The Maverick of Copper Creek (2 page)

Hawk's Wing, Wyoming
Present Day

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M
orning, Ash.” The fresh-faced banker looked like a high school junior, with wire-rimmed glasses and short-cropped hair. He offered a handshake before indicating the chair across from his desk.

“Jason.” Ash shook the young banker's hand and sat, setting his wide-brimmed hat on the chair beside him.

Ash MacKenzie had thought about dressing up for this meeting but decided against it, settling instead for a quick shower and shave. He'd been up before dawn and had already completed a couple of hours of ranch chores. Right now he just wanted to get this nasty business behind him before returning home to face the rest of the day in one round after another of back-breaking work. Work that would all be in vain if he couldn't persuade the bank to increase his loan so he could pay off his debtors, who were snapping at his heels.

“What can I do for you this morning, Ash?”

“I'm here to talk about extending my loan.”

The banker's eyes narrowed slightly. “Extending the length of the payback?”

Ash gave a quick shake of his head. “I'd like to borrow more money and have it added to the back end of my original loan.”

“You already owe fifty thousand. Why would you want more?”

Ash dug out the documents and passed them across the desk. “My taxes are due, and I just put a new roof on the barn. There was a leak in the irrigation system, flooding the south pasture, and the company that installed it for the prior owner refused to admit that they were at fault. The lowest bid I could get for the repair came to more than thirty thousand.”

The young banker blew out a breath. “Wow, Ash. Looks like you got yourself a whole ton of troubles.”

Ash had learned at his father's knee to never show fear. His tone was rock-steady. “I can handle them, Jason. I just need a quick infusion of cash, and a little time, and I'll be operating on all cylinders again.”

The young banker looked him in the eye. “I'm not authorized to handle something like this. I'll have to take it upstairs.”

Ash nodded, knowing that upstairs meant asking permission from Jason's father, Jason Collier III. The Collier family owned the only bank in this tiny town, and they treated every dollar like their own.

“I'd be happy to go with you and present my case.”

“That's not the way it's done.” Jason pushed back from his desk and walked to the door. “I might be a while.”

“Take your time.” Ash leaned back and stretched out his long legs, crossing his feet at the ankles, watching the young man's retreating back. Though he looked relaxed, it was only a façade. Inside, his muscles tensed as he thought about the importance of this request.

Since he'd left his family ranch all those years ago, his workload had doubled. But at least now, he was working to please nobody but himself. Though he missed his family with an ache around the heart that would never heal, he didn't miss his father's constantly finding fault with everything he attempted to do.

Mad might have believed that Bear just wanted the best for his sons, but to Ash's way of thinking, it simply meant that he would never be able to please his implacable, rock-headed father, no matter how hard he worked. Now, at least, he was no longer busting his hide for someone else. If he chose to spend his life working like a dog, he had the satisfaction of doing it for himself.

Oh, he'd had years of working on other men's ranches, while he saved every dollar and plotted and planned for his own future. But he had a good piece of land now, and a working ranch, and though his life was lonely without the comfort of family and friends, he was not only surviving but thriving.

He frowned. Not really thriving. More like just barely getting by. But at least he was doing it on his own terms. He just needed one more break, and he could be free of the dark memories of the past.

Ash's musings were interrupted with the return of the young banker.

He made his way to his desk without looking at Ash. “I'm sorry. The bank just can't take the risk of giving you any more money.”

Ash fought to keep his tone level. “I've made every payment on time. I never missed a single one. Besides, if I default, the bank holds my mortgage. The way I see it, you won't be risking a thing.”

“We're not in the business of owning ranch land.” Jason glanced at the documents before passing them back to Ash. “And from the looks of all this debt, you stand a very good chance of losing yours.”

“I'd stand a better chance of holding on if you'd extend my loan.”

The young man stood. “Sorry. I tried.”

“Mind if I talk to your father?”

“It was my father who said emphatically no.” Jason held the door, indicating an end to their meeting. “Unless you agree to ask your father to cosign the loan.”

