“No. It was nice talking to him. But that ship sailed a long time ago.”
“Don’t say that,” Annabelle cut in as she slid behind the wheel and started the motor. “Look at me and Dawson. I left him even when he worked so hard to buy me an engagement ring and roses to ask me to marry him. I thought he’d never forgive me. He said I broke his heart.” Her voice cracked with emotion and tears flooded her blue eyes. “But we found our way back to each other.”
“I wonder why Justin didn’t marry Nici,” Chloe said.
“Who knows if they were even really engaged,” Annabelle said and scoffed. “That’s just what Nici said after they broke up. As far as I know that’s as close as she’s gotten to marriage.”
“Maybe she spends too much time in jail,” TJ joked.
“You two have certainly gotten caught up on local gossip,” Chloe said. Thinking of Nici made her uncomfortable. The woman was her own worst enemy. But weren’t they all that way sometimes?
“So are you going to tell us what is going on with you?” TJ asked as she buckled her seat belt and looked at Chloe in her side mirror.
“Why?” Annabelle said. “What’s going on with Chloe?” She shot a questioning look in the rearview mirror at her oldest sister.
“I lost my job,” Chloe said, glad to have the secret out.
“What do you mean you ‘lost it’?” TJ said.
“I was laid off with a bunch of others.” She looked out the window as Annabelle drove through the small western town of Whitehorse. It wasn’t that long ago that she was here for her grandmother’s funeral. Before that, she’d seldom returned except for quick visits. Like her sisters she’d wanted to conquer the world—far from Whitehorse, Montana.
Annabelle had become a supermodel with her face on the covers of magazines—until recently giving it up to be with her old high school boyfriend, rancher Dawson Rogers. The two were perfect for each other. Chloe wondered why it had taken her sister so long to realize it.
As for TJ, she’d become a New York Times bestselling author who also only recently left the big city life after falling in love. She now lived in a tiny cabin in the woods until she and her fiancé could get a larger place built up in the Little Rockies.
Chloe had become an investigative journalist and had worked her way up through bigger papers until she’d found herself working for one of the largest in Southern California. But with the way print newspapers were going recently, she’d been laid off with a dozen others and the thought of looking for another newspaper job... She said as much to her sisters.
“I’m so sorry,” Annabelle said. “What are you going to do?”
Chloe let out a bark of a laugh. “I have no idea. I have enough money saved that I don’t have to worry about it for a while.”
“You can stay in grandmother’s house as long as you want,” Annabelle said.
Grandmother’s house. She had to smile at that. Their grandmother Frannie had left the house to only Annabelle, which had caused friction between them but ultimately brought them together.
“It’s funny how things work out,” she said as her sister pulled up in front of the house in question. Annabelle, with help from friends, had refurbished the house. It did have a feeling of home, Chloe had to admit, since the three of them were raised in this house. It was a large two-story with four bedrooms, two up and two down. It sat among large old cottonwoods and backed to the Milk River in an area affectionately called “Millionaire’s Row.”
Not that any houses in Whitehorse were even close to a million. The homes were conservative like the rural people who lived in the area. And right now, Chloe had to admit, the town looked almost charming with its mantle of fresh snow and holiday lights.
“Would you mind if I borrowed your SUV?” Chloe asked as her sister pulled up into the driveway of their grandmother’s house. “There’s somewhere I need to go.”
* * *
JUSTIN DROVE ACROSS eastern Montana trying to imagine the rolling prairie landscape when thousands of buffalo roamed the area. Unfortunately, they’d all been killed off. He’d seen photos of their bones stacked in huge piles next to the railroad at Whitehorse.
His great-great-grandfather had been on one of the original cattle drives that brought longhorns to the area from Texas. He’d heard about how lush the grass was back then. His father’s family had settled the land, giving birth to the Calhoun Cattle Company. He still got a lump in this throat when he thought about his legacy.
It hadn’t been easy to give it up and simply walk away. Kind of like ripping out his heart. He loved the land, the ranch history, the feeling of being a part of something bigger than himself. He’d always felt more of a kinship with the ranch than his brother had—not that their father noticed.
So he’d left, since his heart had already been decimated over his brother’s death—and his father’s accusations. Now all that grief and regret had settled in his chest like a weight he couldn’t throw off. Five years had done little to lessen the pain. But he had grown up in that time. He was his own man now, something he could have never been with his older brother constantly reminding him that he was the little brother, the one his father didn’t put his faith or his love into.
By early afternoon he looked up to see Whitehorse, the tall grain bins next to the railroad silhouetted against the winter sky. He slowed his pickup, wanting to take it all in. Memories, both good and bad, assailed him. Home.
He took a deep breath, telling himself he was going to settle things once and for all, starting with the people he’d hurt.
* * *
THE MILK RIVER COURIER, the town’s only newspaper, was lodged in a small brick building along the main road. Chloe felt a rush of excitement as she pushed open the door. Being an investigative reporter was in her blood. She loved digging for information and couldn’t wait to get into the newspaper’s archives.
The smell of ink and paper filled her nostrils, the sound of clicking keyboards like music to her ears. It was early in the week so the small staff was busy trying to put together the weekly edition. She was led to the archives where she settled in, determined to find out what she could.
Chloe reread the first story about Andrew “Drew” Calhoun’s death. It was short and clearly had little more information in it than what she’d found on the sheriff’s blog that had also run in the paper.
Drew was found dead at 11:22 p.m. on that Saturday night. He’d been shot. It was unclear by whom. He was pronounced dead by the coroner at the scene. The investigation was continuing.
She read through what few stories followed, realizing that no one from the paper had gotten anywhere if they’d even tried to investigate the death. This was a small town and Bert Calhoun was a wealthy rancher. The paper had let the story die. It didn’t take long to realize little information had become public. The small weekly printed what was called the cop reports, but didn’t dig any deeper so skimmed only the surface of the news.
Chloe didn’t blame the staff. She understood, because even with larger newspapers there were some situations that were touchy. She’d always had trouble treading lightly. Like now. She wanted answers and she realized there was only one place to go. She couldn’t bear the idea that Justin had been blamed for his brother’s death—even if he’d never been arrested for it. She had to know the truth. It was inherent in her DNA. And this was Justin. The cowboy she’d shared that one amazing winter kiss with all those years ago. A girl didn’t forget things like that.
* * *
JUSTIN FOUND THE Kent house without any trouble. It was a large old three-story wooden structure that needed paint and the porch fixed. It looked exactly as he remembered