Hideout at Whiskey Gulch
Auteur
Elle James
Lezers
19,4K
Hoofdstukken
18
Chapter One
“Here’s the last of what we had on your mother’s case.” Sheriff Richards slapped a box marked Evidence on the desk and straightened. “Now, if you don’t need anything else from me, I’m late for dinner with my daughter. His brow dipped and he planted his hands on his hips. “Since she learned how to tell time, she doesn’t let me off without a firm reprimand.”
Matthew Hennessey’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “Like father, like daughter?”
The sheriff nodded. “She may look like her mother, God bless her—” he jabbed a thumb toward his chest “—but she’s every bit as stubborn as her dad.”
“Go,” Matt said. “And thanks for digging into this case.”
“It’s the least we could do. I was on the initial investigation back when your mother was found. There just wasn’t a lot to go on. There didn’t seem to be a motive. So many people in town loved her. She was always helping others. All we could think of was that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Matt nodded his head. “But out in the middle of a rancher’s field?”
“Not far from where she lived. We didn’t find any tracks indicating she’d been taken there by a vehicle. Nor did we find any drag marks in the dirt as if she’d been killed at or near her home and then dragged out into the field. It was if she’d gone there on her own and someone shot her there.”
Matt frowned at the thought of his mother out at night, alone in a rancher’s field. “The ballistics report on the bullet they pulled out showed that she was hit by a bullet from a .45 caliber weapon.”
The sheriff nodded. “We checked the registered weapons in the county. Everyone we know who owns a .45 had an alibi.”
“The owners might have bad friends who ‘borrowed’ their guns, though. And I’m sure, the registered guns aren’t really the ones you had to worry about,” Matt said.
“Right. It was the ones that weren’t registered we couldn’t account for.” The sheriff sighed. “I wish we had more for you.”
“Me too,” Matt said. “I want to know what happened.”
“I understand. If you need anything else, or find something we missed, don’t hesitate to contact me. If I’m not available, contact Deputy Jones. I let her know you were looking into your mother’s case.”
“Thanks.” Matt ran a hand through his hair and stretched the kinks out of his back. “Do you mind if I stay awhile?”
“Not at all. No one uses this office, unless they have a long report to write. Things are pretty quiet now, so I don’t anticipate anyone needing the space anytime soon.” The sheriff gave him a two-fingered salute. “Gotta go.”
“That’s right. Your daughter is waiting.” Matt gave the man a chin lift and focused on the documents in front of him.
Four hours later, the sun had gone down and Matt’s belly rumbled. He’d worked through dinner. Not that he had any plans for the meal, but four hours was long enough. In that time, he’d read every word of the depositions, deputies’ reports and the state crime lab’s detailed analyses of the evidence processed. The medical examiner’s report had been the hardest to go over.
His mother had been shot point-blank in the chest, dying instantly. She’d been left in that field until a rancher had noticed turkey vultures flying over her body. He’d gone out to investigate, thinking it might be one of his cows. By the time the man had found Lynn Hennessey, she’d been dead at least two days.
Matt rubbed a hand over his face. Should he head to his apartment over his auto repair shop in town or go out to the Whiskey Gulch Ranch, where he’d moved some of his things into a spare bedroom there?
Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t believe he was equal owner of one of the largest and most profitable ranches in Texas, and that he no longer had to work for a living. He had enough money from his father’s estate he never had to work another day in his life, other than to keep the ranch running and profitable.
All the years he’d never known who his father was, the man had lived in the same small town where he’d grown up.
All the damned years.
His mother hadn’t breathed a word.
Matt might never have discovered his heritage if his mother hadn’t died prematurely. His father wouldn’t have known of his existence. It all had to do with the letter she’d left with her lawyer, informing James Travis that he’d had a son from their short relationship. If his father hadn’t learned of his bastard son before being killed, he would have left his entire estate to his legitimate son, Trace Travis. Instead, he’d left everything to both sons to share equally.
Though he still had vehicles to repair, Matt preferred staying out at the ranch, where the peace and quiet helped him sleep better. Not that Whiskey Gulch was a bustling city with major traffic noise keeping people awake at all hours. But there was the occasional hot rod vehicle cruising down Main Street, mufflers rumbling loudly.
