Dana Mentink - Buried Truth

“We need to talk, Bill.”

He folded his arms and glowered at her. “We have nothing to discuss.”

She kept her voice low. “I think we do. I remember when you were hunting Oscar Birch after he murdered his wife. I also found out that Oscar Birch recently escaped from prison.”

“You’re good at finding out facts. Must be an occupational hazard.”

“Here’s a fact that wasn’t in the research. Oscar’s the one who messed up your house, isn’t he?”

“Could be.”

She stepped closer to him, trying to capture his gaze with hers. “Bill … you’ve got to tell the police. You’ve got to get out of here.”

“The cops know. They’re after him.”

“They’ll catch him, surely.”

Bill shrugged. “Could be.”

She gaped. “You think they’ll catch him, don’t you?”

He stepped toward her. “I think that you need to stay away from here, from me, until this is all sorted out. I fixed your Jeep. Take it home and don’t come back.”

Buried Truth

Dana

Mentink

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

I hope you have enjoyed this journey with Heather and Bill. Though they have both been grievously injured, they manage to come to terms with their pain and embrace the joy God has given them. We all have those wounds from people or circumstances in our past, don’t we, dear reader? Forgiveness is excruciatingly difficult to give at times. It is far easier to hold on to anger and bitterness. My wish is that all of us can experience the true joy of God’s forgiveness so that we can find our way closer to forgiving those who have wronged us.

Thank you for coming along with Bill and Heather on this journey through the Badlands. In the next book, Bill’s niece, Kelly, will face her own struggle to survive in the harsh wilderness of South Dakota. She, too, will come face-to-face with past injuries and present dangers that threaten to overwhelm her. I hope you will come along for her adventure, as well.

I always appreciate hearing from readers. Please feel free to contact me via my website at www.danamentink.com.

Sincerely,

Then Peter came and said to Him,

“Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me and

I forgive him? Up to seven times?”

Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you up to

seven times, but up to seventy times seven.”

—Matthew 18:21–22

To my mother who has been there

every step of the way for all four of her girls.

The heat shimmered up from the asphalt as Bill Cloudman drove the pickup, Tank barking enthusiastically in the back. It had taken eight months away from Rockvale for him to realize he’d actually missed the ferocious heat. After two days back home, he felt as if he’d never left. This small town, snuggled up next to the Eagle Rock reservation, was undeniably a part of him, as much as he’d tried to escape it. He eased off the road that led away from his aunt Jean’s dilapidated trailer, deep in reservation territory.

Aunt Jean was the reason he’d returned, her nasty fall the only thing that could draw him back to this place filled with bitter memories. Thankfully, she was recovering well, already back in her trailer making every guest feel welcome. Sharing a glass of iced tea and listening to her chatter had taken his mind off the past for a little while. Even though she was not his aunt by blood, he never thought of her as anything else. With her, he could pretend things were fine, that his sister, Leanne, was alive and they were a family, that his partner, Johnny Moon, hadn’t been murdered.

That game got him only so far. Leanne was dead. Johnny was dead. No amount of wishing would bring them back again. His tension increased as he drove away, losing himself in acres of sunbaked trees and dry grass that surrounded him.

He breathed deeply as he drove the five miles to the small home he’d left in the months following his partner’s death. It was remote, far from the nearest reservation neighbor, and he liked it like that. Working as a Tribal Ranger, one of twelve officers who protected life and property on the reservation and surrounding areas, he’d appreciated the distance sometimes, the quiet. It had been a sanctuary—until Johnny was killed. Then everywhere he looked he saw friends and neighbors who knew how he’d let his partner die. Bill had packed his bags and resolved never to come back—and he hadn’t, until Aunt Jean had her fall.

Bill exhaled slowly, trying to quell a sudden feeling of unease. The tingle of alarm grew stronger even before he crested the last ridge and his house came in sight. There was an unfamiliar tang in the air, an odor that caused Tank to growl as they crunched up the winding driveway.

Wrong.

Something was wrong.

He eased the truck to a stop, breath tight in his chest.

He got out and ordered Tank to stay. The dog barked his displeasure, but obeyed.

Broken glass littered the ground, blazing in the sunlight. All the front windows were fractured into bits except for sharp teeth of glass that remained stubbornly in the frames.

Vandals with nothing better to do. Teens, he told himself. Who else would cause such destruction?

Who else?

Muscles tight, he moved closer. A bucket of crimson paint had been thrown at the walls. It stained the stucco like the red spurt of blood. Angry, hateful.

The note was impaled to the wall by the blade of a knife, plunged to the hilt into the wood.

Coming for you.

It needed no signature.

Oscar Birch’s rage seeped through the scrawled letters.

Oscar, the man he had imprisoned.

The man who murdered his partner.

He didn’t know how Oscar had wrecked his place when the man was supposed to be in jail, but he might as well have signed his name in the vicious smears of paint.

Paint that was still wet.

“You’re not welcome here.”

Bill Cloudman knew it, felt it, long before he found himself on Charlie Moon’s gritty doormat two hours later. It had taken that long for his former colleagues to finish their investigation at his home and pass the information on to federal authorities. They told him the brutal truth with as much compassion as they could muster.

Oscar Birch had escaped.

The officers would try their best, but Bill knew with sickening certainty they would not capture the fugitive. Oscar was smart and wily and desired only one thing—Bill’s death. Oscar wouldn’t be captured or contained until he got what he was after.

Bill tried to focus on the hostile face of Johnny’s uncle. “I came to warn you.”

Charlie grunted. “Then you did what you set out to do.”

Bill suddenly felt every one of his forty-five years weighing him down as he stood on the front porch of the small house, the South Dakota sun scorching through him with unrelenting fire. “And I wanted to see how you were doing. And Tina.”