B.J. Daniels - Iron Will

“We need to find the other man,” Frankie said as she took her bottle to the recycling bin before turning toward the bedroom.

Hank let out a curse. “You’re wrong. You’re dead wrong. I don’t know why I—”

She cut off the rest of his words as she closed the bedroom door. She knew he was angry and probably ready to fire her. All she could hope was that he would cool down by the morning and would trust that she knew what she was talking about. Oh, she’d known women like Naomi all her life—including her very own mother, who chewed up men and spit them out one after another as they disappointed her. That was the problem with trying to make over a man.

* * *

HANK COULDN’T SLEEP. He lay in the second bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, cursing the fact that he’d brought Frankie here. What had he been thinking? This had to be the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with. Clearly, she didn’t get it. She hadn’t known Naomi.

Another man?

He thought about storming into her bedroom, telling her to pack her stuff and taking her back to Idaho tonight. Instead, he tossed and turned, getting more angry by the hour. He would fire her. First thing in the morning, he’d do just that.

Who did she think she was, judging Naomi like that? Naomi was sweet, gentle, maybe a little too timid... He rolled over and glared at the bedroom door. Another man in the wings! The thought made him so angry he could snap off nails with his teeth.

As his blood pressure finally began to drop somewhere around midnight, he found himself wondering if Naomi’s friend Carrie knew more than she’d originally told him. If there had been another man—

He gave that thought a hard shove away. Naomi had loved him. Only him. She’d wanted the best for him. He rolled over again. She thought she knew what was best for him. He kicked at the blanket tangled around his legs. Maybe if she had lived she would have realized that what was best for him, for them, was staying on the ranch, letting him do what he knew and loved. Sidewalks were overrated.

Staring up at the ceiling, he felt the weight of her death press against his chest so hard that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

You don’t want to let yourself believe that she committed suicide because you feel guilty about the argument you had with her before she left the ranch , his father had said. Son, believe me, it took more than some silly argument for her to do what she did. We often don’t know those closest to us or what drives them to do what they do. This wasn’t your fault.

Hank groaned, remembering his father’s words three years ago. Could he be wrong about a lot of things? He heard the bedroom door open. He could see Frankie silhouetted in the doorway.

“If there is another man, then it would prove that she didn’t commit suicide,” the PI said. The bedroom door closed.

He glared at it for a long moment. Even if Frankie had gone back to her bedroom and locked the door, he knew he could kick it down if he wanted to. But as Frankie’s words registered, he pulled the blanket up over him and closed his eyes, exhausted from all of this. If there had been another man, then he would be right about her being murdered.

Was that supposed to give him comfort?

“I told my mother that we were having breakfast in town,” Hank said when Frankie came out of the bedroom fully dressed and showered the next morning. He had his jacket on and smelled of the outdoors, which she figured meant he’d walked down to the main house to talk to his mother.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said now. “If you want to talk to Naomi’s mother, we need to catch her before she goes to work.” With that, he turned and went back into his bedroom.

Frankie smiled after him. He was still angry but he hadn’t fired her. Yet.

She went into the kitchen and made herself toast. Hank didn’t take long in the shower. He appeared minutes later, dressed in jeans and a Western shirt, his dark, unruly hair still damp at his collar as he stuffed on his Stetson and headed for the door. She followed, smiling to herself. It could be a long day, but she was glad she was still employed for numerous reasons, number one among them, she wanted to know now more than ever what had happened to Naomi Hill.

Lillian Brandt lived in a large condo complex set back against a mountainside overlooking Meadow Village. She’d married a real-estate agent after being a single mother for years, from what Hank had told her. Big Sky was booming and had been for years, so Lillian had apparently risen in economic stature after her marriage compared to the way she’d lived before Naomi died.

From her research, Frankie knew that Big Sky, Montana, once a ranching area, had been nothing more than a sagebrush-filled meadow below Lone Mountain. Then Chet Huntley and some developers had started the resort. Since then, the sagebrush had been plowed up to make a town as the ski resort on the mountain had grown.

But every resort needed workers, and while million-dollar houses had been built, there were few places for moderate-income workers to live that they could afford. The majority commuted from Gallatin Gateway, Four Corners, Belgrade and Bozeman—all towns forty miles or more to the north.

Lillian was younger than Frankie had expected. Naomi had been four years younger than Hank. Frankie estimated that Lillian must have had her daughter while in her late teens.

“Hank?” The woman’s pale green eyes widened in surprise. “Are you back?”

“For a while,” he said and introduced Frankie. “Do you have a minute? We won’t take much of your time.”

Lillian looked from him to Frankie and back before she stepped aside to let them enter the condo. It was bright and spacious with no clutter. It could have been one of the models that real-estate agents showed prospective clients. “I was just about to leave to go to the office.” She worked for her husband as a secretary.

“I just need to ask you a few questions,” he said as she motioned for them to take a seat.

“Questions?” she asked as she moved some of the pillows on the couch to make room for them.

“About Naomi’s death.”

The woman stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “Hank, it’s been three years. Why would you dig all of it back up again?”

“Because he doesn’t believe she killed herself,” Frankie said and supplied her business card. “I didn’t know your daughter, but I’ve heard a lot about her. I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.” Then she asked if it would be okay if Mrs. Brandt would answer a few questions about her daughter. “She was twenty-six, right? Hank said she was ready to get married.”

Lillian slumped into one of the chairs that she’d freed of designer pillows and motioned them onto the couch. “It’s all she wanted. Marriage, a family.”

“Where was she working at the time of her death?” Frankie asked.

“At the grocery store, but I can’t see what that—”

She could feel Hank’s gaze on her. “Is that where she met her friend Carrie?”

Lillian nodded. Her gaze went to Hank. “Why are you—”

“I’m curious,” Frankie said, drawing the woman’s attention back again. “Was there anyone else in her life?”

“You mean friends?”

“Yes, possibly a male friend,” Frankie said.

The woman blinked before shooting a look at Hank. “She was in love with Hank.”

“But she had to have other friends.”

Lillian fiddled with the piping along the edge of the chair arm. “Of course she had other friends. She made friends easily.”

“I’m sure she did. She was so beautiful,” Frankie said.

The woman nodded, her eyes shiny. “She got asked out a lot all through school.”