TWENTY-ONE
Tom McDonald watched the woman carry the coffee across the yard as if it were liquid gold, knowing he could easily meet her halfway, but not wanting to. Laurie handed him the mug, and Tom thanked her as if she’d handed him a hundred-dollar bill. Her eyes lit up and she whispered, “You’re welcome.” She dipped her head and dashed off the front porch of the farmhouse, headed back to the mess hall, where the scent of bacon still hovered outside.
He took a sip of the coffee, watching as she hustled away. Laurie must have noticed that he’d missed breakfast. The drink was hot and dark and bitter. He smiled. He liked that the women on the ranch respected him and tried to anticipate his needs. They kept the mess hall clean and always had hot food ready when needed. The kitchen in his farmhouse had a small refrigerator and microwave, but no working stove or oven. He’d decided funds were best spent building one large, central kitchen. One day when he had more money, he’d get the house’s small kitchen up and running, but right now it wasn’t a priority. His priority was to create a place where men wanted to live and work.
Food, shelter, and community. These were men’s core needs. Provide those three items along with a desirable goal and he’d have plenty of happy followers. He was working hard on getting their shelters built. The bunkhouses were bare bones, but over time he planned to add small houses and more luxuries. The men who stuck with him from the early days would be rewarded first. Newcomers would start in the bunkhouses and see the rewards they could earn if they worked hard.
It would be perfect.
He’d be surrounded by men who would defend him and their way of life against anyone who threatened it. Anyone. No government was going to stick its nose in his business. If it did, soon he would have his men well drilled to fight for the property and their God-given rights.
But he needed more men to form his regiment.
Slowly. Take it slowly. Build up my force with the best.
This wasn’t a project to be rushed. He’d do it right.
He took another burning sip and started down the steps to get a late breakfast, hoping that the bacon wasn’t gone. Food was expensive. Especially bacon. But soon they’d be producing everything they needed. Maybe I should start rationing some of the meat. He’d noticed yesterday that Chip had taken as much bacon as his plate could hold.
This is no place for greed.
A small dust cloud billowed behind a low hill far off to his right, and he stopped to watch. The dust meant a vehicle was coming. A moment later a truck came around the bend, and Tom squinted, not recognizing the heavily built vehicle.
Shit.
The truck had a light bar on top of its cab, and even though it was completely blurred, he recognized the Oregon State Police logo on the side of the vehicle. Tom glanced around, feeling exposed. Where are Al and Deke? Usually the two men weren’t far from his side, but his morning hadn’t officially started, and he insisted they leave him alone until the beginning of his workday.
No doubt they’re eating all my bacon.
The truck came closer, and Tom strode over to meet it. By the time he reached the flat parking area, he was panting heavily, and he knew sweat beaded his forehead. The truck was a utility vehicle with a bulky covered back end to store equipment. After the truck parked, a stocky man in his thirties wearing the navy clothes of an OSP officer hopped out. A second officer stayed in the cab, talking on a phone. “Tom McDonald?” asked the first man.
“You found him.” Tom held out his hand, and the other man gave it a firm shake. “What can I do for you?”
“Nathan Landau. OSP Arson and Explosives. I understand you’ve got some dynamite you want us to take off your hands?”
Tom nearly dropped his coffee. “What?”
Nathan frowned. “Dynamite. We got a call that you found some old dynamite and want it off your property.”
Sweat ran through his eyebrow and stung his eye. “I didn’t call you.” He rubbed at the stinging eye. “Who said I called you?”
“You did according to the report, but we don’t care where the dynamite came from, you know,” the man said carefully. “All we care about is that it’s disposed of properly. Old dynamite isn’t something to play around with. It’s common that people discover boxes of dynamite in Grandpa’s barn. They used to sell the stuff in feed stores all the time, but we like to get the call so we can take care of it.”
Tom struggled to speak, his mind spinning away from him. “I don’t have any dynamite, and I didn’t call you. I don’t know who told you I had some.”
