Revenge (50 page)

He caught the McKee name in several conversations, but heard nothing that really helped. He waved to a few of the locals. For the most part they were a friendly, hardworking lot who just needed a beer and a little downtime when they got off work.

One of the good old boys was Cyrus Kellogg, a rancher whose spread was just north of the McKees'. He'd given Sloan a day's worth of work chopping wood. The physical labor had felt good and accepting the job had completed his cover. People had begun to trust him after Cyrus had spread the word that Sloan was a hard worker.

Near as Sloan could tell, Casey had been kidnapped as part of a revenge scheme against the McKee family. In the past few months the McKees had suffered more than their share of grief, presumably at the hands of someone holding a grudge against one or more members of the richest family in the county. First, Jonah's Jeep had been forced off the road to land in the swift waters of Wildcat Creek at the bottom of Stardust Canyon. Then, the McKee stables had been set on fire, and Jenner McKee had been badly injured as he tried to save his niece and the livestock. Now Casey was missing.

It all added up, and Sloan was laying odds that the thug behind the kidnapping was in the crowd at the bar, or would be within the week. Even if the culprit decided to lie low and avoid frequenting the Black Anvil for a while, he was sure to turn up again—like the proverbial bad penny. Besides, most lowlifes were creatures of habit, and if one of the regulars began staying away, people would start asking questions. There was also the pride factor to consider; Sloan bet that whoever had killed Jonah would love to brag about it. But right now, he was just running scared.

Sloan believed, as did the authorities, that whoever had kidnapped Casey was the one who had murdered Jonah and burned down the McKee stables.

He'd spent the past few nights chatting with the locals, keeping an ear tuned toward the gossip while he pretended interest in the television mounted over the bar, where complimentary sports programs were offered free of charge to the patrons, just like the salty pretzels and popcorn.

During the day—when he wasn't doing odd jobs for some of the ranchers to gain their trust—Sloan sifted through her personal papers, interviewed the family and asked Jenner to check on places where Casey had gone to school and been employed so that his cover wasn't blown. He probably knew more about Casey McKee than she did herself. He'd checked telephone records to the McKee ranch, then flown to Seattle, interviewed Clarisse James, the friend who'd called Casey the day she was kidnapped. Before meeting Clarisse, he'd thought that she was in on the abduction, but the distressed woman was worried sick about Casey, her fear evident in her eyes. A battered woman who was trying to get back on her feet and survive with her two children, Clarisse convinced him that she didn't have a clue as to what had happened to her friend.

The FBI seemed to be concentrating on Clarisse James, thinking, her desperate, a young mother who'd run away from her rich husband, but Sloan's gut instinct told him that she was clean. Clarisse had her own problems, and the money suddenly appearing in her account had been given to her by Casey, no strings attached. Virginia McKee had confirmed it.

So Jenner's hothead of a sister had gotten herself into big-time trouble. Sloan Redhawk wasn't surprised. It seemed to be a McKee trait. Sloan had known Jenner McKee for years. They'd spent a lot of time riding rodeo together, and Jenner was always getting himself into one scrape or another.

Jenner's older brother, Max, tended to keep his nose clean, but most of the people he'd talked to agreed that Casey was a stubborn, spoiled, headstrong girl. Flirting with danger seemed to be a family tradition. Even Jenner's old man, Jonah, had courted trouble, skirting the law with his business deals, but coming out of each scrape without a scratch because he had enough cash to buy off the judges, deputies, competition and local politicians.

Yep, Jonah McKee was as crooked as a dog's hind leg. He'd made his share of enemies by cheating men out of their businesses or sleeping with their wives. And his enemies seemed to hate anyone named McKee. Sloan only hoped that whoever had taken Casey wasn't desperate enough in his thirst for revenge to kill Jonah's only daughter.

He listened to the gossip surrounding him, but the conversation wasn't all that interesting, even when he sauntered over to the pool tables in the corner and then to the men's room. He picked up snatches of grumbling about the coming winter, a problem with water rights, hunting restrictions and property taxes, but aside from the gossip of the two women, he didn't learn too much more of the McKees and their troubles.

By the time Sloan sat back down at his table, he decided to call it a night. He had a couple of leads to work on. Randy Calhoun was a disgruntled ex-employee of the ranch and Fred Donner felt that Jonah had swindled him out of his water rights. Corey Stills held a grudge because his wife had been Jonah's mistress, and Ned Jansen and Slim Purcell had both lost valuable property—a copper mine and a racehorse—to Jonah McKee. All reasons to hate the family.

