B.J. Daniels - Renegade's Pride

“Wait here. I’m going to take a look around,” Flint said and got out. He knew better than to get too close. Alarms would go off at the command center and within minutes a military vehicle would come flying up with armed officers inside.

Instead, he walked away from the missile silo, his gaze on the ground ahead of him. The air was crisp this morning. Only a few puffy clouds floated on the breeze. Snow still capped the mountaintops that surrounded the valley. Flint breathed in the rich spring scents and studied the Western landscape.

The grasses had started to green up in the pastures and alongside the highway. Summer was coming, a busy time because of the tourists who traveled through the state. Not that the locals weren’t a handful all year long, especially his father.

He thought of Ely with affection and aggravation. No man was more stubborn or independent. He hoped Lillie was right and that the old man wasn’t losing his mind. He couldn’t imagine him locked up in some nursing home, let alone any of them trying to corral him if he moved in with them.

He hadn’t gone far when he picked up the huge footprints. Flint stopped to glance back at his patrol SUV. Harp was watching him. Anything he did would get back to the mayor and his friends. He took another step, then another as he dropped over a rise, careful not to disturb the tracks he’d found.

Once out of sight, he pulled out his cell phone and took several photographs of the oversize footprints—and the man-size boot prints where there’d clearly been a scuffle.

Before he could pocket his cell phone, it rang. A glance at caller ID showed the call was from his office. “Cahill,” he said into the phone, turning back toward his patrol SUV and the waiting Harp. In the distance, he could see dust as a military vehicle roared toward them.

“Sheriff, I have Anvil Holloway on the line. He says his wife is missing.”

* * *

BACK AT THE Stagecoach Saloon, Darby made enough breakfast for the three of them, but Lillie had lost her appetite. She kept thinking of Trask in the days before he’d left nine years ago. Something had been bothering him for several weeks. A darkness had taken hold of him. Her usually cheerful, laid-back lover was moody and irritable. She’d often found him scowling and he’d definitely been distracted.

“Is it your job?” she had asked.

“What?”

“This mood you’re in.”

“Sorry, I’ve just had things on my mind.”

“Things you want to talk about?”

He’d pulled her to him, kissed her and said, “It’s nothing to do with you. I’ll handle it, okay? Just give me a little time.”

She’d had no idea what that meant. He’d even been at odds with his best friend, Johnny Burrows. She’d seen the two of them having a heated argument one day when she’d went by the Lazy G Bar Q Ranch, where Trask worked. When Trask had seen her, he’d quickly stepped away and pretended it was nothing.

“I’m not a fool. What’s going on between you and Johnny?”

“Just a difference of opinion. It’s nothing.”

She suspected that all of it had been leading up to the fight with his boss, Gordon Quinn, and him getting fired. But did she really believe that Trask had come back that night and killed Gordon?

Now she half listened distractedly as her father and Darby talked about the weather, the price of gold and the decline of elk in Yellowstone Park and the rest of Montana because of the reintroduction of wolves. She’d been pushing her food around on her plate until her brother finally took her plate along with his own and her father’s, and headed for the kitchen. She followed him, wanting to talk to him alone.

“Flint thinks we need to do something about Dad,” she told him, making sure their father was out of earshot.

“What do you think?” Darby asked as he began stacking the rinsed dishes in the commercial dishwasher, then looked at her.

“I don’t know. One minute he seems so like his old self, and then he starts talking about aliens and abductions. He swears they came after him again last night. Apparently, that’s why he got so drunk and so...‘disorderly,’ as Flint put it.” She smiled, feeling almost ashamed as she did. “He punched Harp in the eye.” She winced. “His eye was swollen shut when I saw him at the jail this morning.”

Darby chuckled. “You can bet that Harp asked for it. As for Dad, it doesn’t sound like anything new to me. But you shouldn’t always be the one to take care of him. Call Cyrus or Hawk next time. They aren’t that busy on the ranch that they can’t get Dad out of jail once in a while. And you know you can always call me.”

“I know, but I didn’t mind going,” she said with a shrug. Her brother’s smile was thanks enough. “I’d better get him home. He’s determined to stay there alone. At least until he can’t take it anymore and heads for the hills.”

“You want me to come with you? Billie Dee should be here soon.” Billie Dee was their cook, a large, older Texas woman with a belly laugh and twinkle in her eye. “She can hold down the fort until we get back.”

“No, I could use the drive. Wouldn’t mind a little time to myself on the way back.”

Darby caught her hand before she could turn away. “Everything all right, sis?” That was the problem with being twins. They sensed when something was wrong with their former womb-mate.

She gave him her best everything-is-all-right smile. He didn’t look as if it fooled him, but then their cook came in the back door singing at the top of her lungs, and Lillie hurried to see what trouble her father had gotten into in the bar.

* * *

FLINT DROPPED HARP off at the sheriff’s department. But as the deputy got out of the patrol SUV, the sheriff told him, “If you happen by the mayor’s office today and your father calls me later to ask me how you got a black eye, I’m going to tell him the truth.”

“It’s my word against your crazy old man’s,” Harp said, scowling.

“Which do you think your father is going to believe? That not-quite-seventy-year-old Ely Cahill, drunk on his ass, got you, a trained deputy, before you could cuff him? Or that you were giving him a hard time, enjoying making fun of him, and he dropped you with one punch? Either way, I got the whole story from some of the patrons who were watching from the bar window. If you don’t believe it, they took videos with their phones.”

Harp clamped his mouth shut. “Is that all?”

“For now,” Flint said and drove north out of town on a dirt road toward Anvil Holloway’s farm. It was a good twenty miles of rolling hills. Turning onto an even narrower dirt road, he saw the farm ahead.

In the field next to the house, decades of old cars, pickups and farm equipment rusted in the morning sun. A few clouds scudded across a robin’s-egg-blue sky. The mountains around the wide valley were still snowcapped and the air had a crispness to it that warned summer was still months off.

Flint parked, shut off his engine and started to climb out when Anvil rushed from the house to stop on the dilapidated porch. The house needed paint and didn’t look much better than the porch.

“Have you heard from her?” Flint asked as he walked toward the house and the man anxiously waiting for him.

Anvil shook his head as if unable to draw the words. He looked older than fifty-seven. His brown hair needed cutting. It framed a once handsome face now weathered from years of working outdoors. He still looked strong from his days playing football at the University of Montana in Missoula, his only claim to fame. His large body was clad in faded overalls over a clean white T-shirt. He’d obviously dressed up for Flint’s visit, since he’d recently shaved. He still had a dollop of shaving cream congealing on one ear.