And there it was, out in the open.

“You know how I feel about that.”

Jason nodded. “I know. I told my father you've already said you'd never ask your father to cosign.”

Without a word Ash left the bank and stalked to his truck. Once inside he turned off the radio and drove the entire distance in silence.

His father.

That was what it all came down to. Even here in Wyoming, it seemed, everyone knew Bear MacKenzie was good for the money. Hell, he could probably hand over a million dollars without even going to the bank. Petty cash for Bear MacKenzie. Chump change, he'd call it.

Ash swore. He'd rather lose the ranch and everything he'd worked for than ask his father for one red cent. It would be an admission of defeat. An admission that these past years had all been a mistake, and now he was ready to crawl home and become the good, docile son his father wanted.

His father. There was no pleasing Bear MacKenzie. Hadn't he spent half his life trying? That part of his life was over.

Come hell or high water he'd make it on his own, or move on and start over yet again, with nothing but the clothes on his back.

 

MacKenzie Ranch

 

Bear MacKenzie stood on the banks of Copper Creek, his all-terrain-vehicle idling nearby. For the third time he glanced at the threatening storm clouds and swore loudly before walking over and turning off the ignition. The sudden silence was a shock to the system until his ears caught the lowing of cattle, the buzz of insects, the chorus of birdsong. At any other time he would have taken a moment to enjoy the serenity of his land. For as far as the eye could see, this was all his. His little slice of the Scottish Highlands, where his ancestors had ruled. His heaven on earth.

But for now, he was simply annoyed at this waste of his precious time.

He kicked at a stone, sending it spiraling into the creek. While he studied the ripples on the surface, he felt a sudden prickling sensation at the base of his skull, like cold fingers on his spine. Or eyes watching him.

Before he could turn, the sound of a gunshot broke the stillness. Liquid fire seared his veins. His legs failed him and he dropped to the ground. Blood formed a dark, sticky pool around him.

While cattle and birds and insects continued their songs, the life of one man was slowly seeping away.

Willow MacKenzie stopped her pacing when she spotted headlights through the rain-spattered window.

“Finally. Bear had better have a good excuse for being this late for supper.” She patted her father-in-law's arm as she hurried past his wheelchair and through the mudroom to throw open the back door of the ranch house.

Instead of her husband, the man striding up the porch steps was Chief Ira Pettigrew, the tall, muscled head of the Copper Creek police force. A force that consisted of three men.

Ira's great-grandfather, Ingram Pettigrew, had been a legendary hunter and trapper in Montana, and he had been a bridge between the Blackfoot tribe of Native Americans and the homesteaders who'd settled the wilderness. Keeping the peace had become a way of life for the men who followed, including Ira's father, Inness, and now, Ira. The father of four, Ira had worked for the state police as a trained marksman before accepting the position of police chief in his hometown. Ira knew every square mile of land in his jurisdiction, and he zealously guarded the people who lived there.

Willow managed a smile, despite the tiny shiver of apprehension that threaded along her spine. “Ira. What brings you out here on a night like this?”

Instead of replying, he whipped his hat from his head and took a moment to hang it on a hook by the door, watching it drip a stream of water on the floor, before laying a hand on hers. “I've got some news, Willow.”

He shut the door and led her past the rows of cowboy hats, parkas, and sturdy boots, and into the kitchen. With a nod toward Maddock MacKenzie, he indicated the high-backed kitchen chair beside Mad's wheelchair. “Sit down, please, Willow.”

She was about to protest, until she caught a glimpse of the tight, angry look on the police chief's face. Woodenly she sat, stiff-backed, suddenly afraid.

The door was shoved open, and Whit MacKenzie and Brady Storm blew in, shaking rain from their wide-brimmed hats and hanging them on hooks before prying off their mud-caked boots and jackets.

When they spotted the police chief, both men paused.

“Hey, Ira.” Whit stepped into the kitchen ahead of Brady.

