Dell was dead. The stupid kid.
This day had turned sour as soon as he rode Rosie into the Sunnyslope Ranch this morning and saw David Endicott’s baby-blue Cadillac. Sunnyslope was one of the bigger spreads near West Yellowstone and on most days, a good job for somebody like him. Walt Wormsbecker had a nice setup overlooking Hebgen Lake with a three-story ranch house, a bunkhouse, and a couple of guest cottages. He ran two hundred head of cattle and thirty horses, but the boss’s real money came from the fishing trips and big-game hunting he provided for tourists.
Most wranglers and ranchers hated tourists, but Red didn’t mind them. He’d been a city kid once, and when he’d found Montana his life had changed. Everybody deserved to see the wide-open spaces. No, it wasn’t tourists that got Red hot under the collar—it was phonies like David Endicott. Men who wore expensive cowboy hats and shiny boots but didn’t know one end of a horse from the other.
The sun was coming over the Absarokas when he tied Rosie’s lead rope to the rail and went to the pasture to get the mounts they’d need for the day. As much as Red disliked Endicott, putting up with him was part of his job. He led Flick—a sure-footed mule who could carry a heavy load—to the rail just as Bucky came over with a sick look on his face.
“It’s Dell,” Bucky said, his voice breaking.
Red’s jaw went tight. “What about him?” If that kid got caught and was in jail, Red wasn’t going to bail him out. Not this time.
Bucky looked down at his boots, his throat working. “Wormsbecker just got word over the shortwave. He drowned.”
Red’s gut turned over and he put a hand on Flick to steady himself. “Where?”
“In the Yellowstone.”
Red had expected that answer. He’d warned Dell about that river, but the kid hadn’t listened. He met Bucky’s gaze and they both looked over at the baby-blue Cadillac.
“Do you think...?” Bucky glanced back at him.
Red shook his head. No way to prove it, and who would believe him, anyway?
He went back to saddling Flick. Poor Pete and Iris Henshaw had another dead son. A rush of anger—of regret and guilt and a storm of emotions—swelled through him.Dell, you stupid, stupid kid. Why didn’t you listen?
Red led the group of hunters up Mount Hebgen, trying not to think about Dell or his parents or Beth. Wormsbecker came next, pointing out spots for the six-day hunt Endicott had booked in October. Endicott rode beside his father-in-law, Ian Meyer, a decent man who had hunted with them last year and bagged a nice-sized elk. Bucky brought up the rear with a portly accountant type named Topper who looked like he’d never sat on a horse before.
The trail was shadowed and the sun low in the sky when they returned to the ranch. Endicott gave Flick a jab with his fancy cowboy boots, spurring his mount past Red as if they were in a race. “Nexttime I want a real horse,” he groused as he slid out of the saddle. “Not this donkey.”
Red gritted his teeth. Flick was a mule, not a donkey, and deserved better treatment.
“Come with us to the Slippery Otter, Red.” Meyer tried to smooth things over. “I’m buying.”
Red was hot and dusty and wanted nothing more than to get away from Endicott and get home to Claire and Jenny.
“That’s mighty kind of you, Ian.” Wormsbecker jumped in. “Red and Bucky will take care of the horses and meet us there.” Red opened his mouth to refuse but Wormsbecker stopped him with a hard look and leaned close, lowering his voice. “You gotta make sure they leave thinking they’ve made friends with the wranglers.”
Red let out a silent breath of defeat. He couldn’t afford to defy his boss.
Now, he sat at the bar, thinking over his last conversation with Dell. Red took another sip of his beer and caught Wormsbecker watching him. His surly look said he expected Red to make nice with the clients.
Bucky was a few stools down, listening to Topper, so Red shifted his attention to Meyer. “How’s that granddaughter of yours, Mr. Meyer?”
The older man grinned. “You remembered.” Last fall Meyer had talked a blue streak about the girl. “She’s a real firecracker.” He slid a color photo of a bucktoothed ten-year-old out of his wallet. “Luckily, she’s a lot like her mother.”
Red admired the picture. “Cute as a button.”
The older man beamed. “You have a family, Red?”
Red jerked a nod. “Wife and a little girl.”
“Got a picture?” Meyer asked.
Of course he had a picture. He pulled out his wallet and the photo of Jenny, taken just a couple weeks ago when she turned four months. “Prettiest baby in the world,” he said, unable to hide the pride in his voice when he showed the black and white.
Endicott leaned around Meyer and snatched the photo from Red’s hand. “Well, now, Red”— he looked at it with raised brows—“I didn’t know you were a family man. Let’s see one of your wife. Is she pretty?”
Red’s pulse tripped up a notch. Wild horses couldn’t get him to show Claire’s picture to Endicott. Red reached to rescue Jenny’s photo from Endicott’s critical gaze, but the man raised the picture over his head, just out of Red’s grasp.
