Rylan was in the process of getting a home built for them. The W Bar G and the West Ranch, where Rylan worked with his father, adjoined, so they were building on a site in the middle.
“You two aren’t trying to line Carson up, are you?” Jack asked, seeing that they were.
“Lisa Anne Clausen has had a crush on him since grade school,” Destry said and crossed her fingers. “They’d be good together.”
Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure Carson is ready. Just saying...”
Carson seemed to be doing fine, though, Jack thought as he drove toward Beartooth and his cabin. It made him proud that his friend was finally taking responsibility for himself and his actions. It was his gambling and the murder charge that had made W. T.
Grant cut his son from the will. Carson got to live in the big house as long as he was employed. Fortunately, he seemed to have taken to ranching after years of fighting it.
The long days on the W Bar G had also kept Jack out of trouble and away from the Branding Iron Café. Which meant he hadn’t seen Kate LaFond again. But he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. As he pulled up in front of his cabin, it was early, but he was tired and couldn’t wait to lie down and put his boots up.
The knock at his door what seemed to be only a few minutes later brought him out of a deep sleep. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He’d come into the cabin and collapsed on the bed still fully dressed after the long day in the saddle.
He rose now and padded to the door, thinking Carson must have stopped by for some reason.
When he saw the sheriff darkening his doorway, Jack felt that old, familiar fear he’d grown up with. The law at your door was never a good thing.
“Sheriff Curry,” he said, fighting to fully wake up. Whatever the sheriff wanted, Jack figured he needed his wits about him. “Is there a problem?”
“Sorry if I woke you,” the sheriff apologized.
“Been working spring roundup,” he said, but figured the sheriff probably knew that. Sheriffs tended to keep track of ex-cons, and Frank Curry had watched him grow up so probably took a special interest.
“I heard you’re on the W Bar G now.” Frank pulled off his hat. “Just need a minute of your time, Jack. I’ve got something here I was hoping you might be able to help me with. Mind if I come in for a moment?”
Jack stepped back, wondering what the hell this was about. He turned on another lamp and offered the sheriff a seat.
“I won’t be staying that long. If you’d just take a look at this...” He pulled a plastic bag out of his jacket pocket. Inside was a coiled thin rope. Even from a distance, Jack could tell it was hitched out of horsehair. He’d watched enough of the inmates at Deer Lodge making everything from reins and ropes to belts and hatbands.
Hitching involved twisting three or four strands of dyed horsehair into what were known as pulls. The pulls were used with cotton cord and a wood or metal rod to hitch the horsehair in a circular pattern. A series of hitches created a variety of colorful patterns, most commonly diamonds and spirals.
What amazed Jack was how long it took—a couple of hours to do only an inch of hitching. When finished, the cord or rod was removed. The item was then soaked in water and clamped between two heavy plates of steel to dry.
A lot of the inmates sold what they made, getting as much as four to eight thousand dollars for bridles. Belts, hatbands and quirts were cheaper, because they were faster to make.
“Do you recognize the pattern?” the sheriff asked. “Is it one from Montana State Prison?”
Jack took the bag and held it under the lamplight. The colors were brighter and the pattern different from ones he’d seen in prison. “It’s not from Deer Lodge,” he said and handed it back. “At least it isn’t like any I saw up there.”
The sheriff nodded. He put the bag back in his pocket. “You do any hitching while you were up there?”
Jack laughed. “I was working the prison ranch, so I kept plenty busy. I’ve watched a lot of guys hitch, though. Takes more patience than I have.”
“Well, thanks for your time.” He started to leave, but stopped and turned. “Oh, by the way, while you were up at the state pen, did you happen to run across Cullen Ackermann?”
The infamous Ackermann. The sheriff had asked the question casually enough, but it still put Jack on guard. “I made a point of staying away from crazy old cons—especially that one.”
Frank Curry nodded. “Was he still preaching revolution and the Armageddon of this country as we know it?”
Jack nodded, a little surprised by the sheriff’s interest. But, then again, Cullen Ackermann was Beartooth’s most infamous charismatic crazy, even though he’d never been considered a true local since he wasn’t born here.
“I suppose he found an audience up there before he died,” Frank said.
“He definitely had his followers in prison,” Jack said. “Young, anti-government wannabe survivalists were big fans of his. A few of them bought into what he was selling.” To fill the silence that followed, he added, “I think most of them were more interested in Ackermann’s cache of gold he allegedly hid before he got sent up.”
“That tale still circulating, huh?” The sheriff shook his head and looked as if he wanted to ask more, but apparently changed his mind. “Well, you have a nice night.”
Jack followed him out onto the small porch in front of the cabin and watched until the patrol pickup headed toward Big Timber, then he went back inside. He hadn’t asked where the sheriff had gotten the rope or why he wanted Jack’s opinion on the hitching pattern. Nor had he asked about the dried blood that stained the horsehair in the evidence bag.
Jack had learned a long time ago not to ask questions where he didn’t want to know the answers.
* * *
NETTIE WAS STOCKING groceries, trying to keep her mind off what the sheriff had shown her, when the girl came into the store. It had taken Nettie a few moments to get to her feet from down on her knees. Most of the time, she didn’t feel her age—it was easy to tell herself that she didn’t feel a day over thirty.
That was, until she tried to get up from where she’d been sitting on the floor and her body reminded her that she was hugging sixty. It was an odd feeling. Her life had always been ahead of her. Now most of it was behind her.
The girl had stopped just inside the door and turned to look out the front window. She was a skinny little thing with long, pale blond hair that fell most of the way down her back.
As if deep in thought, the girl didn’t seem to hear Nettie’s approach. Which, of course, made Nettie wonder what she found so interesting out the window.
Looking past her, Nettie followed the girl’s gaze to where three men stood talking in front of the post office up the street. She recognized two local ranchers. The third man was Sheriff Frank Curry.
“Can I help you?”
The girl jumped and spun around, eyes wide. She was pretty, with big, dark eyes, and older than Nettie had first thought, still somewhere in her late teens, though.
“I’m sorry,” Nettie said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” But she had, and badly.
It took a moment for the girl to catch her breath and speak. “I’m here about the apartment?”
Nettie studied her. She’d hoped to get a man, preferably one who could watch the place. With her house on the mountain behind the store, Nettie lived far enough away that she wouldn’t hear if the store was being burglarized