Discoveries

“Holy shit! I just slept with my sister’s fiancée?”

Jeremy stared back at his future brother-in-law from Ford’s bed—shocked, speechless, and stark naked.

“You told me your name was Jack!”

“And you said your name is Brad!”

“It is!” snapped Ford. “Bradford! My folks still call me Ford, but most of my friends call me Brad...JACK!”

Jeremy explained—apologized—that he had used the alias in a naïve attempt at self-protection.

“Actually, that was probably a pretty wise move,” conceded the cop. “Better to be safe than sorry.”

“Is that why you told me you’re a student instead of a cop?”

“Well, I am a student. I got into the police academy with an associate’s degree, but now I’m working on my bachelor’s. Besides, when I meet strangers in a bar, sometimes they freak out if I tell them I’m a cop. They think I’m there to bust ‘em.”

“OK. I can see that,” admitted Jeremy. Then, Jeremy explained the half-truths he had used in introducing himself.

Though he would not admit it, Ford was actually impressed with Jeremy’s creativity. He would make a good undercover cop, he thought, and the way the cowboy had performed under pressure with the two muggers outside the bar reinforced his opinion. If nothing else, his sister had chosen a man who would be able to take good care of her. But would he be faithful to her?

“You weren’t exactly working the late shift last night, were you?” quizzed Jeremy.

“No, I’m sorry about that, but I figured that with my future brother-in-law staying at my place, last night might be the only chance I’d get to enjoy Southern Decadence this year, so I made up that story. I apologize for lying to you.”

It was now Jeremy’s turn to be impressed—with Ford’s sincerity.

“We really need to talk some more,” said Ford, “but right now, I’ve gotta shower and get down to the station.”

The two young men, still reeling from the revelation of their true identities, nearly panicked at the sound of the doorbell. “Who the fuck could that be at this hour? You mind getting that?” asked Ford, marching back toward the bathroom.

Through the peep hole, Jeremy saw a handsome young man holding the bags he had left in the Leveques’ car. “Just a minute,” he said, quickly retrieving the underwear he had left on the living room floor beside the sofa the night before.

“Hi, I’m Brandon Miller, Ford’s cousin, and you must be Mr. Travis. Uncle Pete asked me to bring your things to you. I know it’s early, but I thought you might need them. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was awake. Come in. Ford is getting ready for work.”

“Where do you want these?”

“Oh, just set them there by the couch. Thanks for bringing them. You’re up awfully early yourself.”

“Well, when you grow up on a farm in East Texas, you’re used to getting up at the crack of dawn.”

“I know what you mean. I’m a rancher myself.”

“So I’ve heard, Mr. Travis.”

“Oh, please, call me Jeremy. After all, we’re gonna be family in a few days.” The cowboy offered his hand to the young farmer, whose grip was as firm as his. “I was just about to rustle up some coffee. Want some?”

Brandon smiled at the cowboy jargon. “Sure. I’ll see if Ford’s got anything to eat. You’re probably like me…eat a hearty breakfast before you start the day.”

“Yep. I guess that’s somethin’ all of us country boys have in common,” Jeremy chuckled.

Jeremy found the coffee maker on the kitchen counter and the coffee in the cabinet just above it. He pushed aside the fancy imported stuff that Brad had on the shelf and went for the plain ol’ American brand instead. Brandon was not so successful. There was hardly any food in the place. “I tell you what,” said Brandon. “I know a place just a few blocks from here that serves a terrific breakfast. We can have a cup of coffee here, and then I can take you over there if you’d like.”

“Great, but on one condition. My treat.”

Brandon tried to object—“after all, you’re the guest of honor this week”—but Jeremy insisted.

“Is that coffee I smell?” asked Ford, entering the kitchen with nothing but a towel wrapped around his tapered waist. Before last night, Jeremy would not have looked at Ford’s nearly naked, muscular body the way he did, and he would not have noticed Brandon looking at him the same way. Jeremy was still dressed in nothing but his underwear. Had Brandon looked at him that way too?

“Brandon! I didn’t realize that was you at the door.” Ford placed one hand on Brandon’s shoulder and offered the other one in a hearty handshake.

“Yeah, your cousin was kind enough to bring over my luggage,” said Jeremy.

“We’re getting ready to go out for some breakfast,” said Brandon. “Wanna join us?”

“No time. I’ll just take some of that coffee with me. Where ya goin’ to eat?”

“The Clover Grill,” replied Brandon.

“Clover Grill? You know that place?”

“Sure.”

“Is there some reason we shouldn’t go there?” asked Jeremy, responding to the uncertain look on Brad’s face.

“No, it’s just that I didn’t know that Brandon…never mind. They serve a mean breakfast. Enjoy.”

Jeremy wondered about Ford’s unfinished sentence and made a note to ask him about it later.

Two pairs of eyes tracked Ford closely as he strutted back into the bedroom to get dressed. By the time Jeremy and Brandon had finished their first cup of coffee, Ford came running out of the bedroom and raced out the door.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower before we head out if you don’t mind,” Jeremy said to Brandon.

“Of course not.”

