Atonement. B.J. Daniels
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say what my brother took that you were hoping I was bringing back, along with your fiancée’s ring,” Dillon said to the man’s back as Halbrook poured himself a drink and took a gulp from the crystal glass. The alcohol seemed to fortify him.
“And you didn’t say why you’re really here, if you weren’t even sure your brother worked here or not,” the rancher said without turning around.
“Luke Blackwell.”
Halbrook turned slowly and raised a brow. “I didn’t know we were talking about Luke.”
“You offered Luke a job when he got out of prison,” Dillon said. “You were instrumental in getting him out.”
“I like to help a man who wants to change.” The rancher shrugged and poured himself another drink. “He also apparently lied when he vouched for your brother.” Dillon noticed that the man’s hands were shaking, but not from fear or nervousness. Halbrook Truman was furious.
“Luke doesn’t still work for you?”
Halbrook laughed in answer.
“When did my brother and Luke leave your employ?”
The rancher pretended to give that some thought. “Let’s see. I’d say it was in the middle of the night the first part of February a year ago, as I recall. I found my safe open and empty the next morning and my fiancée, Ashley, gone, along with some of my hired hands.”
“You called the sheriff?”
The man’s expression darkened. “It was a personal matter.”
Dillon didn’t like the sound of that, given that Ethan had allegedly died in a car accident a month after leaving this ranch. The wreck had been ruled an accident, since alcohol was involved. Dillon had had no reason to suspect anything. Until Tessa showed up. So who had been in that car? Who had really died that night?
He pulled out his notebook and pen. “If you could give me the name of the ranch hands who left with my brother...”
“I don’t see the point.”
“I need to find Ethan. One of the others might know where he is. Or I could talk to your current employees—”
“Luke Blackwell, Tom Grady and Buck Morgan. You want the name of my fiancée, too?” The alcohol seemed to have loosened his tongue. Or maybe he didn’t want Dillon talking to his employees. “Ashley Rene Clarkson.”
Dillon wrote down the names and asked, “Do you know where they went after they left here?”
The rancher cocked his head. “If I knew, I wouldn’t still be looking for them, now, would I?”
“You’re looking for them?”
Halbrook seemed to regret his words. He waved off the question with a dismissive sweep of his hand. “It’s no big deal. They took some money. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw you.”
He was lying. Dillon had seen the man’s fury. Halbrook Truman wasn’t a forgiving man. He thought of what Tessa had told him about the conversation she’d overheard with Ethan and some stranger. Had Halbrook hired a man to get back whatever the bunch of them had stolen?
“It would help if I knew what they’d taken,” he said. “If my brother owes you money—”
“I don’t need your money.” The rancher downed his second drink. He seemed calmer as he put down the glass. “I’m sorry, I would have offered you a drink but I’m assuming you’re on duty,” he said to Dillon. “And—” he turned to look at Tessa “—you’re—”
“I’m fine,” she said, her tone crisp. “But would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
“There’s one down the hall on the right. Help yourself,” Halbrook said, and watched Tessa until she disappeared around the corner. “That your doing?” His eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, she’s the one interested in finding your brother.” He laughed. “Ethan has been busy. Looks like you’d better hurry and find him.”
Dillon changed the subject, asking some general questions about the ranch while they waited. Halbrook was happy to talk about his “spread.” Apparently he hadn’t bragged about what he had to only Ethan. He was ready to brag to anyone who would listen.
“My great-grandfather made his fortune in the gold fields and started this ranch,” Halbrook boasted. “It has grown with each generation.”
“That’s a nice elk,” Dillon said, nodding to the mount over the fireplace.
“I killed him when I was twelve. One shot to the heart. Gutted him myself. Had to quarter him to get him back to the ranch. Scored four hundred on Boone and Crockett.” The man swelled with pride as he looked at the elk.
Dillon saw Tessa coming down the hallway. She looked pale. He feared coming here had been a mistake. Bringing her definitely had been. She didn’t need to hear more bad things about the father of her baby. He hated to even think how many ranchers his brother had ripped off or how many of them had a score to settle with Ethan.
At least now he had an inkling of why his brother might be on the run. Even on a good day, he suspected Halbrook Truman was a force to be reckoned with. What had Ethan stolen? Clearly something the rancher wanted back. Could it be the reason Ethan had faked his own death, if indeed that was what had happened?
Dillon had a bad feeling that he’d better find his brother before the rancher did.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ETHAN LAWSON WOKE in a cheap motel, hungover and depressed. He glanced toward the window. The curtains were closed, but through a thin space between them, he could see that it was too light outside. It was too quiet, too. Earlier he had been vaguely aware of vehicle engines starting, followed by a scraping sound.
He swore as he sat up. The motel room was hot, the window partially steamed over as he stood and walked to it to part the curtains. “Snow.” He cursed again. A good four inches had fallen overnight. What was he doing in this godforsaken country this time of year anyway?
As his head cleared, he remembered why he wasn’t down south in the desert. He let the curtain fall and turned, tempted to go back to bed. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and it would be dangerous to stay here any longer.
He moved into the bathroom, turned on the shower and while he waited for the water to warm, he relieved himself in the toilet. It was after he’d showered that he’d accidentally seen himself in the mirror over the sink. He’d known he probably looked the way he felt—terrible. But still, the image had been shocking.
A couple weeks’ growth of sandy-blond beard gave him a homeless appearance. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a haircut, as he ran his fingers through the curls at his neck. How long had it been since he’d even looked at himself in a mirror?
He let out a bitter laugh at the thought. He couldn’t even face himself, and with good reason. Forcing himself, he locked eyes with his image. They really were windows into the soul. What he saw broke his heart.
The irony didn’t escape him. Here he was trying so hard to stay alive, and part of him had already died. Those eyes looking out at him were those of a corpse.
“There is a faster way to kill yourself if you’re interested,” the barmaid had told him last night when he’d asked her to just leave the whiskey bottle. “I would think a cowboy like you would own a gun. Can’t afford a bullet?”
He’d chuckled. What did she know? Maybe he had a good reason to drink himself to death. That thought had made him take a drink straight from the bottle last night. But after that, he’d lost his taste for it and had left, angry and sick at heart.
Now he dressed and opened the motel room door, telling himself that he needed to pick up a razor and some shaving cream before the next motel. Maybe a pair of