Storm Damage (Big Sky Series Book 1) Read online

  “You’re positive it was a man and not a woman?”

  The kid paused, considering. “Build and dress suggested man. He was wearing jeans, western hat, and a black down coat. I just assumed it was him since I was on the Bear Claw.”

  “Are you certain enough you would swear to it in a court of law?”

  Lucas stared blankly at Logan for a second, but he saw the exact moment it all clicked into place. He knew the kid would balk when he shook his head vigorously, backing away from Logan. He looked back at Rip Jackson and paled a bit more. “Are you saying Rip didn’t fall?”

  “I’m not saying anything. Autopsy will tell me if I have an accident on my hands. I’m just making sure I cover all my bases in case this wasn’t what it appears to be.”

  Lucas paled further. “I’m not sure who I saw, he was pretty far away,” he lied. “It could have been anyone. I really need to get going now, if you don’t need me anymore.”

  He didn’t blame the kid for being scared. And if push came to shove, Logan didn’t think his testimony would help for the very reasons the kid used. But it finally gave Logan a starting point. A thread to tug. Chance could have just been out checking his property, but three deaths in two days were connected loosely to Chance, he realized. His father had died the day Logan arrived in Ennis, so his body was at the morgue, tying Chance to Frank. Duke was tied to everyone in Ennis due to his job, but especially Chance since he’d warned Logan the night he disappeared not to let his guard down. Now he had Rip Jackson, who lived on Chance’s property, dead at the bottom of his own fucking steps. He didn’t think exposure killed the old man. He could see an indention across his forehead as if he’d been hit or fell, striking his head on the wooden step. From what he could see there was no bruising or swelling, indicating he died almost instantly. The snow had covered any evidence to a crime for now, so he’d have to wait for the coroner’s report.

  Logan looked over the kid’s shoulder and nodded to the EMTs. They’d been waiting for Logan to give the all clear before moving the body. “You can go, Lucas. But call me if you remember anything else, yeah?”

  Lucas barely looked at Logan. With a, “Sure, sure,” he flew down the steps and hopped on his four-wheeler, racing down the trail toward the highway.

  Logan watched the kid tear down the road for a moment, then went to kneel next to Rip Jackson as the EMTs prepared him for transport. “You know this guy?” Logan asked, pulling out his phone to take pictures of Jackson’s head and the surrounding ground. He’d have to tape off the area once the body had been removed to preserve any evidence beneath the snow.

  Tom White, a man he’d met in the bar his first night working, scoffed. “Mean. Down to his bones mean. He and Justice Bear were cut from the same cloth.”

  “What about the son?”

  “Chance? He’s arrogant, guarded, keeps to himself most of the time, but he’s never struck me as mean until he pulled this stunt with Skylar and the boys.”

  Logan scanned the horizon in the direction of the main ranch house and knew he couldn’t put off having a word with Chance Bear. Not with all the speculation running rampant through his brain.

  Eighteen

  Chance

  THE HORSE PRANCED in place; it’s nervous energy filled the small space as Chance cowered in the corner of the stall. Blocking out the scent of manure and hay as he crouched on the floor, he watched Rip Jackson warily. The old man had been drinking more and more to alleviate what years in the saddle had done to his body, and his favorite target for his frustration was Chance.

  Rip hurled a shovel at Chance. Missing its mark, it bounced off a wooden slat above Chance’s head. Castaway, his horse—named at a time when Chance had felt particularly forgotten by both his parents—jerked at the sudden crash.

  After a long but bitter ride along the border of his father’s property, Chance had been brushing the chestnut-colored stallion when Rip appeared drunk at his side. Over the years, Rip had developed a radar for Chance’s emotions. Seemed to know when to attack and retreat. And he was right on target, as usual, because Chance had ridden down the slope and watched his mother play with his younger sister and brother.

