Jan Hambright - The High Country Rancher

Amy McCullough had been her friend years ago, but she’d lost touch with her after high school. How had she and Baylor met? What had their relationship been like?

She closed her eyes, letting the questions compile in her brain. She’d read every last word of the accident report, every interview…so why had James Endicott been so determined to prosecute Baylor in a case that read like a tragic accident out of a horror flick?

Wham…wham…wham.

Mariah bolted awake and sat up, trying to place the loud banging coming from somewhere in the unfamiliar house.

A fire still blazed in the fireplace. Fresh wood had recently been added, judging by the still uncharred ends of the logs.

“Hello,” she called out. No response.

Where was Baylor?

A measure of caution edged down her spine. She threw back the covers and crept out of bed.

“Hello,” she called as she crossed to the doorway and stared out into the living room.

The fire in the living-room hearth was little more than a heap of glowing embers now, but Baylor’s woodsy scent hung in the air, surrounding her, and she sensed he hadn’t been gone long.

Wham!

Mariah jumped.

A cut of icy wind sliced into her, raising goose bumps on her body. The noise was coming from somewhere in the area of the kitchen.

Easing forward, she searched the darkness, heading toward the sound.

Wham!

Through the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen, she spotted the source of the racket and stalked toward it.

The back door stood wide-open before another gust of wind caught it and slammed it against the jamb.

A shudder coursed through her as she stepped out onto the porch and grabbed the knob. She paused in place, staring out into the darkness.

The storm had passed while she’d slept. A full moon gleamed against the platinum snow and bathed the landscape in brilliant white light. Somewhere in the surrounding woods a series of howls built to a mournful crescendo and echoed against the mountains. She half expected to see a wolf silhouette itself against the moon, and the stark beauty of the place, along with its mystery, appealed to her artist’s eye.

But where was Baylor McCullough?

Stepping back, she pulled the door shut, but it wouldn’t latch. She jiggled the knob back and forth. The bolt released. She pulled it shut again, and heard the cylinder pop into the kick plate.

Taking one last glance through the small panel of windows in the door, she saw a trail of movement. In the timberline a hundred yards from the house, someone waded through the snow, before vanishing out of sight in the dense line of trees.

Was it McCullough? What was he doing out there? She turned the dead bolt and heard it lock in place.

“Detective?”

She jerked around, instinct taking over. Every muscle in her body coiled for maximum self-preservation. She lashed out at the man standing too close to her, catching him in the jaw with an uppercut from her elbow before she realized she’d just hit Baylor in the face.

“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry. I thought you were outside.” She glanced back to the spot where she’d seen someone only an instant ago.

“I’ve been in the barn, checking on the calves.” Baylor rubbed the spot on his jaw where she’d popped him. “I use the front door. I keep this one locked until I can get a locksmith up here to fix it. It doesn’t always latch.”

“I saw someone, up there, just at the timberline.” She pointed to the spot. “Were you up there?”

“No. You probably saw deer feeding by the moonlight.” He moved in next to her and stared out the window.

“Do deer walk upright?” she asked, half joking, but Baylor’s features in the lunar glow were dead serious.

“Some strange things have been going on around here the past few months.”

His cautious tone fired her curiosity. “What sort of things?”

Baylor reached for her hand and turned her toward the living room. He could feel the cold in the air through his heavy coat, and he knew she had to be freezing in the little black robe.

“It’s not important.” He felt her shiver, the vibration rippling through his hand. He coaxed her a little faster toward the bedroom and the heat from the fireplace.

“It’s almost dawn. You have to stay warm.” He ushered her through the doorway into the bedroom and released her, not content until she climbed back into bed, and pulled the covers up around her neck.

He took off his coat, picked up the poker, opened the fireplace screen and jostled the logs. A spray of sparks jumped, and the fire hissed as it intensified.

There was that feeling again, but this time there was something solid to back it up.

The hair on the back of his neck bristled as firelight danced across the hardwood floor of the bedroom and reflected in a set of liquid footprints. The spot where someone had stood long enough for the snow on their shoes to melt. Someone had been in this room tonight while Mariah slept, and the prints didn’t belong to him.

“What woke you up?” He slid the screen closed and sat down on the hearth. He didn’t want to spook her. She’d go cop on him again.

“The back door was wide-open and banging against the doorjamb in the wind.”

Could the figure she’d seen outside be the person who made the tracks in the corner? He didn’t know, but he wouldn’t relax until he got her safely off the mountain.

“Get some rest.” He moved into the chair next to the fireplace, to stand guard, and watched her close her beautiful blue eyes.

Whatever was going on at the Bellwether Ranch was his problem, and he didn’t want her involved.

THE SMELL OF COFFEE brewing and bacon sizzling pulled Mariah out of sleep. She opened her eyes, staring at the lamp on the nightstand, at the lit bulb that glared from under the shade. The power was back on.

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the coffered ceiling. She could hear pearls of water dripping outside the bedroom window as sunlight penetrated the slats in the wooden blinds.

Idaho weather was so unpredictable—if you didn’t like it, wait five minutes and it would change.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and stretched. Her body ached, every muscle had gone stiff. Probably a by-product of nearly freezing to death, she decided as she went to the closet and opened it to find her clothes hanging just where Baylor said they’d be.

She dressed quickly, strapped on her service revolver, and made the bed up in the decidedly masculine room that carried his scent.

She headed for the kitchen, taking her time as she surveyed the living room in the light of day. Heavy hand-hewn beams crossed the ceiling. The hardwood floor under her feet was made of maple, and polished to perfection. Amy had great taste, she decided as she turned toward the kitchen, her gaze locking on Baylor.

He worked over the stove, his broad shoulders covered in a pristine white T-shirt. Every little nagging ounce of desire in her body fizzed up, and she had to look away.

“Good morning,” he said as he turned around. “How do you feel?”

Pulling out a stool at the bar, she slid onto it and fixed a smile on her face. “Great.”

He turned to a cupboard next to the sink, pulled down a large red coffee mug and filled it from the coffeemaker. “This should help.”

A grin pulled his lips apart, showing even, white teeth. Her heart did a somersault. He set the cup in front of her. “Do you take anything in it?”

“Black’s fine.” Picking up the cup, she took a swallow, wondering if he’d been as attentive toward Amy. There it was again, that curiosity about something she didn’t need to know. Something that had no bearing on her investigation into James Endicott’s disappearance.