Matt had always dreamed of having a few acres to get lost on. Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought he’d own so much.
It wasn’t that he needed to possess anything that had belonged to his father. He would happily have sold his share to his half brother. But his father had bequeathed his entire estate to his two sons. If one of the half brothers wanted out of the ranch, the entire ranch would be sold off and they’d split the proceeds. To keep the property in the family, the ranch had to remain intact and they had to learn to work together. They were doing that, too, and not just concerning the land. With other former military, they’d begun a protective and investigative force that helped victims when law enforcement couldn’t quite keep up or provide protection. They’d begun calling themselves “The Outriders.” So far, the coalition consisted of Matt, Trace and Irish Monahan, all trained combatants. Soon they’d be joined by others, as they expanded their reach and capabilities.
Matt stacked the documents in a neat pile on the desk, stood and stretched the stiffness out of his muscles. He should have gotten up hours ago to get the blood flowing.
His cell phone buzzed where he’d left it lying on the desk. The caller ID indicated Rosalynn Travis, his stepmother. That word still stuck in his craw. He picked up the phone and answered, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Hey, Matthew.” Rosalynn was one of the nicest humans Matt had ever encountered, which made it hard for him to hate her. In fact, he liked her tremendously, which gave him twinges of guilt when he thought about the mother he’d loved. And she always called him Matthew, just like his mother had.
Rosalynn continued, “I was just checking to see if you planned on staying at the ranch tonight.”
“I am,” he said. “I’m leaving the sheriff’s office now.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You don’t have to stop on your way to pick up something, if you don’t want to,” Rosalynn said. “I left pot roast warming in the oven. There’s a salad and a fresh pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Travis.”
“Matthew, you don’t have to call me Mrs. Travis. Rosalynn will do.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you don’t have to call me ma’am.” She laughed. “It makes me sound so old.”
“Yes, ma’am—Mrs. Travis.” He shook his head.
She sighed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re still getting to know each other. Be careful out tonight. Trace said there were a lot of deer alongside the highway on his way home this evening.”
“I’ll be on the lookout,” he promised, and ended the call.
He stopped at the front desk to let the deputy on duty know he was leaving.
When he stepped out into the night, he looked up at the stars shining brightly overhead.
He’d been many places when he’d been on active duty in the Marine Corps, but nowhere did the stars shine brighter than here in Texas. When a leg injury ended his career as a Marine, he’d come home.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped off the curb and mounted his motorcycle, pulled on his helmet and buckled the strap beneath his chin. Matt started the engine and twisted the throttle, giving it some gas while still in neutral. The deep rumble between his legs got his blood moving and his pulse kicking up a notch.
He roared out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, moving slowly as he passed his auto shop, checking for anything out of place. The quiet of Whiskey Gulch was deceiving. Who would have thought anything bad could happen here? Yet, his mother had been shot to death four years ago, and the murderer had never been apprehended. He could still be in the area. He could be one of his neighbors. All the more reason not to trust anyone until he found the killer.
AUBREY BLANCHARD FIT the key in the lock of the cottage, twisted it and pushed the door inward. Her day had been long yet rewarding.
As a home health care worker, she’d gone to six different houses that day to administer to the people who weren’t able to take care of themselves, or who needed a nurse to check on them once a week to draw blood or monitor their vital signs. Unlike her previous job, working in the emergency room of one of Houston’s largest hospitals, she had time to spend with each patient, listening to their worries and doing the best she could to make them comfortable. Some of them just needed human contact.
She sighed as she entered the home she’d rented when she’d first come to Whiskey Gulch. It wasn’t really a house so much as a cottage, situated on the very edge of town. Behind it was a fenced field where cattle and horses grazed. On the days she got home early, she sat on the covered back porch and watched the sun set over the hills and thanked her lucky stars she’d found the place so quickly after applying for the home health care position she’d found online.
Houston had all the amenities, but it didn’t have the peace and quiet Aubrey’s soul craved. For the past two months she’d lived here, she’d kept to herself when she wasn’t at work. Aubrey needed the space from others, from her own relatives and from her past.
She bent to scoop up the mail on the floor in the entryway that had been shoved through the narrow slot in the door. Among the advertisements for an oil change and a pizza sale was a large envelope with the name of a law firm in the return address.
