Odd Man Out. B.J. Daniels
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admit something was bothering him.”
“What?”
She shrugged and opened her car door. “If Pete finds out that I called you or that I suspect him—”
“Dammit, Maggie, tell me why you’re so frightened. It has to be more than a hunch and an old ripped photograph.”
She nodded, fighting more than grief. “That last week, Max was...afraid.”
J.D. had never known the man to be afraid of anything, or anybody—no matter how big or tough they were.
She slid into the front seat and shoved her hands into the pockets of Max’s hunting jacket. “He seemed to be looking over his shoulder as if—” She broke off and shivered. “As if something had come back to haunt him. He was obsessed with death and kept talking about his brother’s murder.”
J.D. fought the chill that stole up his spine. “Denny’s father?”
She nodded. “He felt responsible for encouraging Timothy to become a cop. He blamed himself for Timothy’s death.”
“Maggie, what does that have to do with Pete?” J.D. asked.
She shook her head as if to chase away the memories. “I haven’t told anyone this because I was afraid of what Pete would do,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The last time I saw Max, he was furious at Pete.” She bit her lip. “I’ve never seen Max like that. He said he had to stop Pete...before someone got killed.”
* * *
“I‘M SORRY ABOUT that reporter,” Pete said as they headed south toward the town of West Yellowstone. “Are you all right?”
Denver nodded, wondering if she’d ever be all right again. Leaning back in the seat, her hat in her lap, she watched the pines and snowfall blur by outside the window. Max dead. Murdered. It wasn’t possible. But worse yet were the rumors. She ran a finger through the water droplets beaded up on the brim of her hat, fighting the pain.
“You know, that woman was right...” Her voice broke. “People are saying that Max was dirty. That he’d gotten himself involved in something illegal.”
“Denver, why do you listen to it?” Pete demanded angrily. “You knew Max better than anyone. If your uncle had a fault, it was being too honest. Naively so.”
It wasn’t that she believed the rumors. She just couldn’t stand seeing Max’s named dragged through the dirt. But more than that, she knew the rumors were somehow tied in with the way Max had been acting the past few weeks. Secretive. Something had been bothering him. And Denver felt that if she knew what it was, she’d know who killed him.
“He’s gone, Denver,” Pete said, taking her hand as if he could read her thoughts. “As much as we both hate it, he’s gone. Leave it alone.”
Concentrating on the click-clack of the wipers, she closed her eyes. Now wasn’t the time to let grief blind her, not when there was something much more important that had to be done—no matter what Pete said.
“I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at my place and didn’t go back out to the cabin tonight,” he said.
Denver opened her eyes, tempted to take him up on it. Since Max’s death, she’d been having the nightmare again. “Thanks, but the cabin’s home and I need that right now.”
Pete’s look reflected a mixture of annoyance and worry. “I don’t like the idea of your being out there alone. It’s too deserted this time of year.”
“You know how I feel about the lake. I love this time of year because it’s quiet out there.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
“I wish you’d change your mind.” He sounded angry.
And she wondered if he was talking about her staying at his place or about the argument they’d had earlier.
“I swear, sometimes you’re as stubborn as—”
“As Max?” she asked. Max McCallahan had given stubborn a new definition.
Pete’s smile faded. “Yeah. Max.” She could see him fighting painful emotions as he turned on the radio. Intermittent snow flurries, the newsman said. A slow, sad Western song came on. Pete took her hand. “I just worry about you.”
“I know.” She smiled, feeling the familiar tenderness she’d felt for him since they were kids. Pete, Denver and J.D. Max had called them the Terrible Trio because of all the trouble they’d gotten into. Pete and J.D. had been the older brothers she’d never had; now Pete was her best friend. She chastised herself for arguing with him earlier; he was just trying to protect her the way he always had.
She studied him, forgetting sometimes how good-looking he was—tall, handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair, and capable of being utterly charming. If only she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. Instead of J.D.
Another song came on the radio. Denver saw Pete tense and her own heart lurched as it always did when J. D. Garrison’s voice filled the airways. “Number ten on the country and western chart and climbing,” the radio announcer cut in. “Our own J. D. Garrison with his latest hit, ‘Old Friends and Enemies.’”
Pete snapped off the radio. “I can’t believe he didn’t make the funeral.”
Just the thought of J.D. brought back the hurt and disappointment. In her foolish heart, she’d always believed J.D. would come home if she or Max ever needed him. Well, they’d needed him. And he hadn’t come.
“I doubt J.D. can just drop everything at a moment’s notice,” she heard herself say. “Maybe he didn’t get the message you left him.”
Pete shot her a look. “Still making excuses for him?”
She looked away. Loving J.D. had always been both pleasure and pain. And all one-sided. J.D. had never seen her as anything more than a kid. But sometimes his gaze had met hers and— And then he’d ruffle her hair or throw her into the lake. No, he’d never taken her seriously, even when she’d promised him her heart. Instead, he’d teased her. Just a schoolgirl crush. Puppy love. She’d get over it.
He’d been gone nine years, but she still saw his ghost lounging on the sandy beach beside the lake, heard his laugh on the breeze that swept across the water and felt his touch on a hot summer’s night as she stood on the dock, unable to sleep. She’d just never met anyone who made her feel like J.D. had.
But if J. D. Garrison were here right now, she’d wring his neck. For missing Max’s funeral. For breaking a young girl’s heart. For still haunting her thoughts.
It began to snow harder as they dropped down to the Madison River. A soft mist rose from the water, cloaking the bridge in a veil of white fog and driving snow. A local teenage superstition prophesied that if you didn’t honk as you crossed the bridge you’d be in for bad luck. Pete didn’t believe in superstitions. “You make your own luck,” he’d always said. Denver honked, partly out of superstition, partly out of tradition; J.D. had never crossed the bridge without honking.
As they crossed the bridge, Pete didn’t honk. The snow fell in a thick, hypnotizing wall of white in front of the pickup. Denver realized she could barely make out the Madison Arm sign as they passed it. She glanced in the side mirror and was startled to see a huge semitrailer barreling down on them.
“Pete?” Her voice cracked. Her heart caught in her throat. “Pete!” He looked back, his eyes widening as he saw it. At the last moment, the truck swerved into the passing lane. Denver thought it would head on around them, but instead, she realized with growing horror, the truck was edging over into their lane.
“Son of a—” Pete yelled.
Denver could see the huge semitrailer wheels right next to them. A scream lodged in her throat; the truck would either force them off the road or—
Pete