“Hey, how's it goin'?” Don Bateman, a rancher who lived near the Rocking M, clapped Sloan on the back.

“It's goin'.”

“Mind if I join you?”

Sloan kicked out a chair. “Be my guest.”

After ordering a drink and checking out the score of the hockey game, Don settled in. “You know, this place isn't the same without old Jonah McKee,” he observed.

“How's that?”

“You'd have to know the man to appreciate it, I guess, but McKee had a presence about him. Oh, don't get me wrong, he was as twisted as the Snake River, but he wasn't all bad and people kinda looked up to him. Pr‘bly 'cause of all his money.”

“He was a regular?”

“Oh, yeah, like clockwork. Well—” he shrugged “—most of us are.”

Sloan scratched his chin and gazed around the room. “Yep,” he agreed. He saw one of the Purcell boys, Ned Jansen, Cyrus Kellogg and Jimmy Rickert, the snitch who had told Jenner McKee that on the night he was murdered Jonah had argued with a man in a dark pickup. Rickert didn't know or wouldn't say who the culprit was, but, according to Jenner, the truck would have a crumpled bumper from nearly running Beth's little Nova off the road a few weeks ago.

Sloan had checked the pickups in the parking lot every night. He hadn't found any trace of a dark blue or black pickup with a creased bumper.

Don started complaining about the cost of feed for his cattle and horses while Sloan finished his beer. A few more men stopped by and the conversation slipped to concerns about a new virus that was affecting some of the stock. Sloan, usually a patient man, was beginning to feel frustrated. So far there were no new clues to Casey's disappearance. He reached for his hat as the door swung open, and a man he recognized as Steve Jansen made his way inside. Long and lanky, Steve ordered a beer, greeted a few friends and set a couple of bucks on the glossy mahogany.

Steve had a wife and two kids, a small ranch and an auto-body shop in town. If anyone in Rimrock wanted work done on his car or truck, say to pound out and fix a dented bumper, Steve would be the man to ask. Sloan had already poked around a bit, and Rex Stone, the McKees' P.I. who was investigating Jonah's murder, had talked to Steve and his partner, George Patterson, soon after they'd been questioned by one of Sheriff Polk's deputies. Nothing had turned up.

“How about a game?” Jimmy Rickert, making eye contact with Steve, thrust his chin toward the pool table.

“All right,” Steve drawled. He grabbed his beer.

“Hey, Steve, where's Barry? Poker game's kinda dull without him.”

“Don't know,” Steve replied with a lift of his shoulder. “Just up and left. He does that sometimes.”

“Yeah, but never for this long. Not this time of year.”

Barry White was Steve's half brother. Though Don Bateman was rattling on about a short growing season, Sloan was only half listening to the conversation. His eyes narrowed on Steve and he considered.

“He'll be back. That's the trouble with Barry,” Steve said with a cocksure grin. “You're never able to get rid of him for long.”

Sloan smiled to himself, but he turned his attention back to Don. “Barry White a regular around here?”

Don signaled for another beer. “Frankly I'm surprised the Black Anvil's stayed in business without him.” He snorted a laugh and poured a little more from his bottle into a frosted glass. “No one knows what Barry does for a living. Works for his dad a little, well, his stepdad, really. Ned Jansen. Ever since he lost the copper mine, Ned's been scrambling to make ends meet—not easy when you've got two ex-wives and a passel of kids. Now he owns a small logging operation, and most of the time Barry works for him—as long as there's work.” Don grabbed a handful of popcorn and plopped a salty kernel into his mouth.

“What kind of truck does Barry drive?”

“A beat-up old four-wheel-drive rig, I think. Seems to always have a headlight out or a dent in the side.” Don chuckled again. “I guess he could keep Steve in business if he wanted to.”

“I guess. Is he friends with most of the guys around here?”