Aubrey sighed. “It’s about time.” With the culmination of a yearlong process and thousands of dollars of legal fees, her divorce was final. She didn’t have to open the envelope to verify. Her attorney had called a week ago, letting her know of the ruling and that the documents would be coming to her soon. She was a free woman.
A deep sadness filled her for what was, what could have been and what was now her reality.
She tossed the ads, divorce papers and her purse on the antique dining table and headed for the kitchen. Thankfully, the house had come with furniture that had belonged to its last owner. The real estate company that had handled the rental hadn’t said a word about what had happened to the last owner. Aubrey assumed she’d died of old age. Three weeks after she’d settled in, Aubrey was corrected on her assumption. One of Aubrey’s patients had set her straight on that account. The prior owner had been murdered four years ago.
When Aubrey had heard that bit of news, she’d taken it with a grain of salt. The old woman who’d told her about the owner’s murder was suffering from dementia and didn’t recognize her own children.
When she’d had a day off, Aubrey had looked the story up on the internet, then gone to the local library and researched area newspapers that had more on the tragedy than online snippets could provide, finding Lynn Hennessey’s obituary from four years ago. She went on to locate the article about her death, and how she’d been found in the field not far from her home, shot once in the chest.
Aubrey’s belly had knotted. Had she wanted to get out of her lease agreement on the cottage, she was pretty certain the courts would be on her side. Keeping something as significant as murder from a potential renter had to be grounds for backing out of a contract. By that time, she’d been in the cottage for almost a month. Nothing strange had happened to make her feel unsafe, and the rent was dirt cheap... For a reason. Aubrey had decided the risk was worth it. Since leaving her husband, moving to a new town and establishing a residence, she didn’t have a lot of money to burn. So the previous owner had been murdered and the killer hadn’t been caught, according to the news article. That didn’t mean all occupants of the cottage were destined to be killed.
Armed with the knowledge of Lynn Hennessey’s death, Aubrey didn’t take any chances. Every night before she went to sleep, she checked all the window and door locks. Not comfortable with guns, Aubrey kept on her nightstand a can of wasp spray capable of shooting bug-killing chemicals up to a distance of ten feet. Anyone who tried to attack her in her own home would get the spray full in the face. She didn’t want to kill anyone, just incapacitate potential murderers until she could get far enough away to avoid injury or death.
So far, the can remained untouched. Not even wasps had made their home in the eaves of the cottage. The house was beautiful, quiet and just what Aubrey had needed after her depressing divorce. She hadn’t even ventured out to make friends. Instead, she indulged in solitary evenings at home, drinking wine, catching up on her reading and considering adopting a cat.
That evening was no different. She slipped out of her scrubs and pulled on a pair of leggings and a loose T-shirt, curled up on the overstuffed easy chair and settled in with a book.
The day had been long and tiring. So tiring, she fell asleep on the third page, her wine barely touched.
What felt like moments later, a pounding sound jerked her out of her slumber.
Aubrey sat upright, the book falling from her lap to the floor. The pounding sounded again, but not from the front door. She jumped to her feet and ran for the can of wasp spray in the bedroom before edging around the corner into the kitchen. The back door that led from the kitchen out onto the back porch had a window. A shadowy face pressed against the glass as a fist banged against the wooden doorframe.
The face was female and tear streaked.
Holding tightly to her can of wasp spray, Aubrey hurried to the back door.
“Por favor!” the woman cried. “Es esta la casa de los ángeles?” Her words were so garbled Aubrey had difficulty translating with her rudimentary Spanish skills. She thought the woman was asking for a house of angels.
The tears and the desperation in the woman’s voice got to Aubrey. She set the can of spray on the counter, unlocked the door and yanked it open.
The woman fell into her arms, sobbing. “Ayudar a mis bebés.” Help my babies.
She smelled of sweat and fear. For a moment the woman clung to Aubrey.
“What’s wrong? How can I help?” Aubrey asked.
“Mis bebés,” she wept. Then she pushed out of Aubrey’s arms, grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the door. “Prisa. Ven conmigo.”
Aubrey resisted. “Where are they? Where are your babies?” she asked, digging her feet into the threshold.