  He’d stayed in the shadow of the trees observing the three, allowing bitterness and anger to build. His mother was pregnant once again, her heavy burden making her waddle as she chased his siblings in the pasture in front of their cabin. They looked happy. She looked happy surrounded by the children she had wanted, rather than the one she threw away. So happy, the bitterness he carried daily grew deeper. Not that it should matter, he was almost eighteen and didn’t need a mother anymore. He had grown almost three inches in the last year and was beginning to bulk up. He was a man now, and a man didn’t need a mother. Certainly not one who didn’t give a shit about him.

  “Clean the shit out of this stall, boy!” Spittle ran down Rip’s chin as he glared at Chance.

  Years of being bossed around by the old man had trained Chance to duck and cover, but watching his mother with the children she preferred to him had left him raw. Edgy. Murderous.

  Chance stood suddenly with his hands fisted and grabbed the shovel from the floor. When Rip’s expression turned smug, Chance threw the shovel back at the old man. “Last time I checked, you work for me, old man. Clean the shit yourself.”

  When Chance tried to leave, Rip reached out and grabbed him by the collar, drew back his fist. The action seemed to trip a switch inside Chance and instead of taking the blow like he had always done, he reacted instead. Before Rip could land the punch, Chance grabbed his wrist and twisted hard until Rip shifted and cried out. The sweet sound of the old man’s pain echoed in Chance’s head and he grinned in triumph. It was good to finally be a man.

  Clapping sounded outside the stall, and Chance looked over his shoulder. His father was leaning against the opening, watching. His eyes gleamed with excitement at the confrontation in front of him. With pride at the way Chance had dominated Rip. For the first time in Chance’s life, his father seemed to be proud of him. He’d spent the better part of his seventeen years in pursuit of his father’s approval and it seemed he finally had it—and wanted more. Thirsty for approval, Chance twisted harder until he heard a loud snap. At Rip’s wail, his father smiled broader and mumbled, “That’s my boy.”

  A loud pounding tore through Chance’s memory. He looked toward the front of the house but didn’t move. Glancing at the window, he noted night had fallen. He had a pretty good idea who was standing on the other side of the door, so he poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it down in a single gulp. He’d heard the sirens when they entered the property. Knew they’d found Rip’s body, so he figured one of the sheriff’s deputies was here to make inquiries.

  Chance poured another glass of whiskey as the pounding sounded through the empty house again, but he ignored it. He was Justice Bear’s son. He answered to no one.

  Reaching down, he grabbed the hunting knife he’d been sharpening to a fine point. He held it against the grinding stone, pushing the blade across the surface at angles like his people had done for hundreds of years, and envisioned his enemies on their knees begging him for mercy.

  “The weakness of my enemy gives me strength.”

  The pounding sounded a third time, and Chance smiled as the room filled with the sound of metal against stone. His endgame was in sight. He just had to wait for the right time. Then he would taste the sweetness of victory before he left this miserable world and soared with the eagles.

  _______________

  An itch began to worm its way down Logan’s spine as he drove into town. He had no doubt that Chance Bear had been home, and the fact he wasn’t answering his door, with a dead man on his property, turned that itch into a burn. As he made the curve that brought him into Ennis’ downtown, the shell of the mortuary opened up in front of him. Logan rolled to a stop and stared at the charred remnants as the burning intensified.

  Five deaths in a week? Was Skylar making a mountain out
of nothing or was there something going on in Ennis, Montana, other than Duke’s disappearance?

  Logan pulled to the side of the road and got out, staring at the burned out structure. He closed his eyes and pictured where he’d found Frank and the elderly woman. That was two of the five dead. Duke was still missing and Rip was on his way to Twin Bridges morgue. That left Justice Bear.

  The fire marshal’s report had been waiting for Logan when he got to Duke’s office, but he hadn’t had time to read it. He’d grabbed it, along with incident reports he’d need to fill out concerning Rip Jackson’s death, before leaving. He’d planned to study the fire marshal’s findings after filling out the incident report at the bar, but he turned and opened the door to his truck and pulled out the manila file folder. Using his cell phone as a light, he scanned the report, searching for the deceased listed. When he found that section of the report, his jaw ticked. There were only two bodies listed and Justice Bear wasn’t one of them.

