He stood and shook her hand. “Deal.” He’d take her up on dinner in case he had more questions about Isabelle West. And because it was only day two, and he was already sick of pizza. And his team.
There were only five of them here, and his second-in-command was staying at a hotel across from the courthouse. They had a temporary office at the courthouse, but they were using the judge’s place as a base, so Tom had decided it was best for operations if he stayed on site. Good for operations, maybe, but not good for his mood. At least the room he was sleeping in had a door, and there was a kitchenette in the larger open area of the basement. He could microwave his beef Stroganoff and close his door while he looked into the mystery of the grumpy artist down the road. She probably wasn’t a threat, but he trusted his instincts enough to do a quick check.
But first he had two more miles of forest to check out and a few motion-sensitive cameras to test. Duty before mysterious artist. Or beef Stroganoff, unfortunately.
GOD, SHE HATED PEOPLE. Even living in a cabin in the Wyoming wilderness wasn’t far enough away to be rid of them. Here they were, seeping into her house through seams and crevices, like slime. Or sludge. Or a trail of annoying ants.
Isabelle groaned and let her head fall back onto the office chair wedged into the corner of her small living room. Her neck hurt from hunching over the computer for too many hours. It wasn’t a natural fit for her. The only things she used her laptop for were ordering supplies, shopping for books and looking at gorgeous men online.
But she’d spent last night and all of today clicking through link after link looking for a clue, any clue at all. She’d found nothing.
Marshal Tom Duncan was exactly who he said he was. No surprise there. And there were some articles about Judge Chandler and the security issues surrounding the trial of a survivalist who’d killed two state troopers. His brother had been involved in the shoot-out and hadn’t been seen since, but he’d sent a threatening letter just a week ago.
So there was a case in town that involved the marshals. There was a possible reason for Tom Duncan to be here. But she still wasn’t buying it. She knew how these people worked. He’d look into her life just for the fun of it. Just because he was in the neighborhood. And he wouldn’t give a damn about what it would do to her.
She hadn’t worked at all today. She’d stood in front of her current project, the biggest painting of the commission, and she’d done nothing but stare. Her hands had failed her. Her father was in her head again. Him and all the dangerous, lying men he’d brought into her world.
Now she was back at the computer, searching, searching. But there was nothing about her father there. Nothing but ancient newspaper articles and old court filings and everything she already knew. He’d thoroughly disappeared from the world. He hadn’t been seen in fourteen years. If they were after her again, it wasn’t because her father was back in the news.
So...what if Tom Duncan wasn’t lying?
“Right,” she huffed. They were always lying. All of them. She was vulnerable, so they’d play with her like a toy.
But there were such things as coincidences. There was a tiny possibility that a US marshal had shown up on her doorstep, and it had nothing to do with her father being a federal fugitive and Isabelle being an impostor. If that was true, she had to play it cool. Cautious and careful, but cool.
Isabelle stretched hard and pushed up from the chair. She’d found all she could online. Now she was chasing the same phantoms around and around. Tomorrow she’d paint even if she had to force it. But tonight she needed a shower. And a drink.
Forty-five minutes later, she twisted up her damp hair, shrugged on a thick coat and grabbed two bottles of wine. One for her and one for Jill. Tonight, Isabelle wasn’t sharing.
It was almost full dark by the time she set off, but she wasn’t worried. On the off chance that a murderer was actually hanging around, his interest wasn’t in Isabelle. The Stevenson family hated cops and judges, and a solitary woman with no family or connections wouldn’t make very good leverage if he decided to take hostages.
She trudged through the snow toward the bright glow of Jill’s house, not bothering to head for the road. The snow was deep here, but it was a straight shot, and she liked the lost feeling of wandering through the trees. The moon kept her company the whole way.
“I brought dinner,” she called, holding up the bottles as Jill opened the door.
“Oh, and here I bothered making a pork roast.”
“We can have that, too, if you want. It’s up to you.”
“Lush,” Jill said, ushering her in and taking her coat. “I’m just glad there’s someone around for me to eat with or I’d go crazy.”
“I’d say the same about drinking,” Isabelle said. She tugged off her boots with a sigh. “God, I’ve had a crappy day.”
“The painting isn’t going well?”
“I didn’t paint one damn stroke today.”
Jill opened the first bottle and poured two generous glasses. “Does that put you behind?”
“No, I was a little ahead of schedule. It just pisses me off.” She glanced around the kitchen, noticing the loaves of herbed bread cooling on the counter. “Uh-oh. You’re baking bread. A bad day for you, too?”
Jill arched a sour look over the tops of her reading glasses as she collapsed into the couch. Isabelle had never seen a couch in a kitchen before coming here, but Jill lived in this room, and it was big enough for the couch and the eight-person table that sat a few feet away.
She joined Jill and brought the rest of the wine for good measure.
“Well,” Jill sighed, “we’re officially seeing other people.”
Isabelle gasped before she could stop herself. “You did it?”
“I issued the ultimatum, and Marguerite took me up on it, so I’m not sure if I did it or she did.”
“Shit,” Isabelle whispered, taking Jill’s hand to give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry. So it’s over?”
“I told her I needed additional company if I couldn’t see her more than twice a year. I’m not saying it’s over, but... She chose to spend her last week of leave on her own. So I guess I’ll be seeing other women.”
Isabelle gently clinked her glass against Jill’s. “Back in the saddle?”
“If I still remember how to ride. Marguerite’s last visit was eight months ago.”
“You’re probably better off than I am,” Isabelle said drily.
“I don’t want to hear that bullshit. I’m a black lesbian living in Wyoming. You get no sympathy from me.”
Isabelle laughed until she snorted. “Okay, you’ve got me there. Then again, nobody’s forcing you to live in Wyoming.”
“No, but...” Jill waggled her eyebrows. “The flip side of that is I’m the only one around to fill the black-lesbian niche. Time to get back on the circuit.”
“All right. You’ll come out with me and Lauren for this week’s girls’ night out.”
Jill shook her head. “No. I’m too old for that.”
“Bullshit. You’re fifty-five. You’re hardly any older than I am.”
Jill howled. “Are you kidding me? You’re thirty-six. Imagine how much you’ve learned since the age of sixteen, and then double that for wisdom. That’s how close we are in