Montana Midwife. Cassie Miles
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step. “Let’s talk to your sister, and then we can decide who to call.”
Together, they returned to the Jeep where Misty leaned against the front bumper with her arms cradling her belly. Clinton stood beside her. He’d slapped his cowboy hat onto his head, almost covering the gauze bandage that Tab had applied.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Clinton said. “I should have protected my girl. But I was out cold.”
“And you didn’t see anything,” Aiden said.
“No, sir.”
He turned to his sister. “I’m guessing that you were attacked. Maybe this guy—”
“David Welling.” There was a hitch in her voice. “His name is David Welling.”
“Okay, David Welling came at you, maybe he—”
“I can’t believe he’s dead.”
“Calm down, sweetie. Take a nice, slow, deep breath.” He waited until she’d composed herself before he continued, “It’s not your fault. You had to shoot David in self-defense.”
“I didn’t shoot anybody.” She shook her head, and her curly blond hair whipped across her face. “I never would shoot anybody.”
Aiden exchanged a glance with Tab. She’d warned him that his sister’s story was complicated. “Take your time, Misty. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I was waiting for Tab. I heard a noise over by the river, and I got my rifle out of the back of the Jeep. I was scared that somebody might come after us. Poor Clinton was unconscious, and I couldn’t let anybody hurt him.”
“Whoa,” Clinton said. “I’m not helpless. I could’ve got to my feet and taken care of you.”
Aiden held up his hand, signaling Clinton to stop. “I’m listening to Misty, now.”
She continued, “As soon as I got a little bit closer—”
“Did you take the rifle with you?”
“I left it right here.” She pointed to the front bumper. “I figured that if I needed it, I could run back and grab it real quick.”
“But I thought you were trying to protect Clinton?”
She tapped her foot. “Do you want to hear this, or not, Aiden?”
Understanding her motivations was like asking a chicken why it pecked in the dirt. “Go on.”
“I recognized David. I dated him before he graduated high school and moved away from Henley.”
As far as Aiden could tell, she’d dated most of the male population of Henley High, which made it even more astounding that she’d ended up with a pea brain like Clinton. “Is this David Welling any relation to Bert Welling who runs a gas station in Henley?”
“Bert is his uncle,” Misty said. “David used to pump gas for Bert before he moved to Billings with his dad. Anyway, when I saw him standing there in the clearing, I said hi. And he said I shouldn’t be here, and I told him that we were stuck, and he said I needed to get away from here, to get the hell away from here.”
Her eyes welled up with tears. “Then I heard the shots. David grabbed his chest and fell down. And there was blood. Oh my God, there was a lot of blood.”
“Did you see who shot him?”
“I hit the dirt. I thought they were shooting at me. I covered my head and I thought about my baby. I couldn’t let anything bad happen to my baby, I just couldn’t.”
Her hands flew up to cover her face as heavy sobs shook her shoulders. For once, Clinton did the right thing, stepping forward to comfort her and hold her against his chest. His protective attitude made Aiden wonder if there was something Misty had left out of her story.
Clinton might have been the shooter. Misty could be claiming responsibility to keep her boyfriend from being a suspect. But that didn’t make sense. A self-defense plea worked just as well for Clinton as for Misty. Aiden doubted that either one of them would be charged with murder … except for one hitch. The victim appeared to be unarmed.
As Misty’s sobs abated, Aiden asked, “Why was your rifle in the clearing?”
“I ran back to get it, but the gun wasn’t where I left it.”
“Where was it?”
“Right about here.” She pointed to a clump of sagebrush that was about twenty yards from the clearing. “I could tell it had been fired.”
“Are you saying that the killer used your rifle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“He must have run off.”
Or maybe he turned invisible. Aiden was getting more and more frustrated with her story. “How long between when you heard the shot and ran back to get the rifle?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think, Misty.”
Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Don’t be so mean to me.”
“I can help,” Tab said. “When I heard the first shot, I was on the other side of those hills. It took five or six minutes before I got to the crest and could see the Jeep. Clinton was unconscious in the backseat. I fired a warning shot in the air to scare off anybody who might be hanging around.”
“I shot back,” Misty said. “I didn’t aim at anything. I was just shooting in the air. Twice.”
Aiden fitted the pieces together. According to his sister, a mysterious shooter had killed David Welling using her rifle, and then disappeared within five minutes. He gauged the distance from where she found the rifle to the trees and shrubs that bordered the river. Though it was possible that the killer could make that dash, it was unlikely. Why use Misty’s rifle? Why choose this particular moment to kill David Welling? And what was Welling doing out here in the first place?
After patting his sister on the arm and offering reassurances that he hoped weren’t empty, Aiden pulled Tab to one side. His senses registered the clean fragrance of her shampoo and the warmth that emanated from her body, but he kept his mind trained on the problem at hand.
“You’re right,” he said to Tab. “This investigation is beyond the resources of the tribal police. But we still need to contact Joseph Lefthand.”
“I’m not sure of the procedure,” she said.
He explained. First, they needed to notify tribal police of a crime committed on their land. In most cases, the Crow were happy to pass on the problem and cede jurisdiction through an agent of the federal government, namely someone from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Then the county sheriff would take over.
“I hope the sheriff can get started with his investigation before dark.” She looked toward the sun sinking in the west. “There might be footprints from the gunman. Or evidence of his vehicle.”
“If Misty’s story is accurate,” he said, “ballistics will show that the bullets came from her rifle.”
“There might be fingerprints.”
“In addition to Misty’s prints.” She’d already said that she fired the gun and would, therefore, have gunshot residue on her clothes.
He wished that his sister had come up with a more convincing story—something about how David Welling attacked her, and she was forced to defend herself. The idea of a murderer who could appear out of nowhere and vanish in the blink of an eye was improbable. It sounded like a lie. And lying made Misty look as if she had something to hide.
If this investigation went wrong, it was entirely possible that his sister would be delivering her baby in jail.