“Where're you coming from so late?” Ira words were not so much a question as a sharp demand.

Whit frowned at the impertinence of it. “Checking the herd like always.”

“And you, Brady?”

The foreman nodded toward Whit. “With him.”

“Which pasture?”

Catching the note of tension in the chief's voice, Whit bristled slightly. “North pasture, Ira. What's this about?”

“It's about my reason for this visit.” Chief Pettigrew turned his full attention on Willow.

At fifty-one she was still the tall, graceful model she'd been at Montana State, when she'd turned the head of every boy and man on campus, until Bear MacKenzie, ten years her senior and already a seasoned rancher, had claimed her for his own. From the moment he'd set eyes on her, Bear had been head-over-heels smitten, and determined to make her his wife. And who could blame him? Thirty years later she was reed-slender, with a dancer's legs and muscles toned from years of ranch work. With that mane of fine blonde hair and green eyes, even in faded denims and a soiled cotton shirt, and without a lick of makeup, she was still the prettiest woman in town.

“I'm sorry to tell you this, Willow, but Bear's been shot.”

“Shot. My God.” She was up and darting past him when his hand whipped out, stopping her in midstride.

“Hold on, Willow.”

“No. I have to go to him. Where is he, Ira? Did you send for an ambulance?”

“No need.” He put his hands on her shoulders and very firmly pressed her back down to the chair. “Willow, honey, you have to listen to me now. There's no easy way to tell you this. Bear's dead.”

Time stopped. The utter silence in the room was shattering. No one spoke. No one even seemed to be breathing.

The four faces looking at the police chief revealed a range of intense emotions. Shock. Fury. Denial. And in Maddock MacKenzie's eyes, a grief over the loss of his only son that was too deep for tears.

Except for Willow's hiss of breath, nobody spoke. Nobody moved. They seemed frozen in disbelief.

“How?” This from Bear's son, Whit.

“A bullet to the back.”

“Where?” Brady Storm's hand clenched and unclenched, itching to lash out in retaliation.

“On the banks of Copper Creek. North ridge.”

“How long ago?” Maddock demanded.

“Couple of hours at least.” Ira didn't bother to go into detail about the temperature of the body, or the tests that would be run in the medical examiner's lab in Great Falls, or the amount of days or weeks that would be needed to determine the exact time of death. Copper Creek was too far away from the facilities afforded by big cities. Ira and his three deputies had learned to take care of their own needs. When they couldn't, they knew how to wait. And wait. Small-town crimes in the middle of cattle country were low priority for big-city authorities.

“You said he was shot in the back.” Willow's voice nearly broke. She swallowed and tried again. “Do you think Bear would have known the one who shot him if he'd been able to face him?”

“I won't know anything until all the tests are concluded. My guess is that the shooter was a good distance away when the shot was fired. Probably relied on a long-range sight.”

Willow's lips quivered and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “So this could have been done by anybody? An enemy? Even a friend?”

“Or someone who calls himself a friend.” Mad MacKenzie hadn't just earned his nickname because it was an abbreviation of Maddock. In the blink of an eye, he morphed from grieving father to avenging angel.

Pounding his fist on the arm of his wheelchair in fury and frustration, he looked from Whit to Brady. “We'll find the son of a bitch who did this, lads. And when we do…”

“You'll do the right thing and let me handle it, Mad.” Ira's voice was pure ice. “If any of you learn anything at all, you're to call me immediately. Got that?”

He fixed his glare on Maddock, and the old man returned his look without a word.

Whit gave a barely perceptible nod of his head. “I hear you, Ira.”

Finally the chief turned to Brady, who mouthed the word
yes
grudgingly.

Satisfied, Ira turned his attention to the widow, closing a hand over hers. “Willow, I'm sorry that I can't allow you to take possession of Bear's body until the authorities have concluded their tests. I hope you understand.”

She blinked twice, the only sign that she was listening. She'd gone somewhere in her mind, locked in her pain and grief.