“None?” Nathan was skeptical, lines forming across his forehead. “Maybe someone didn’t tell you they found it and called us first.”
“There’s no dynamite on this property,” Tom said from between clenched teeth. Who called the police? “I don’t need to ask my men. If one of them had found dynamite, they would have let me know. I’m afraid you received a prank call.”
“You’re shitting me,” Nathan pulled out a pen and made notes on his clipboard, shaking his head. “Why in the hell would someone do that?”
“Either they thought it’d be funny to see you waste your time, or they thought it’d be funny to see me get harassed,” Tom stated, fury replacing his earlier confusion. “I suspect it’s the latter.”
Nathan looked up from his clipboard, his eyes narrowing. “Someone getting back at you for something?”
“Something like that.”
“You know who? We take false calls like this pretty seriously.”
“I wish I knew.” His brain spun with possibilities. Who would do this to me? And how did he know about the dynamite?
Because he works here.
“Crap.”
“What?” Nathan asked.
“Nothing. Just pissed. Now I have to figure out who thought it’d be funny to see me squirm.” He forced a laugh. “I’m sorry you wasted your morning driving all the way out here.”
Nathan sighed and held out a business card. Tom glanced at it and saw Nathan was some sort of certified hazardous device technician. They made some more polite talk, and Tom spoke on autopilot, not registering any of it. His brain was preoccupied. As the truck drove away, anger filled him again as his brain focused on one question.
Who?
Silas? Would he cause trouble for me?
Tom had believed he’d left his arguments with Silas Campbell in Idaho. He’d left the state to put more room between the two of him. At one time Silas had been his closest confidant and he’d thought he was Silas’s. But it hadn’t taken much to shatter the fragile trust between the two men. Especially given how paranoid Silas was.
He’d learned a lot from Silas in their decades together. He’d been drawn to the man’s philosophies before he’d ever met him. He’d known most of his life that the government had brainwashed the general public into believing that it cared about them. During his time with Silas, he’d watched and listened, learning to be a leader of men.
It’d been a big deal for Tom to leave, but he’d seen the writing on the wall. Either you were with Silas or you were against him; there was no other option in Silas’s book. When the two men no longer saw eye to eye on some key issues, their relationship was over. Tom had stood at a crossroads, carefully deciding which road to take. He’d thought through all the options, deliberated all the possibilities, and committed to his decision a year ago.
Echoes of another huge crossroad had briefly clouded his mind at the time, but he’d made the right decision back then, and it had given him confidence to move forward last year. He’d gathered the men who supported him and believed in his philosophies and moved to the ranch in Oregon.
He’d been hesitant to return to Central Oregon, but he’d spent time here decades ago and believed enough time had passed that residents wouldn’t be startled when they saw his face. He’d known he’d find the right men in this part of the state. Men who thought and believed as he did. He’d been right.
It hadn’t been easy. He’d started from scratch and been careful to toe every legal line.
Until recently.
That wasn’t my fault.
To create a strong base, he’d had to surround himself with the right people. When one of those people had turned poisonous, he’d had to sever the infected limb. If he allowed active dissent, he’d lose all respect. Enforcing discipline and creating examples of naysayers were the ways to maintain control. If everyone respected everyone else, then they would live in harmony. When the dissenters caused problems, they needed to leave. And if they wouldn’t leave, they needed to be forced.
Joshua Pence had created a problem.
Tom had addressed the problem.
Simple.
A twinge of regret touched him. Joshua had been an enthusiastic supporter. He’d firmly believed in Tom’s mission, speaking to the other men with fervor and encouraging them to stay strong to support Tom’s cause. But Joshua’s enthusiasm had become his undoing.
Tom’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered without looking at the screen.
“It’s Jack Howell.”
“Hey, Jack. Got good news for me yet?”
“Not exactly.”
Caution crept up Tom’s spine. Jack was unusually calm. Typically the real estate agent enthusiastically talked a mile a minute, but today he sounded subdued.
“Spill it.”