  “Where the fuck is Justice Bear?”

  Logan looked back at the mortuary.

  Cremated?

  Tossing the file folder into his cab, Logan moved around to the bed and climbed inside. He dug through his tools until he found his flashlight, then hopped down and headed across the street. The snow had covered the damage with a blanket of pristine white, but the cremator stood in sharp relief against the snow, like a small cave beckoning shelter for local wildlife.

  Timbers had been moved and stacked, clearing a path for the fire marshal to do his work. He’d met the man Ennis had appointed to the position. He was in his sixties and more than ready to retire. He also wore thick glasses. The kind that said his eyesight had long since passed 20/20 vision.

  Once he reached the cremator, Logan crouched and shined the light inside what was left of the structure. Snow had blown inside, hiding what was left of the burners used to bake a body into ashes. He flicked his light to the dials and gauges that controlled the gas and flames. The model was old. He’d seen modern-day crematories. Most were controlled electronically, with sliding doors and digital displays. This model had a single iron door that opened out, allowing the crib—the table the body lay on during cremation—to extend outside the brick furnace. It looked similar to a submarine hatch, with a small peephole to observe the cremation process. An electronic ignitor had been added at some point, but to light the furnace, Frank still had to turn the gas valve on by hand.

  Logan directed his light at the gas valve and turned the handle counterclockwise to see if it was open. When it didn’t budge, he turned it to the right. It rotated easily, indicating the gas line had been wide open at the time of the explosion.

  That itch, which had turned into a burn, was now on fire.

  He turned his flashlight back inside the cremator and noted the snow hadn’t been touched around the crib or burners. It had started snowing early afternoon the day before and according to the weather report, Ennis had received at least twelve inches. The inside of the cremator held at least that much or more. If it had been searched during the investigation the day before, he would have expected to see half that amount.

  Whipping out his phone, he dialed the number the mayor had given him. “This is Jordan Blake,” the voice stated, sounding distracted. Logan could hear small children in the background squealing.

  “Mayor, this is Logan Storm.”

  “Hold a moment, Chief Storm, I need to step inside the garage to hear. My grandchildren are baking cookies with my wife.”

  Logan gritted his teeth at the Chief Storm remark. They could look elsewhere once he’d solved Duke’s disappearance. He preferred busting heads in the bar to sitting behind a desk and dealing with bureaucracy.

  “Now I can hear. Tell me what happened to Rip Jackson.”

  “Won’t know until an autopsy is completed.”

  “Autopsy! Why?”

  “The man died without any witnesses. He has a laceration across his forehead that may or may not have been caused by a fall. Until I know for sure how it got there, I can’t close the investigation.”

  “Chief Storm, Duke and Frank normally made the formal call without involving the sheriff or the county cor—”

  “Mayor, all due respect, but I’m not Duke. I’m ex-military. During my enlistment we policed villages and kept order when needed. Any deaths had to be investigated by the book, no matter how cut-and-dried they appeared. Rip Jackson died either by falling and hitting his head, or at the hand of someone else. The county coroner will let me know which and then I’ll proceed from there.”

  Blake seemed to hesitate before replying with a half-hearted chuckle. “Why would anyone kill an old man?”

  “That’s what you hired me to find out.”

  “. . . You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Nothing funny about death, Mr. Mayor.”

  “No, no. Of course not,” he cleared his throat. “Is that all you have to report?”

  “Yeah. But I need the number for the fire marshal before I go.”

  “Max Greeley? What’s it about?”

  Logan looked back inside the cremator and the fire intensified down his spine. “Murder.”

  _______________

  The bar was hopping and the noise level through the roof. Ty’s band was playing and everyone who was old enough to drink, or young enough in spirit to get around in the snow, was currently kicking back at Big Sky. Saturday was our busiest night during a normal week, and tonight was no different. We were full to the brim with ranchers and ranch hands blowing off steam after a long week readying the ranches for winter. No table was empty, and the small dance floor was full with western hats and Wrangler jeans. Poker games had popped up in various locations, along with a Scrabble match between the local librarian and teachers. It was pushing ten o’clock and not a single soul looked to be winding down. Especially the ranch hands trying to double their weekly wages in a hand of poker.