“I s‘pose so. He plays cards with Slim Purcell and Corey Stills and hung around with Randy Calhoun while Randy was still around—before Jonah gave him the boot. Never understood that one,” Don admitted. “Randy had been with the McKees for years, one of Jonah's best men. Real good with the stock, but then, all of a sudden, Jonah accuses Randy of stealing from him—cullin' out the best calves or some such nonsense. Fires him on the spot in front of the rest of his hands. Stripped the man of his dignity, if ya ask me.” Don shook his head as the waitress, Wanda, picked up his empty bottle and deposited a fresh one in front of him. “Sometimes Jonah McKee could be one mean son of a bitch. Me, I liked him, been his neighbor for years. We got along, but then he didn't cut off my water like he did with Fred Donner and he didn't mess around with my wife, Donna, like he did with Corey Stills.” He poured a thin stream of beer into his glass. “If ya ask me, Jonah McKee had it comin'.”

“But why would anyone want to burn down the stables or kidnap his daughter after he was dead?” Sloan hooked the heel of his boot on an empty chair.

“Beats me,” Don replied, squinting at the television screen over the bar. “Maybe everyone's barking up the wrong tree. Maybe no one's out for revenge against Jonah. Maybe the problem is one of the boys—or Casey herself.” He gave a long, low whistle. “She's a hothead, that one.” Don reached into his pocket and drew out a pair of glasses, then settled back to watch a basketball game that was just starting.

So as not to arouse any suspicions, Sloan sat around for the next thirty minutes letting the information sink in, then he left. Barry White had just become the number one suspect in his case. It would take a little time and digging, but Sloan would find the bastard, and when he did, Casey had damned well better be alive and unharmed. Otherwise there would be hell to pay.

B
arry checked his watch for the tenth time in less than that many minutes. Casey knew that the solitude was getting to him, that his nerves were strung as tight as piano wire. Obviously he hadn't expected to be cooped up so long. He'd run out of chewing tobacco this morning and all day long he'd been jumpy.

“Trouble?” she asked him as he walked to the window and glared out at the continuing snowfall.

“I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“Sure you do. Either negotiations between your partner and my family have fallen through or your friend, whoever he is, has taken the money and flown the coop.”

“No way,” he said, but his lips flattened over his teeth. No doubt he was thinking about the fact that he might have been double-crossed-and thinking hard. Casey tried to swallow back her panic because, if Barry's partner had turned on him, then there was no reason to keep her alive. Barry couldn't trust her not to name him as one of the kidnappers.

So why would he even let her live at all? As long as she was alive, she could point her finger and identify him. Her throat turned to dust and she eyed the shotgun he'd propped in the corner. It was loaded—she'd seen him check the chamber several times. Then there was the sheathed, long-bladed knife that was strapped to his belt and stayed with him while he paced the cabin.

She'd been working for days on her plan to escape because she'd given up on her brothers and the law. Obviously Barry had hidden her so far away that she'd never be found. She'd listened for the sound of whirring helicopter blades, or the deep rumble of a truck's engine, hoping that someone was on his way to free her. But as each day had passed, her hopes had begun to fade and she knew that she could depend on no one but herself.

Well, fine. She wasn't one to worry a situation to death and she wasn't about to let some dim-witted thug like Barry White take advantage of her. Even if he did have a wicked knife and a no-nonsense shotgun.

Fortunately, Barry, preoccupied with his own problems, was getting sloppy and trusting her too much. He'd taken off her gag and kept her untied most of the time. He'd even bragged that he didn't have to keep her shackled because there was no place she could run. The nearest civilization was over fifty miles by road—if she was even able to find a road.

She'd tried to pretend total acquiescence because all she had to do was bide her time and wait for Barry to go back into town, where he picked up his meager supplies and made his calls to his accomplice. She thought about the man without a face and wondered for the thousandth time who was pulling Barry's rotten strings.

“I'm goin' out,” he growled, eyeing her. He reached for the rope, seemed to hesitate, but bound her hands, anyway. “The storm might trap us here and I'm damn near out of booze.”

“Why do you bother with tying me?” she asked, flinging her hair from her eyes as she tried to squirm away. He was big and brawny and smelled foul. “It's not like I can go anywhere.”

“So?” He squinted at her warily. “But it'd be just like you to try and get away.”

“To where?”

“Don't matter. It'd be a pain in the butt if I was to come back here and find you gone.” He hitched the rope a little tighter and she winced. “My partner, he don't like screwups.”

“Your partner's going to leave you to take the fall, Barry. You know it. Why else hasn't he shown up to let you know that the money's been paid, hmm? You really think my family won't come through?”

“It takes a while to scrounge up a million bucks. Even for you McKees.”

“Is that the line he's been feeding you?”

