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“Their mother’s sister, Karen, took them in for a bit. She used to live north of Livingston in a little town called Clyde Park, but she sold her house and bought something close to the high school. McKenna and Quinn lived with her after Quinn was released from the hospital.”
“And Rory?”
“He wanted to live with friends in Marietta. He was a senior and a star wide receiver and everyone wanted Rory to have a normal senior year…or as normal as it could be, considering. The town rallied around those kids. No one wanted to see them get sent to foster care, not after what they’d been through, and even though they are no longer teenagers, those three still mean a lot to Marietta.”
“So who did it?”
Louise shook her head. “No one knows.”
“No one has any suspicion? No person of interest that wasn’t charged for whatever reason?”
“There has been so much speculation that I hate to weigh in. It doesn’t help.”
“I met someone today whose father was a ranch foreman for the Circle C and she mentioned a traveling church that came to Paradise Valley every summer. Do you know anything about that?”
Louise’s expression firmed. “Pastor Newsome. Went once to hear him preach but didn’t like his message, or some of the people he traveled with, and never went back.”
“Could he have been involved?”
“He was leading a Bible study at the time so it wasn’t him, but he had some odd followers. They were a little too zealous. Wasn’t for me, and OC—my husband—agreed.”
“How were his followers odd?”
“Now you sound like Mr. Finley. He asked me that, too, when he interviewed me.”
“People are upset about the book he’s writing. Does his book bother you, too?”
She hesitated. “I know Mr. Finley’s work and the quality of his writing and research, so in theory, I don’t have an issue. But as someone who has watched over those Douglas kids, and fretted over their well-being, it’s difficult.”
“So you wouldn’t try to stop it.”
“I don’t believe in censorship. I’m a librarian.” She smiled, and then her smile faded. “But it’s not an easy subject. I grew up with Grace Gordon—that was Grace Douglas’ maiden name—and she was a very dear friend. What happened to her, and her family, in that home still haunts me to this day. I’ll never forget visiting with Catherine Sheenan not long after the murders, and Catherine said, ‘That could have been me.’ And Catherine’s words stuck with me, because I think every woman in this community felt that way.”
Jet was usually quite comfortable driving Highway 89. After six weeks of commuting to Emigrant Gulch for the teaching job, she knew the road well. It was just one lane in each direction and traveling south, the Yellowstone River was on her left, a dark glimmer against the patchy snow on the riverbanks.
The sun was trying hard to shine through the heavy clouds that gathered over the Absarokas, and Jet appreciated the effort as she battled a fit of nerves.
Harley would not be happy if she found out about Jet visiting Shane on the Sheenan ranch.
But then, no one in the Sheenan family would be happy.
Jet had never thought of herself as a rebel. Yes, she’d always had a mind of her own, as well as a strong sense of self, but she’d never broken “rules,” she hadn’t ever caused trouble. Even as a teenager she hadn’t been contrary, too intent on excelling in school, too determined to be a success. So Jet didn’t know why she felt so compelled to see Shane. She didn’t like conflict. She didn’t want to stir things up. And yet here she was, heading straight into potential heartache.
Uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, and the butterflies in her middle, she forced her attention to the narrow road taking her deeper into the rolling hills. The smaller houses and acre properties lining the river gave way to larger spreads. Rustic signs and cattle guards marked the entrance to different properties. One of them was the entrance to the MacCreadie ranch. Another was the entrance to the Douglas’. And then the Sheenan’s, the big iron “S” dangling from a wooden beam the only indication she’d reached the entrance to their property. She knew from hearing the Sheenans talk the ranch had been in the family for almost a hundred years. The first Sheenan had arrived in Montana in the 1890s but didn’t have the money to buy the current property until the 1920s. It was a big property, too, and the only other family spread that rivaled the size of the Sheenan ranch was the Carrigan’s, owners of the Circle C, the ranch east of the Sheenan place.
Jet followed the dusty dirt road a quarter of a mile until it dead-ended in front of a two-story, log cabin ranch house. A relatively modern tractor was parked just in front of a huge weathered barn. Corrals flanked both sides of the barn.
