girl had been raised by monks.
Nettie had suspected Tiffany’s coming to Beartooth had something to do with a boy. Now she wondered if the girl had ever even had a boyfriend.
As she closed the drawer, she looked around the bedroom. Nothing personal in here, either. It seemed strange. But then, there was something strange about this girl. Nettie remembered the bulging shoulder bag. Did the girl take everything of a personal nature with her each time she left?
As she started past the double bed, she noticed that the comforter was a little crooked. She started to straighten it when her fingers brushed against something.
Bending down, she saw the corner of a sheet of paper, thick like a page from a sketchbook, sticking out from between the mattress and box springs.
Carefully she lifted the mattress. A half dozen sketches lay on top of the box springs. Nettie reached for them, surprised that they weren’t half bad. Also surprised that her renter might actually have been telling the truth about being an artist.
Told you so, Bob said in her head. Just goes to show you that you should have more trust in people.
Nettie wasn’t listening. Her hands were shaking as she looked from one sketch to the next.
They were all of the same person, she realized, heart pounding. Each captured an age-weathered face. But each stroke of the pencil seemed to add not only years, but something more sinister. The harsh lines made the face seem...menacing to the point of evil.
Every sketch was of Sheriff Frank Curry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I T WAS LATE BY THE TIME , Jack reached Beartooth. He’d ridden a few carnival rides, feeling like a kid again, then had a couple of beers with Carson, though Carson had soda. As much fun as he’d had, seeing Chantell had left him angry and frustrated. He knew damned well her father had wanted to get him out of her life. But how far would the man have gone?
Jack feared he knew. The timing of the rustling and the two-year prison sentence was too convenient. Judge Hyett had always come off as a man who felt he was above the law.
But how could Jack ever prove that the judge had anything to do with framing him? Hyett had power in this county because he was hard on criminals. The only way Jack had a chance in hell of connecting him to this was to find out who had done the old man’s dirty work. Judge Hyett was too smart to take a chance on any of this coming back on him. But who could the judge trust enough to frame Jack and never talk?
The thought hit Jack like a brick. Someone coming up for a sentence from his bench.
That was it. And if that person ever did tell the truth, Hyett could simply deny it. It would be his word against a known criminal.
Jack pulled into the spot in front of the cabin and cut his lights. Darkness closed in around him. Not even starlight bled down through the thick pines. He sat for a moment, thinking about what he’d just figured out. It felt right.
But if nobody would believe the truth, then what was the point of his sticking his neck out in an attempt to find it? Once he started digging around in the past, the judge could get word of it. He already suspected how far the judge would go just to get rid of him for a couple of years. Imagine what he’d do to protect himself. Jack knew he could easily end up back in prison—or worse.
He rubbed his forehead under the brim of his Stetson as he looked out at the darkness. Through the pines he could make out a light in the distance. The Branding Iron Café.
The thought of Kate LaFond did nothing to improve his mood. All day, he’d been mentally kicking himself for taking the note. He had let himself get involved when it was the last thing he needed. She’d made it perfectly clear she didn’t want or need his help. Whoever she was and whatever she was hiding, it wasn’t his problem.
But he would love a cup of coffee and piece of peach pie—and while he was at it, he’d return her note. He could just hear what his friend Carson
Nettie had suspected Tiffany’s coming to Beartooth had something to do with a boy. Now she wondered if the girl had ever even had a boyfriend.
As she closed the drawer, she looked around the bedroom. Nothing personal in here, either. It seemed strange. But then, there was something strange about this girl. Nettie remembered the bulging shoulder bag. Did the girl take everything of a personal nature with her each time she left?
As she started past the double bed, she noticed that the comforter was a little crooked. She started to straighten it when her fingers brushed against something.
Bending down, she saw the corner of a sheet of paper, thick like a page from a sketchbook, sticking out from between the mattress and box springs.
Carefully she lifted the mattress. A half dozen sketches lay on top of the box springs. Nettie reached for them, surprised that they weren’t half bad. Also surprised that her renter might actually have been telling the truth about being an artist.
Told you so, Bob said in her head. Just goes to show you that you should have more trust in people.
Nettie wasn’t listening. Her hands were shaking as she looked from one sketch to the next.
They were all of the same person, she realized, heart pounding. Each captured an age-weathered face. But each stroke of the pencil seemed to add not only years, but something more sinister. The harsh lines made the face seem...menacing to the point of evil.
Every sketch was of Sheriff Frank Curry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I T WAS LATE BY THE TIME , Jack reached Beartooth. He’d ridden a few carnival rides, feeling like a kid again, then had a couple of beers with Carson, though Carson had soda. As much fun as he’d had, seeing Chantell had left him angry and frustrated. He knew damned well her father had wanted to get him out of her life. But how far would the man have gone?
Jack feared he knew. The timing of the rustling and the two-year prison sentence was too convenient. Judge Hyett had always come off as a man who felt he was above the law.
But how could Jack ever prove that the judge had anything to do with framing him? Hyett had power in this county because he was hard on criminals. The only way Jack had a chance in hell of connecting him to this was to find out who had done the old man’s dirty work. Judge Hyett was too smart to take a chance on any of this coming back on him. But who could the judge trust enough to frame Jack and never talk?
The thought hit Jack like a brick. Someone coming up for a sentence from his bench.
That was it. And if that person ever did tell the truth, Hyett could simply deny it. It would be his word against a known criminal.
Jack pulled into the spot in front of the cabin and cut his lights. Darkness closed in around him. Not even starlight bled down through the thick pines. He sat for a moment, thinking about what he’d just figured out. It felt right.
But if nobody would believe the truth, then what was the point of his sticking his neck out in an attempt to find it? Once he started digging around in the past, the judge could get word of it. He already suspected how far the judge would go just to get rid of him for a couple of years. Imagine what he’d do to protect himself. Jack knew he could easily end up back in prison—or worse.
He rubbed his forehead under the brim of his Stetson as he looked out at the darkness. Through the pines he could make out a light in the distance. The Branding Iron Café.
The thought of Kate LaFond did nothing to improve his mood. All day, he’d been mentally kicking himself for taking the note. He had let himself get involved when it was the last thing he needed. She’d made it perfectly clear she didn’t want or need his help. Whoever she was and whatever she was hiding, it wasn’t his problem.
But he would love a cup of coffee and piece of peach pie—and while he was at it, he’d return her note. He could just hear what his friend Carson
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