“Oh, just shut up!” He gave the rope a final tug, checking the knot. Then, satisfied that she wouldn't be able to escape, he yanked his jacket from a rusty nail by the door, shoved his arms through the sleeves and shouldered open the door, letting in a blast of raw, icy wind and a swirl of snow. The door banged shut behind him.

“Bastard,” she muttered between her teeth, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that she had the nerve to go through with her plan. Straining to listen, she heard the door to his truck open, then shut and the old engine cough and grind before it finally caught. She sent up a prayer of gratitude as she heard the shifting of gears, the roar of the engine as Barry tromped on the accelerator and the spin of tires on packed snow. A few seconds later, there was silence—peaceful and frightening silence.

Casey steeled herself. It was now or never. Though her chances of finding help in the mountains in winter were slim, she couldn't sit around and wait for Barry's accomplice to insist that she be killed before she could finger Barry to the law. Whoever was behind the plot was probably smart enough to realize that Barry was a sniveling coward who would spill his guts and hang his partner rather than take the rap alone.

Barry had tied her wrists in front of her rather than behind her this time. Frantically, knowing that it would take hours and Barry wouldn't be gone forever, she began working at the knot with her teeth and wiggling her fingers until her skin was raw. Pain seared her flesh, and though she worked herself into a sweat, she couldn't loosen the damned knot.

There was no knife; Barry had taken the only knife with him and there wasn't any piece of metal sharp enough to work through the strong hemp. Then her gaze settled on the lantern and the flame flickering on the wick. Her heart hammered. Her only hope was to burn through the rope. No doubt she'd singe herself, as well, but she could suffer a few bums to save her life.

Then she saw it. An easier way. If she could break the glass on the lantern and wedge a jagged edge between the boards of the table, she could saw through the tough cord and risk only a cut or two rather than char her flesh or have her clothes and hair catch fire.

No sooner had she come up with the plan than she blew out the flame. The cabin was suddenly immersed in darkness, with only the orange glow from the window in the door of the wood stove giving off any kind of illumination. Casey didn't care. Heart thudding, she slammed the lantern onto the floor, near the door, far away from the stove where the drizzling kerosene might be set ablaze. Then, carefully, she picked through the glass, cutting her fingers twice before she found two large pieces and carried them back to the table. She worked quickly, for the sooner she escaped, the farther she could flee from the cabin before Barry returned. She had no watch, couldn't judge the time, but each minute she stayed was one minute closer to Barry's returning, seeing what she'd done and wreaking his own kind of vengeance.

She cut her fingers again as she tried to force the glass between the slats of the table, but the boards were too close together, the space between each one too small, and she had to waste valuable time cutting at the old wood, creating a space, before at last she had a makeshift saw. Her hands were sticky with blood as she worked, back and forth, moving her wrists over the fragile blade, feeling the hemp slowly begin to loosen.

She worked for what seemed hours but might have only been minutes, her shoulder muscles bunching in pain as she kept on, sawing steadily in the darkness, silently praying that she would be able to break free.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered, sweat trickling from her brow. She felt the rope give a bit. Hope soared in her heart. Just a little longer. She shoved the hemp closer to the glass.

How long had Barry been gone? An hour? Two? How long would he stay away? She only hoped that he'd spend some time in the local bar, drinking and laughing and flirting with the waitress and losing all track of time. But what if he didn't? What if, even now, he was on his way back, with express instructions to kill her?

Frantically she worked over the piece of glass. The rope pulled and burned at her wrists before there was a sudden wrench, the hemp unraveled and she was free.

She couldn't believe it. With a gasp of joy, she jerked her jacket off the nail near the door and wished she had a pair of warm boots as well as a thick sheepskin coat. Her jean jacket and sneakers wouldn't stop frostbite, but she had no other options.

She had just slipped her arms through the jacket when she heard a scrape outside—the sound of footsteps. She swallowed back a scream as she heard the latch click. Her heart catapulted and she scrambled to the table to search for her piece of glass, a futile weapon against a shotgun and knife, but she'd be damned if she was going to be tied up like an animal again—just waiting to die.

Suddenly the door burst open, banging hard against the wall. Casey nearly jumped out of her skin. The wind raced through the room, causing the embers in the stove to glow red, and in the shadows she saw a man—a huge man—in the doorway.

“Casey?” The voice was deep and male, but didn't belong to Barry. “Casey McKee, you in here?”

