to give him a droll look. “Okay.”

  He snatched his gray Stetson from his head and smacked it against his jean-clad thigh in irritation. “You can’t go around cutting people’s gates and vandalizing their property, even if it is abandoned.”

  She cocked her head as if seeing him for the first time. He was starting to lose his temper when she said calmly, “This is my property.”

  “What?” He thought he had to have heard her wrong.

  Smiling, she nodded, seeming to enjoy his surprise and loss of words.

  “You bought this place?” he asked, his tone making it clear nothing could make him believe she wanted to live here.

  Her hands went to her hips, the crowbar hooked between the fingers of her right hand. “I’m sorry, I missed the part where it was your business.”

  The woman had some mouth on her, he thought, his gaze going to her bow-shaped, full pink lips. His own lips twitched in response to the mad detour his mind took as it tried to imagine what it would be like to kiss that mouth of hers.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t let me keep you then.” He started to turn away, planning to stalk back to his four-wheeler, cursing all the way under his breath.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I’m just hot and frustrated.” She sighed. “I can’t seem to get this last board to come loose. Since you’re here, would you mind?”

  He pulled up short, her soft, seductive tone like a lasso dragging him back. He told himself to keep walking. If he turned around he’d regret it. This woman was trouble in a pair of dirt-smudged canvas pants.

  Turning slowly, he eyed her from under the brim of his hat the way he would eye a rattler about to strike. He didn’t trust this change of tune on her part. She couldn’t get the last board so now she was going to turn on the feminine charms, thinking they would work on him?

  “I wouldn’t want to make it my business.”

  She transformed that magnificent mouth of hers into a lazy grin. One hand was on her shapely hips now, the other beckoning him with the crowbar. “I said I was sorry.”

  He felt himself weaken in spite of every instinct to keep his distance from this one. But he’d been born and raised in Texas, where a man came to the aid of a lady. Although it was debatable this woman was a lady.

  “I really would appreciate it,” she said in that same come-hither tone. “This last board just won’t budge.”

  Russell let out a deep sigh, mentally kicking himself in the behind, as he stepped to her, took the crowbar from her without a word and pried off the board, the nails screeching as they gave way.

  He tossed the board to the side where she’d thrown the others and handed her back the crowbar. The plan was to tip his hat like the gentleman he was and get the hell out of there without looking back.

  “Dulcie Hughes,” she said, tugging off her glove and holding out one perfectly manicured hand.

  He slowly wiped his hand on his jeans and extended it grudgingly, telling himself he wasn’t going to let her rope him into anything else. For all he knew the woman could be lying about owning this place and he’d just helped her commit a crime.

  Her hand was cool and smooth as porcelain as it disappeared into his larger, calloused one. “Russell Corbett,” he said, his voice sounding as rough as his hand.

  Her molasses-brown-eyed gaze met his. Humor seemed to jitterbug in all that warm brown. “Thank you, Russell Corbett. I do apologize for earlier. I hate it when I can’t handle something myself. It makes me testy.”

  He nodded, familiar with that feeling.

  “So what is a Southern boy like yourself doing out here in Montana?” she said, smiling.

  He told himself he had work to do and no time for standing around in this heat chitchatting, but he’d pay hell before being rude to a woman.

  “I came up from Texas to work the Trails West Ranch.” He made a motion with his head to the west, wondering why he hadn’t told her he was co-owner of the family ranch. Because it was none of her business.

  “I take it the ranch is down the road apiece?” she asked with a grin. “Everything up here seems to be down the road apiece.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was having fun at his expense or not. Whatever she was doing, she seemed to be enjoying herself and he kind of liked her when she wasn’t on her high horse.

  She wiped a hand across her forehead, skin glistening in the heat, and left a smudge of dirt just above one finely sculpted eyebrow. It made her look a little less in control, something he thought probably rare.

  “Mind if I ask what you’re planning to do here?” He gestured toward the house.

  “Just going to take a look around, then put the place up for sale. I inherited it sight unseen and was just curious.”

  “Inherited it, huh. Is your family from around here?”

  “No. Would you be interested in buying the property?”

  He noticed the way she had quickly changed the subject. “Might be interested. So you aren’t related to the Beaumonts?”

  “Did you know the woman who lived here? The one who was murdered?”

  “Before my time.” Russell was getting tired of her not answering his questions, but then again, who was he to ask? He started to leave, b
ut couldn’t help himself. “If you’re determined to go in there, you should know the floors might be rotted through, rattlers probably have nested inside, not to mention bats and mice and every other rodent known to man.”

  She cocked her head at him. “You like scaring me, don’t you?”

  “Just trying to give you some friendly advice, which is clear you aren’t going to heed.” He took a step back, telling himself that no matter what she said or did, he was out of there. She wasn’t his responsibility.

  “THANKS FOR THE ADVICE,” Dulcie said to his retreating backside. Not a bad backside. For the first time, she understood the expression “cowboy swagger.”

  The man was blessed. Not only did he have the looks, he came fully equipped with broad, strong shoulders, slim hips and long legs. And damn but didn’t he look good in his Western attire.

  She couldn’t help grinning as she watched him kick a small stone with the toe of his boot, sending it flying into the sizzling heat. Her grin broadened as she listened to him mutter under his breath just as he had last time.

  “Stop by anytime,” she called after him and smiled as she watched him swing a leg over his four-wheeler, crank up the engine and take off without a backward glance, the tires throwing gravel.

  An errant thought idled past. She hoped she got to see Russell Corbett on a horse before she left town. The man was classic cowboy. What the devil was he doing on a four-wheeler? She shook her head, disappointed to have her illusions about the West and real cowboys crushed.

  This time tomorrow she would be flying back to Chicago. Russell Corbett would be just a memory, the only pleasant one she feared she would take from Montana.

  With growing dread, Dulcie turned back toward the house and the job ahead of her. Russell Corbett was wrong. It wasn’t morbid curiosity that drove her. She just hoped he was wrong as well about the rotten floorboards and the critters nesting inside.

  Among the documents her parents’ lawyer had given her she’d found a key. She’d assumed it was for the front door. Taking it from the pocket of her new canvas pants, she tried it in the lock. The key turned as if the lock had been opened only yesterday—not over twenty-four years ago.