  A loud crash drew my attention across the bar to some of those ranch hands playing poker in the corner. They were a mixed crowd of cowboys who worked several of the ranches in the area. One of the bigger ones had stood suddenly, knocking his chair over. I groaned when he reached across the table and wrapped his meaty fist in the shirt of another player. Before I could move, or Ty could jump from the stage to stop him, he drew back his arm and drove his fist into the other man’s face.

  Cowboys came and went around our parts. Working on ranches was hard on your body and not conducive to having a family, so most of the ranch hands turned over each year. This meant we didn’t get to know them well. But even so, it took a certain type of person to work a ranch to begin with. Mainly rowdy men without a care for life or limb. They spent their days herding cattle and busting broncs, which left them ill-tempered and stiff, yet ready for anything. Bar brawls were their favorite pastime, which meant we were accustomed to breaking up the weekly event.

  Normally, Jared handled the rough stuff, but he was in the back room getting stock, so I was Ty’s backup, such as it was. Not that he needed it most of the time. Like the rest of us, Ty was always ready to step in and tonight was no different. He had the big man wrapped up by the time I made it halfway across the bar. The man he’d attacked was another matter, though. He’d recovered quickly and began to lunge for Ty’s quarry, so I grabbed a pitcher of beer off the closest table and threw it in his face before he could attack. Instead of blinding him and cooling his temper like it normally did, it only served to agitate him more.

  Drenched and pissed off to a newer height, he turned his attention toward me with a sneer and took a step in my direction. I took a step back, ready to duck and cover under the nearest table if he made another aggressive move, but he didn’t attack. Instead, his eyes widened as his face paled a degree and he raised his hands in defeat. I knew why when I felt, rather than saw, Logan walk up next to me. The air around him fairly crackled with energy when he stepped in front of me with his gun drawn and aimed; his head cocked at an angle as he sighted his ta
rget with a deathly glare. With a flick of his wrist and a rumbling, “You even look at her sideways, I’ll haul your ass to jail,” Logan directed the man to back up and sit down. He didn’t argue, just righted his chair with shaking hands and sat in it without taking his eyes off of Logan’s gun.

  Ty turned then with the big man, saw Logan with his gun drawn, and smiled. “Gotta love Saturday nights.”

  “You need help?” Logan questioned, holstering his weapon in the back of his jeans.

  Ty shoved the man forward and kicked his legs out from under him, so he landed on his face. When he leaned down to haul the man back up, he turned amused eyes Logan’s direction. “Gave you my blessing with Skye. Don’t ruin it by insulting me.”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed Logan’s arm, pulling him with me toward my office. He didn’t resist, but I caught him glaring at the man who I’d thrown beer on. If looks could kill, the ranch hand would be gone by the time we came back.

  As I passed Jamie at the bar, she high-fived me, mumbling, “Nice aim.”

  Since bar fights were routine on the weekends, we had a system. Ty normally handled them, but whoever was behind the bar usually provided backup. Normally that was Jared, but the few times it had been left to me, I’d found a pitcher full of beer usually cooled most off. They were so shocked by the sudden onslaught of cold liquid, they forgot what they were fighting about.

  “Your turn to clean up,” I muttered back, then pulled Logan into my office and closed the door.

  When I turned to him, I shoved him in the chest until he fell on the small bed I had yet to put away. He chuckled deep when I landed on top of him but opened his mouth for me when I leaned down and kissed him.

  “Hey, handsome,” I whispered against his mouth. “You done for the day?”

  Both of his hands wandered down to my ass and squeezed. “Not yet. I’m waiting on the fire marshal to get back from his daughter’s house.”

  “Greeley? What’s he got to do with Rip?”

  “Nothing. I need to check something out at Frank’s and this Greeley needs to be there when I do it.” But I didn’t believe him. He hadn’t looked me in the eyes when he answered. Frank had died in a fire, so why would he be looking into a death whose cause had already been determined?