As he raced along the narrow windy dirt road that ran parallel to the river, Luke wished he’d taken the time to pull on his bulletproof vest. The men he was chasing would be armed.
As he came around a bend, he saw a pickup come barreling out of one of the many fishing access roads in a cloud of dust. All he was able to tell about the truck was that it was dark colored and an older model.
As Luke hit his lights and siren, he saw through the dust that one of the poachers was in the back of the truck—and the man wasn’t alone.
The rising dust from the pickup made it impossible to ID the man, though—or get a license plate number on the fleeing vehicle.
As the truck took one of the tight, narrow curves too fast, Luke heard the screech of metal as a fender skinned one of the cottonwoods at the edge of the road. An instant later something large came tumbling out of the back of the truck.
Luke slammed on his brakes, skidding to a stop just inches from the carcass lying in the middle of the road.
For a heart-stopping moment, he’d thought the poacher had fallen out of the back of the pickup. But then he smelled the familiar scent of the animal’s blood on the breeze—the dead deer blocking the road.
In the distance, the pickup disappeared over a rise as he watched, the poachers getting away. Again.
SANDY SHERIDAN LIVED with her husband, Grant, in a house up on the hill overlooking Whitehorse. The houses up here were newer. In Whitehorse, moving from the older homes to the hill was considered a step up in both lifestyle and status.
McCall parked in front of a split-level much like the others on the hill. She’d waited until the sheriff had left for a sheriffs’ conference in Billings.
Even though it was late, Sandy Sheridan answered the door still wearing her robe and slippers, both white and fluffy. Her hair was sprayed into an updo that not even one of Whitehorse’s stiff breezes could dislodge.
She’d applied fresh makeup, her cheeks looking flushed, eyes bright and ringed with mascara. McCall wondered what she was getting so duded up for at this time of the day. Or for whom.
“If you’re looking for Grant, he’s not here. He’s at—”
“The Montana Sheriffs’ Association meeting in Billings. I know. Actually it’s you I wanted to see,” McCall said.
“Oh?” Sandy was her mother’s age, early forties, but the years had been kinder. “I guess I can spare a few minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch, clearly annoyed as she stepped back to let McCall enter the house.
The house was furnished with pale furniture against white walls and drapes, giving the place a sterilized, cold feel.
“I’d offer you something to drink but—”
“I’m here about you and Trace Winchester,” McCall said, cutting to the chase.
Sandy looked as if she’d just slammed her fingers in a car door. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Earlier she’d been standing, looking impatient, now she lowered herself into a nearby off-white club chair.
“I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d heard that you were in love with him, and I’m talking to people who knew my father.”
Sandy let out a nervous laugh. “Why? That was high school.”
“Some people never get over high school—or their first loves.” As McCall knew only too well. “Look, I know you were dating my father when my mother got pregnant with me.”
Sandy’s face stiffened in anger belying her words. “That is ancient history. I really don’t have the time to—”
“I should have known what I heard wasn’t true. If you’d been that much in love with my father, you wouldn’t have married Grant so quickly.”
“I loved Trace,” Sandy snapped, taking the bait. “We were going to get married, but then your mother...” She waved a hand through the air, hurriedly regaining her composure.
“You’re still in love with my father,” McCall said, unable to contain her shock. What was it about the man that made women love him so desperately even after everything he did to them?
Sandy looked away. “Don’t be silly. That was—”
“Twenty-seven years ago. Not even time can change some things, though, huh.”
“I really don’t want to talk to you about this,” she said, getting to her feet. “It isn’t any of your business or your mother’s.”
Unfortunately, McCall feared it just might be. “You must have hated Trace for betraying you the way he did,” she said as she rose to leave.
“I was angry. Who wouldn’t be?”
“I think I would have wanted to kill him.”
Sandy said nothing, her expression though said it all.
“I can see that he hurt you terribly. I’m sorry.”
Tears filled the older woman’s eyes. She brushed at them, obviously embarrassed and angry, and now her mascara was running.
“You’ve brought up a painful time in my life,” Sandy said. “But that’s all behind me. As you can see, I did quite well without Trace Winchester.”
McCall stared at her, seeing a miserably unhappy woman behind the perfectly made-up face. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Now if you don’t mind...”
“What about Grant?” McCall asked, stopping at the door. “Does he know you never got over my father?”
Sandy opened the door. “Why are you asking about this after all these years? Does my husband know you’re here?” She fumbled in the pocket of her robe for her cell phone.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” McCall said, stepping past her. “I wouldn’t want to make you late for your...appointment.”
As she left, McCall glimpsed a car parked under a large old tree at the far end of the dead end street. Sandy hadn’t needed to call her husband. He already knew about McCall’s visit. Grant had apparently lied to both of them about going to the sheriffs’ meeting.
But as McCall drove away, she wondered who Grant had been spying on—her or his wife.
LUKE LAY ON the bed in his small camper trailer, unable to