The house wasn’t particularly inspiring. Constructed of hand-hewn logs, the house looked solid but lacked what a real estate agent would call curb appeal. The front porch was small and narrow, with an equally small overhang to protect one from rain or snow, but the smallness of the porch and the steepness of the brown roof all looked practical rather than charming. Even the trim on the windows and front door were the same shade of brown as the roof. There were no homey touches, but also, no clutter.
Shane opened the front door before she’d even had a chance to knock.
“Hi there,” she said, smiling, thinking he looked ridiculously handsome in his soft, faded Levis and cherry-red Henley shirt. He’d pushed the long sleeves up on his forearms, revealing the intricate ink on one arm. She’d love to see the tattoos without his shirt, curious as to how much of his body they covered. Was it just the arm, or did they extend over his shoulder, too? She didn’t think he had tattoos on his chest. At least, the round neckline of the shirt didn’t reveal any, just smooth taut skin and the top of his muscular chest. He was built. Muscles everywhere.
She swallowed hard. “I’m not too early am I?”
“Not at all. Welcome,” he answered, holding the door wider so she could enter the house.
She felt nervous all over again as he closed the door behind her. “Where did you go skiing?” she asked, trying to sound calm and normal when her pulse was pounding and her confidence was dipping. “Bridger Bowl?”
“I went skate skiing. Over by Miracle Lake.”
She was impressed. She’d tried to skate ski once and it was hard. “Did you come home tired?”
“The good kind of tired. Definitely more mellow.”
“So you’re making good progress on your book.”
“No, making very little progress but it was that or lose my mind, and I don’t feel like losing my mind.”
“Good call.” Jet began unsnapping her coat. “Isn’t Miracle Lake where all the kids go skating?”
“You haven’t been there yet?”
“I don’t skate.”
“At all?” he asked, taking her coat from her and heading down the long hall.
She followed him. “I can wobble around a little bit. Maybe even wobble backwards, but it’s not pretty. Do you skate?”
“I learned to play hockey at one of the boys’ homes. The more aggressive I could appear on the ice, the less aggressive I needed to be off the ice.” He hung her coat on a hook near the kitchen. “Hungry? Thirsty?”
“I’d love a cup of tea.”
“I’m good at that.”
In the kitchen, with the yellow pine cabinets and Formica counters, he moved efficiently from stove to sink, filling the copper kettle, and then back to the stove, placing the dented kettle on a gas burner.
As he busied himself at the stove, she found herself checking him out again. He seemed made for old, faded jeans and soft thermal shirts. She liked the way the knit fabric skimmed his broad chest but wrapped his hard biceps, highlighting the thick muscle. She liked the fit of the Levis and how his dark hair was loose. He’d done something to his beard, too. It was shorter and lighter, as if he’d come close to shaving it all off. She liked him with a beard, but she thought he looked even more handsome
with a cleaner jaw. “Looks like you got a little crazy with your razor,” she teased.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, expression rueful. “Wasn’t intentional. I was trimming the beard and not paying attention. You can’t leave one side of your face furrier than the other.”
“When did you do that?”
“Just after I got back from skiing. I showered, thought I ought to polish up a bit for you, and then—oops.” He lined up two mugs and pulled out a number of boxes of tea. “Which one appeals? English breakfast, peppermint, orange spice, and Earl Grey.”
“English breakfast if I can add a splash of milk and sugar.”
“You can.” He turned around to face her as the water heated. “So does Harley know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Are you sure this is wise?”
“Probably as long as we don’t get married and have babies.”
One black eyebrow lifted. “I suppose that rules out me taking you to bed.”
One second they’d been bantering and the next the kitchen felt taut and explosive. She felt her cheeks grow hot and her insides do a somersault.
“Probably wise to avoid bedrooms,” she agreed, voice husky.
His dark eyes warmed, the expression intent and very male. “Any place else we should avoid?”
Her heart thudded hard and yet her pulse felt like warm honey in her veins, thick, sweet, seductive. “Places with couches and sofas.”
“Bad, too, huh?”
“Yeah.”
His gaze locked with hers and held. “What about rugs in front of fireplaces?”
“No. Hardwood floors…stone floors…no blazing fires.”
“No fires, either?”
She could picture him stretched out over her, kissing her, his hands in her hair, his lips finding every little sensitive spot on her neck…
