Redemption. B.J. Daniels
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there, but someone inside the café had been blocking her view. With a start, she’d recognized that broad back.
Sheriff Frank Curry had stood with his back to the window, talking to the group of men. A moment later he’d stepped out of view.
The girl had turned then, clearly startled to find Nettie right behind her. “I’ll take the apartment. That is, if you’ll rent it to me. I hope you will.” There had been that desperation in her tone again.
Nettie had told herself that it didn’t matter why the girl was so set on renting the place. It wasn’t as if anyone else had been around offering to rent it. Let the girl have it. She’d planned to require references but figured this was the girl’s first apartment, so what was the point? Anyway, it would be her parents who would be footing the bill.
“I’ll need your name, address and a phone number in case of an emergency,” Nettie had said, handing the girl a piece of paper and a pen. She’d watched her quickly jot down the information, then pull out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.
“You did say you would take cash for first and last month’s rent, plus six months’ rent deposit, right?” the girl had asked, looking worried.
It must have been because of Nettie’s surprised expression. “Sure, cash is great,” she’d said as the girl had counted out bills and handed them over, along with her information.
“You sure you didn’t rob a bank?” Nettie had asked in jest as she took the money.
“I cashed in one of my stocks.”
One of her stocks? “Well, I hope you enjoy the apartment....” Nettie looked down at the sheet of paper the girl had handed her and read the name. “Tiffany Chandler.”
“I will. It’s perfect,” the girl had said again before returning to the front window.
Nettie’d had a sneaking suspicion even then that it wasn’t art—but someone in the café across the street—that had made the apartment so perfect.
* * *
AFTER HIS TALK with Kate, Frank stood for a few moments on the broken sidewalk. The spring sun felt warm and smelled of pine and water from the nearby creek.
He turned his face up to the warmth and closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scents and enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. His mind, though, mulled over what he’d learned.
According to Tucker, the man had described Kate and known she was running the café. No mistaken identity. But the man apparently hadn’t asked for her by name, so maybe he did have the wrong woman. Maybe.
As Frank opened his eyes, he was startled to see a face framed in the upstairs window of the general store. He felt a jolt, not used to seeing anyone up there, let alone a waif of a girl.
She looked ghostly, so pale, with straight blond hair that appeared almost white in the morning light. She was wearing a pale colored top that seemed to shimmer in the breeze from the open window. As if she’d spotted him watching her, she faded back from the window—gone in the blink of an eye, almost as if she’d never been there at all.
“Nettie’s new renter,” he said under his breath, surprised by the turn the girl had given him. Nettie had certainly rented the place quickly. It had only been the other day that he’d noticed the sign in the store window.
He thought about walking across the street to the store, but he didn’t want Nettie thinking he was worried about her—or her new renter.
Also, he was anxious to talk to Jack French. He’d called out to the W Bar G and learned that Jack had the day off but had been out to the ranch and was on his way back into Beartooth.
He thought about when he’d questioned Jack about the horsehair hitched rope from the murder scene. Of course there was no reason Jack would connect the man he’d chased off down the alley the night before—with the murder weapon, right?
* * *
JACK HAD JUST driven up in front of his cabin when he saw the sheriff sitting in the shade of his porch.
He felt that old sinking feeling he always did at the sight of a lawman. Maybe that too was genetic.
While in prison he’d learned that crime and violence ran in some families. He knew he should feel lucky that it was only trouble that coursed through his DNA. But then maybe trouble was like a gateway drug, and violence was only one misstep away.
Either way, he had a sheriff sitting on his porch waiting for him.
He shut off the engine and climbed out of his pickup. “Howdy, Sheriff,” he said. “Glad to see you made yourself comfortable.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Nope, sure don’t,” Jack said as he climbed the steps. Too late, he thought about the note in his pocket, the one he’d sneaked out of Kate’s discarded apron. If it was found on him— “Can I get you a cold one?”
He wasn’t surprised when the sheriff shook his head. “Just need a few minutes of your time. The fair opens today. I would imagine that like everyone else in the county, you’re headed there.”
Jack nodded and leaned against the porch rail. He was too antsy to sit. He hadn’t forgotten being hauled off to jail by the sheriff in the wee hours of the morning two years ago for something he hadn’t done. He didn’t need to remind himself that it could happen again. Innocent men really did get arrested sometimes and sent to prison.
“You want to take this inside?” he asked the sheriff.
“Out here is fine. It’s such a beautiful day.”
Wasn’t it, though? Jack wanted to say, “Get on with it,” but he held his tongue. The old Jack French wouldn’t have been able to.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen today’s newspaper or not,” the sheriff said and reached into his jacket pocket.
What the hell? Jack thought. How long was this going to drag out? He reached for the paper, unrolled it and stiffened as he glanced at the sketch of the man he’d seen the other night in the alley.
He could feel the sheriff’s gaze on him. “Recognize him?”
Frank Curry wouldn’t be sitting on his porch unless he knew that Jack did.
“This is the man who was bothering Kate LaFond a few nights ago in the alley by the café,” Jack said, and he saw the sheriff sit up a little in the old rocker.
“I understand you hit him.”
“Only after I heard him hit the woman. I didn’t know who she was. It was my first night back and I really didn’t want to get involved, but...” He shrugged.
“She said she wasn’t very gracious about you coming to her rescue.”
Jack smiled at that.
“You didn’t know the man from prison?”
He thought of the hitched rope the sheriff had shown him with the blood on it. “Never seen him before in my life. This the man I heard was found down by the river?”
“Murdered,” Frank said.
That didn’t come as a surprise, given the blood on the rope.
“So you never crossed paths until a few nights ago,” the sheriff said.
“Nope.”
Frank got to his feet. “Remember that horsehair hitched rope I showed you? You said Montana State Prison’s cons hadn’t hitched it.”
Jack waited.
“You were right. I checked. Seems only four prisons in the West are known for hitching horsehair. Deer Lodge, Montana; Yuma, Arizona; Walla Walla, Washington; and Rawlins, Wyoming. Each one has its own designs and colors. I’m thinking it might be from the Yuma prison. But I suspect you probably