“Por favor. Ayudar a mis bebés.”
When Aubrey wouldn’t go with her, the woman dropped her hand, ran out into the night, fell to her knees and pressed together her hands in prayer. “Por favor. Dios ayúdame.” Please. God help me.
Aubrey couldn’t disregard the woman’s pain. She might be putting her life in danger, but she couldn’t ignore the woman’s plea. She ran out after her.
When they came to the fence between the cottage’s backyard and the rancher’s field, the woman slipped between the barbed wire and took off running.
Aubrey stopped cold. This was the field where the Hennessey woman had been murdered. What if the stranger was leading her into a trap? The woman’s voice echoed into the night. “Ayudar a mis bebés.” Help my babies.
Aubrey slipped between the strands of barbed wire. Her shirt ripped on a sharp prong, but she made it through and ran after the disappearing woman, across the field and into a stand of scrubby trees. The land dipped downward into a dry creek bed.
Ahead of Aubrey, the desperate woman slid down the slope and scrambled up the other side.
Aubrey followed. The farther away from the cottage they went, the more her gut knotted. Regretting leaving her phone at the cottage, Aubrey was ready to return and call 911 when the woman stopped in front of a stand of bushes and brush. “Nena, dónde estas?” She tore at the branches, pulling aside a large, leafy branch.
A baby’s cry sounded in the night. The stranger dived into the brush and emerged with an infant in her arms. “Marianna, mi bebé.” For only a moment she hugged the infant to her chest, raining kisses on her soft dark hair. Then her head came up. “Isabella?” she whispered.
Aubrey caught up to her.
Holding the baby in her arms, the woman dived deeper into the brush. “Isabella?” she said a little louder.
A child’s cry sounded nearby, “Mamá!”
The stranger’s head whipped around. “Isabella!”
Several engines roared to life, filling the night with a resonating rumble.
Aubrey glanced left, then right, her eyes straining to see into the murky shadows.
The woman who’d led her out into the field shoved her. “Vamos! Correle más rápido!” She didn’t wait for Aubrey to move, taking off, away from the noise of the engines, clutching her baby to her chest.
For a woman laden with the weight of a small child, she moved fast through the trees.
Even had Aubrey not understood the words, she would have gleaned the intent in her tone. She wanted her to go. To run fast.
A child’s cry sounded again over the roar of the engines.
Aubrey turned away from the engines and took off in the direction she’d heard the child’s voice.
Ahead of her, the woman’s steps faltered. She had to be exhausted after running to get help and then back to find her baby.
Behind Aubrey, dark silhouettes of men on ATVs burst from the shadows and raced toward them.
Aubrey’s heart leaped into her throat. She hadn’t found the other child, but she was now in jeopardy. If she was going to help, she first had to get to safety.
The stars above shone down on the advancing four-wheelers.
Focusing on the ground in front of her, she ran with all the strength and endurance she could muster.
They’d cut her off from returning to the cottage, so she ran in the only direction she could. Somehow, somewhere, they had to find a place to hide.
Who were these people after this woman? Why were they chasing her? She searched for the words in Spanish but didn’t have the time or breath to articulate them.
Aubrey tripped over a branch and fell to her knees. She couldn’t get up and run fast enough to avoid the men on the ATVs. She could hide and hope they wouldn’t find her, or she could get up and make a stand, giving the other woman and her baby a chance to escape.
Still on her knees, her hand curled around a thick, long stick, bigger than a baseball bat and heavy enough to do some damage.
She waited until just before the ATVs overran her position. It was clear they were aiming at her with harm as their goal.
Aubrey leaped to her feet, and with both hands, she swung the stick as hard as she could at the man on the first ATV to reach her. The stick connected with the man’s head, knocking him off the back of the vehicle. He landed flat on his back.
The impact shook Aubrey’s arms and wrenched her back. She didn’t have time to worry about her own pain.
The second ATV slowed and swerved toward her. The rider’s arm came up, a handgun pointing in her direction.
Aubrey ducked behind a tree as a shot rang out.
When the rider roared up to her position, she slid around the other side of the tree and came at him from behind, clobbering him with the makeshift club, hitting him in the head. The man leaned on the right side of his handlebars, sending the ATV careening into a tree.