Her heart pounded, thudding in her brain.
Stay calm
, she silently told herself though her insides were frozen in fear,
Just try to keep your wits about you.
The intruder snapped the door shut. Casey slid behind the wood stove and ducked down, fearing an assassin had been sent. Maybe Barry didn't have the guts to kill her himself. Or maybe it was someone here to save her. She almost spoke, but bit down hard to quell the cry that sprang from her lips.

“Casey? You here? Jenner sent me.”

Jenner? Oh, God! If only she could trust this stranger!
But she couldn't. This could all be a ruse.

The thin beam of a flashlight swept the room and she cowered deeper into her hiding spot. In the soft orange half-light she saw that the man was taller than she'd first thought. He stood well over six foot, she guessed, and his shoulders were massive.

“The name's Redhawk. Sloan Redhawk. We've never met, but I know your brother. Jenner and I go way back. Rode rodeo together, got drunk in Pendleton and landed in jail and—” The beam washed over the floor, then stopped on the broken glass and spilled kerosene. “For the love of God, what happened here?”

She couldn't see his features in the gloom, but remembered Jenner talking about the man. According to her brother, Redhawk was a strong man whose actions spoke louder than words. Half Native American, Sloan was as tough as nails and as harsh as the desert that spawned him. His gaze was dark, nearly malevolent, and a lot of people were uncomfortable around him. His mere presence had been intimidating even to the toughest cowboy. He didn't smile often and stared out at the world through eyes that looked as if they'd seen enough pain and suffering to last a lifetime. Or so Jenner had painted him.

“Look, we don't have much time....” Again the beam swept across the room and this time it landed squarely on Casey's face. She gasped, blinked at the harsh light directed into her eyes and held on to her wedge of glass as if it was a prize. “Holy Mother of God, look at you. What happened? Your hands—”

“Stay away!” she growled when he approached. The wicked wedge of glass glinted in the beam of the flashlight as she inched back farther into the corner.

“We've got to go. There's not much time. I heard White leave but he could come back.”

“How do you know? How did you find me?”

“We'll discuss it later. Right now, let's get out of here.”

“How do I know you're not one of them?”

“Hell,” he muttered, then shone the flashlight upward on his own face and the black Stetson on his head.

“Oh, God,” she said, recognizing the angular features of Jenner's friend. She'd seen a few snapshots of him, and remembered the slash of his cheekbones, sharp nose and dark, intense eyes. Tears suddenly clogged her throat, but she didn't give in to the urge to cry in relief. She scrambled to her feet as the sound of a truck's engine rumbled through the hills. Headlights flashed against the window. “Oh, no!” Her heart plummeted. Barry was back!

Sloan grabbed her hand in his gloved fingers. “Does he have a weapon?” he asked in a rough whisper.

“Yes, a shotgun, and maybe a pistol in the glove compartment of the truck, I'm not sure...but I know that he does have a knife, a long hunting knife.”

“You hide where you were before, behind the stove.” Firmly Sloan guided her back into her hiding spot, then slid stealthily behind the door.

The truck's engine roared and its tires whined up the slippery slope before grinding to a stop. Casey's heart beat wildly and still she clutched her pathetic piece of glass as if the tiny useless weapon could somehow save her. Footsteps crunched in the snow and a swinging beam of light flashed against the window. Casey's heart flew into her throat as the door swung open.

“What in the...? Casey...?” Barry yelled, and the room turned instantly cold from the snow and wind and smelled of liquor. “Where are you? For cryin' out loud, this is no time to play stupid ga—”

Sloan sprang. Like a savage cat, he threw himself at Barry. They both landed on the floor, rolling and kicking, swearing and breathing hard. A fist connected with flesh; there was a sickening crunch of bone. Glass crunched.

Casey leapt to her feet. She wasn't going to sit around and wait for the outcome. Somehow she had to help Sloan.

A shotgun blast roared through the cabin. Sparks sprayed, and Casey jumped as the window shattered. A man screamed in pain. Oh, God! Not Sloan. Casey could barely breathe, didn't dare say a word as her eyes adjusted to the dark after the blinding explosion from the gun.

“You okay? Case?”

“Y-yes.” Thank God.

A flashlight switched on, the harsh beam raining down on Barry, who lay writhing on the floor, clutching his arm. “Get up,” Sloan growled. In one hand he held the flashlight, in the other the shotgun.