A few minutes later, Jeremy returned to the living room with water dripping down his sinewy body. Brandon tried not to stare, but when Jeremy lifted his towel to dry his hair, Brandon’s jaw nearly hit the floor at the sight of the cowboy’s massive tool. My God, he’s not a cowboy; he’s a fuckin’ horse! Brandon was hung too, like his cousin, but not like Jeremy. Shivers flew up his spine and across his synapses as he watched the gorgeous stud slip on his tight Wranglers and sexy Justin boots. He hoped he had averted his gaze before Jeremy caught him all agog. All of a sudden, Brandon was not merely hungry, but starving, only it was a very special kind of steak and eggs he craved.

"Am I a suspect, Sheriff?” Wade Dawkins demanded to know as soon as Sheriff Nick Scarpelli showed up at the Travis Ranch the next morning. Scarpelli had gone first to the hospital to interview Randy Dawkins, but Dr. Singh informed him that the patient was still too delirious to offer any useful information. Nick also learned that, at the doctor’s urging, Wade Dawkins had gone back to the ranch to get some rest.

“Was it really necessary to send your men to follow me home and stand guard all night?” Wade demanded to know.

“At this point in our investigation,” the sheriff explained, “I’m not ready to rule out anything, but,” he quickly added, “if neither you nor your son killed Carl Pipkins, then we have a potential killer on the loose, and your life could be in danger.” True or not, that explanation defused Wade’s anger somewhat.

Scarpelli had Wade go through his account of the previous evening’s events again just to check for any inconsistencies, though he did not spot any.

“If you’d like, I can have one of my men drive you back to the hospital this morning.” Although he knew that Wade’s son would still be incoherent, if not unconscious, he really didn’t want Wade hanging around while he interviewed the three ranch hands.

Marty Hitchins, Vernon Wooten, and Johnny Duncan were all strapping, ruggedly handsome young bucks in their early twenties, the kind of men who seem more at ease around cows and horses than people. Being more of a city slicker himself, Nick Scarpelli imagined that these cowboys smelled of denim and leather even when they were fresh out of the shower.

While a team of deputies from two counties combed the barn and surrounding area for clues, Sheriff Scarpelli interviewed the three ranch hands one at a time in the main house.

“Yeah, that’s Carl’s knife,” said Johnny. “He carried it with him all the time.” Johnny’s cute face gave the impression he was much younger than he actually was. Probably got all the candy he wanted when he was a kid, thought the sheriff. The young cowboy’s self-assurance bordered on cockiness. “Can I have his knife?” Johnny asked the sheriff. “I mean, he won’t be using it anymore, right?” Clearly, Johnny Duncan was not overburdened with humility.

Just the opposite of Johnny, Marty wore a dark countenance that made him seem much older than his years. He was also incredibly withdrawn. Even getting him to say his own name was like pulling teeth. But it didn’t strike Nick as shyness. It was more like a defense mechanism. Beneath the shell, Nick detected what, in St. Louis, he would have called street smarts. He didn’t know what it was called in Wyoming, but he was sure that Marty had it in spades.

Vernon was the least handsome of the three, but good-looking nonetheless. Confident without being brash; uneducated, but deceptively smart in a worldly, unpretentious way, he came the closest of the three to exhibiting leadership qualities. He was also the most focused—at least as far as the murder investigation was concerned.

Marty and Vern confirmed Johnny’s assertion that the knife found next to the body of Carl Pipkins had belonged to the victim himself. In fact, they all told pretty much the same story—except for one extra tidbit from Vern Wooten.

“Last Saturday night,” he said, “we all went down to the Conestoga for some beers, ‘cept Eddie. He said he wasn’t feelin’ too good. And Randy, of course. Too young, ya know, and he’s never showed no interest in socializin’ with the rest of us anyways.”

“But Carl Pipkins went?”

“Yessir, he did.” He paused. “But here’s the thing. After a while, the smoke in the bar started gettin’ to me, so I moseyed on out back for some fresh air, and that’s when I seen him.”

“Carl?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t alone. He was out by the dumpsters talkin’ with another fella.”

“And did you recognize this fella...this other man?”

“No sir. It was pretty dark.”

“Could you make out what they were saying?”

“Nah, they looked like they was havin’ some pretty heavy words, but the jukebox was playin’ pretty loud inside, so I couldn’t really catch what they was sayin’...not that it was really any of my business anyway.” Nick Scarpelli had been in Wyoming long enough to understand that minding one’s own business was pretty standard etiquette among the ranchers.

Vern paused again as if to collect his thoughts.

“Anything else, Mr. Wooten?”

“Mmm. Don’t think so. It probably don’t mean nothin’ anyhow, but I just thought I’d mention it...ya know...just in case.”

“You did the right thing in telling me, Mr. Wooten. You never know when something like this may turn out to be important in an investigation. If you think of anything else, you call me, OK?”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

One by one, Sheriff Scarpelli re-interviewed Marty Hitchins and Johnny Duncan to see if either of them could corroborate Vern Wooten’s story, but to a man, they couldn’t...or wouldn’t.

After interviewing the wranglers for the second time, Sheriff Scarpelli joined his team of deputies scouring the barn for clues.

“Only thing we’ve found so far,” said Deputy Holloway, handing the sheriff a plastic bag containing pieces of a broken beaded bracelet. “The beads were scattered all over, ‘bout four, five yards from where the bodies were.”

Hmm. That far, huh? There was something else about the bracelet that didn’t quite add up, but Scarpelli couldn’t put his finger on it.