The third ATV bypassed all of them and continued on toward the woman and the infant.
Aubrey didn’t wait around for the two men she’d hit to gather their wits. She took off again, zigzagging through the trees, heading for the woman who’d broken through the tree line and run across an open field.
Another shot rang out behind her.
Aubrey let out a startled yelp and ran faster. Ahead of her, the man on the ATV raised his arm and fired his handgun.
The woman fell to the ground.
Her steps faltering, Aubrey’s heart plummeted to the pit of her belly.
Oh, sweet heaven. Had the woman been hit? What about the baby?
Anger surged through Aubrey, fueling her faltering steps. She ran like a sprinter, winging her way toward the man on the ATV who was bearing down on the woman he’d fired on. As he slowed, Aubrey caught up to him and slammed him with the club-like stick, hitting him in the back of the head.
He slumped over the handlebars of his ATV and shook his head, then he hit the throttle, sending the four-wheeler shooting across the grass, away from his attacker.
A baby’s cry drew Aubrey’s attention from the rider. When the woman had fallen, the baby had slipped from her arms and landed in a stand of tall grass a yard away.
“Get up.” Aubrey tried to help the woman to her feet. The injured woman didn’t have the strength to rise, nor was Aubrey able to carry her.
“Mi bebé. Mi Marianna,” the woman cried out, her hand reaching for the child. “Vamos! Salva a mi bebé!” Go! Save my baby!
With three men on ATVs chasing her, the woman didn’t have a chance. But Aubrey was near a line of trees. If she could reach the trees before the men on the ATVs, she and the baby might have a chance. She would run for help and come back to see if the woman was still alive and look for the other child, as well. Unarmed, she couldn’t do much else. The woman wanted to save her baby. That was the least Aubrey could do.
Aubrey scooped the baby into her arms. Her heart pounding, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, she aimed for the trees, pushing herself harder when she thought she could run no more. She didn’t look back. Based on the fading engine noises behind her, she was putting distance between herself and the attackers. She prayed she’d make the cover of the trees before the men on the four-wheelers caught up.
Forty yards from her goal, Aubrey heard engines revving. The sound grew nearer. A shot rang out.
Aubrey ducked, fully expecting to feel the sharp sting of a bullet entering her back. When it didn’t, she gave everything she had left and ran faster. Her lungs burned, her muscles screamed, but she didn’t stop, didn’t slow until she entered the shadows of the trees.
Even then, she ran and leaped over small bushes and rotting logs. She’d come too far to give up now. The baby in her arms deserved to live. Aubrey had to stay alive to ensure the child’s survival.
Zigzagging through the trees, she debated dropping down behind a pile of brush, but the ATVs following her were getting too close. They’d see her pathetic attempt to hide and be on her immediately. She had to keep moving until she reached a point they wouldn’t see her when she dropped out of their line of sight.
Then she came to a barbed wire fence and stopped short of plowing into it with her arms wrapped around the baby. Her heart stopped for several beats. This could be the end of her race, or the break she was looking for.
She shoved the baby between two strands of wire and gently rolled her to the ground. Then Aubrey climbed between the wires, scooped up the baby and took off, hoping the trees on the other side would provide sufficient protection against flying bullets.
Shots rang out again, echoing off the tree trunks.
Hunkering as low as she could, Aubrey kept moving.
The roar of engines behind her faded.
For a moment, Aubrey thought the fence had stopped her attackers.
Then the engines revved again, the sound growing louder by the second. They’d managed to get past the barbed wire and were gaining on her and baby Marianna.
Almost out of energy, Aubrey broke through the other side of the stand of trees and ran out onto a paved road.
A single headlight blinded her.
She held up her free hand, shading her eyes from the glare.
Too exhausted to move another step she dropped to her knees, cupping the baby in her arms, shielding it with her back to the ATV riders and their guns. Her only hope was the driver of the vehicle barreling toward her. The men on the ATVs drove without lights, relying on the starlight to guide them.
Whoever was driving the motorcycle coming toward her had his light on and was on a highway. He could be with the others, but Aubrey took the chance that he wasn’t.
She waved her free arm. “Help!” she cried. “Please.”