“I had a call from the FBI. They want to know who is interested in buying the Brass ranch.”
“Shit.” For the second time that morning, Tom was punched in the gut.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” Jack said. “I told them my client insisted on confidentiality, but I’d check with him. Does it matter to you if I tell them your name?”
“Fuck yes, it matters!” His brain spun out of control again.
“She gave me five minutes to call you and get back to her.”
“Who?”
“The FBI agent.”
“I know she’s an FBI agent. What’s her name?” He held his breath, knowing what Jack would say.
“Uh . . . Kilpatrick. Mercy Kilpatrick.”
Tom pulled the phone away from his ear as he cursed. Owen’s sister again. Was I wrong to bring him in? “Don’t call her back.”
“What am I supposed to do? She said she could get a warrant for the information.” Jack sounded miserable.
“Let her. If she wants to waste her time, that’s fine with me.”
“She’ll find out eventually.”
“Your job is to avoid her until then.”
“I don’t understand why you insist on remaining anonymous. Eventually your name will be the one on the property deed.”
“You haven’t written my name down anywhere, right? You agreed no one would be able to find my name in your paperwork.”
“All our dealings have been oral. I haven’t even sent you anything by email, because I respect what you want.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Of course, I don’t have an email address. You know the government reads all that stuff, right?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” said Jack. “The government is welcome to read all my boring contracts if they want.”
“I think we need another meeting,” Tom said. “I got a look at a property nearby that I’d like to get your opinion on.”
“What’s the address? I’ll pull up all the info before we meet.”
“Nah, just come out. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
Jack agreed, but Tom heard the reluctance in his voice. With commissions dangling in front of him, Tom knew Jack would jump through any hoop Tom asked him to.
Tom ended the call and tossed the coffee out of his cup. It’d cooled to an undrinkable temperature. He looked up at the hills surrounding his property, feeling as if a net were slowly tightening around him. The morning had been so promising, and now it had turned to garbage.
Kilpatrick. When he’d heard that Al and Deke had run her off the road, he’d laughed his head off and slapped them on the back. He’d hoped she’d scale back some of her nosy questions. It hadn’t worked. Was it time for bigger measures?
Who reported the dynamite?
How did the FBI find out about the offer for the Brass property?
The old woman had told them, of course.
If only Joshua hadn’t interfered. How am I going to handle this new twist? Could he admit he was the buyer? It wasn’t illegal to offer to buy land, but it was instinctive for him to stay under the radar. So what if he was interested in buying her land? Would they think he’d set the fire to scare her off?
He wasn’t that stupid.
Some people were, but not he. He knew how to stay out of the limelight. Hell, he knew how to completely stay off everyone’s radar. He’d been doing it all his life. No one was better at staying in the shadows than he was.
He’d known when he cut ties with Silas Campbell that he’d have to step forward more, but he hadn’t expected this. Maybe he needed to tone things down until the FBI stopped asking questions. What it was interested in had nothing to do with him.
Not really.
Could Owen Kilpatrick be the source of his problems? The thought made his heart hurt a bit. When he’d first encountered Owen, Tom’s initial instinct had been to hide. But instead he’d looked Owen in the eye and shaken his hand. Owen’s eyes had reflected Tom’s own, and Tom had known instantly he could trust the type of man Owen was. Owen’s father, Karl, was a straight shooter, and Owen had the same blood.
So did the FBI agent. But she was a woman. It wasn’t the same as looking a man in the eye and knowing him.
There were men on his property with less character than Owen Kilpatrick. Character meant a lot to him, but sometimes it took time to be exposed. What seemed perfect and shiny on the outside could house a rotting center . . . or a weak center. Sometimes it was that weakness that kept a man from fulfilling his potential.
But who would call about the dynamite?
And why?
To stop Tom from using it. Someone didn’t like his plans and was too chickenshit to tell him to his face.
Maybe someone was afraid of becoming the next Joshua Pence.
Do I need to make another example?
Jack Howell would come in handy.