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Along with a sheriff’s department, the town had a small community hospital, with a couple of nurses and one semiretired doctor. For serious injuries, patients were flown to Miles City or Billings.
That was one reason Stuart had trouble understanding why a young pretty nurse would want to move to Powder Crossing to work part-time at the hospital. She’d said it was because she wanted to spend more time doing what she loved—photography. But he realized he’d never seen her with a camera.
He tried to put his uneasiness about the woman aside, telling himself he and his suspicious nature made him his own worst enemy.
“Hope you’re hungry,” she said, giving him a smile that promised more than dinner.
“I am. It smells wonderful,” he said as he followed her toward the kitchen, stopping to study a photograph on the wall. A self-portrait of Abigail? If so, she was much younger. Her gaze was lowered almost coyishly, her smile tentative. A younger sister possibly? “Is this you?”
“A friend took it a long time ago. I don’t have any of mine up yet,” she said from the kitchen.
He found himself staring at the photograph, trying to figure out what it was about the shot that bothered him. Maybe everything about Abigail Creed unsettled him for a reason. A nurse and an aspiring professional photographer, if true, Abigail was multitalented. Soagain, what was she doing in Powder Crossing? Also, it seemed strange that the only photo on her wall was taken of her by someone else.
But maybe what he found more unsettling was why she seemed interested in him. A small-town sheriff who’d lived his whole life here, who’d followed in his father’s footsteps right into the sheriff position. Hell, he even lived in the house he’d grown up in only blocks away from here. The farthest he’d ranged from Powder Crossing was when he went to the state police academy.
Abigail handed him a glass of wine. “Dinner will be ready soon. Make yourself comfortable.”
“I was just admiring your place.” He moved back to the living room. There were no photographs of friends or family. With a start, he realized that there was nothing personal at all.
He reminded himself that she hadn’t been in town all that long. But it had been months. Maybe she hadn’t had time to put up more than the one photograph taken by a friend.
He continued around the living room, out of sight from the kitchen and Abigail. It was the first time he’d been in her house. The other times they’d either gone out or she’d brought dinner to him at the office when he’d worked late.
Other than the one photograph, there was no others anywhere in her house. He opened a door quietly, peered into her bedroom and noticed the same thing. No photos of family or friends. No knickknacks. No mementos at all. She’d always been vague when asked where she was from.
“I’ve lived all over. My family traveled a lot. It must have gotten into my blood.” She was just as vague as to why she’d come to Powder Crossing. She’d said a job had opened up and she wanted to shoot some photographs of the area, not knowing how long she planned to stay. Maybe that was all it was.
The house was small, so it didn’t take long to check out everything, including the bathroom, before he returned to the kitchen. In her medicine cabinet, he found no prescription drugs. Not much of anything. It gave him the feeling she wasn’t planning to stay here long.
At dinner, she quizzed him about his work, knowing full well that he couldn’t talk about any ongoing cases. “I would think murder is rare here,” she said between bites. “Can’t you at least tell me about one of your closed cases?”
He chuckled and said, “I’d rather hear more about you.”
“Nothing really to tell. What you see is what you get.” She let that hang in the air as she met his gaze with what again appeared to be a promise of something to come.
They had more wine after dinner and a chocolate mousse that left an aftertaste before they moved into the living room to the couch. She spent time looking for a movie on the television that she thought he might like before cuddling up next to him.
He felt the weight of the long day settle over him. Charlotte Stafford had been seen driving through town in a van with her son CJ in the front. Another rumor had been circulating that an out-of-town carpenter had been out at the Stafford Ranch doing some work. Everyone was curious about CJ and whether or not he would ever serve a day in jail for shooting his sister—even accidentally—and if he was walking or not.
Stu realized he was having trouble following the movie Abigail had found. The smell of her perfume was making him a little nauseated. He told himself he should go home and get some rest. It was his last thought before he fell into a bottomless sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
DUFFYWASN’TONEto read a room well, but he thought he’d picked up a strange vibe when he’d found Pickett and Oakley in the hallway after the meeting. They’d seemed to be in deep conversation, standing so close that for a moment...
He shook his head as they walked out to her pickup. Pickett often joked around with Oakley—just like Duffy did—but the ranch hand had never made a move on her—at least not one that Duffy knew of. Pickett liked her. What wasn’t to like about Oakley? Pickett, like Duffy, might even wish there could be something between them.
He glanced at the two of them. They were awfully quiet, neither looking at the other. Duffy couldn’t see the two of them being anything more than friends, could he? Was there reason to be concerned?
“So what’s the big news?” Oakley asked once they were in her pickup and on the road.
He’d been surprised minutes before when Pickett had stopped to kick snow off his boots and let him sit in the middle next to her without even pretending to wrestle him for the spot. He told himself he was only imaging the tension in the pickup. Sexual tension?
“Douglas Burton, the head of CH4, is coming to Powder Crossing to demand that something is done to stop the vandalisms,” he said, getting down to business. It was what had bonded the three of them together as adults. “There is a good chance he’ll be bringing security, according to the speaker at the meeting. A pair of hired thugs named Frankie and Norman Lees, brothers, got into trouble down in Wyoming because of their propensity for violence. They stake out drilling equipment at sites and put vandals in the hospital or worse.”
“That sounds like a scare tactic,” Oakley said, shaking her head. “If they were actually killing people, we’d know about it.”
“Would we?” Duffy asked. “Apparently, down in Wyoming some of the agitators were bought off. Others just disappeared and were never heard from again.”
