Chapter Two
Her cell phone chimed…again. Malin Langstrom paced her small studio cabin, knowing what she’d see in the text box. One of her sisters asking for help with the meal service for the ranch guests. The problem was Malin didn’t know if she could walk the hundred yards to Dream Vistas’ main house and be in the same room as the guests.
Ever since the bank robbery a month ago, she shied away from any and all strangers. Not good for a person who worked in the service industry. The first time someone bumped into her at the grocery store, the mere touch sent her into a panic attack complete with muscle shakes, labored breathing, and narrowed vision. She’d abandoned the half-filled shopping cart and retreated to her car. Only an emergency phone session with her therapist Suzanne calmed her enough to drive home.
She stopped at the cabin’s front window overlooking a grassy area between buildings. A breeze set the purple wild hyacinth and yellow buttercups waving. Normally, she’d be out in the open air, picking wildflowers for table arrangements or weeding the flower beds in front of the cabins and bunkhouse.
Following the trauma, her sisters, Tilda and Jude, were as supportive as they knew how to be. No matter their assurances, Malin recognized she wasn’t pulling her weight at the guest ranch they’d inherited upon their parents’ deaths five years earlier. She could handle her normal duties of monitoring the ranch’s social media presence, booking reservations, and doing the accounts—because none involved direct interactions with guests. But she used to assist Tilda in the kitchen with meal preparation and pitch in along with Jude to run errands and transport guests to and from local airports.
Malin paced another three lengths of the living space, hands clenched at her sides. This waffling behavior is ridiculous. I am dependable and efficient, and I can set out food. She sucked in a calming breath. As long as nobody touched her or came too close. She reached to the back of her head and made sure the large clip held her gathered hair in place. After jamming her phone into her back jeans pocket, she walked through the cabin door and turned toward the main house.
Today, the big blue sky held only a few wispy clouds. She trudged through matted prairie grass toward the back deck of the three-story log cabin. Seeing a few guests at the umbrellaed tables set her teeth on edge. A courteous smile was all she could muster before slipping through the sliding glass door, crossing the spacious family room with multiple couches and chairs, and heading down the hallway to the kitchen. “I’m here. What can I do?” The rich smell of frying meat filled the air.
Tilda, older by four years, looked up from the stove and smiled. “Thank you for showing up.” She reached to stir a big pot on a back burner. Then she glanced at the island. “Let me think what needs to be done next.”
As usual, blonde tendrils escaped the wide barrette at the back of Tilda’s neck and hung along her cheeks in wavy strands. An apron printed with “Life is short, lick the bowl” covered the pink T-shirt that matched her own. Long ago, the sisters adopted a color of the day and had shirts screen-printed with the Dream Vistas Ranch logo on the back. The ranch hands wore company shirts in gray, green, or wheat.
Malin glanced at the kitchen’s center island and spotted the makings for a taco and burrito meal—always a crowd favorite. She grabbed an apron and slipped the loop over her head. “I didn’t notice as I walked through. Are the warming trays set up?”
“Jude was supposed to handle that, but she got called away to sign for a delivery.”
“No problem.” Malin stepped to the sink and washed her hands then walked to the dining room and crouched in front of the side buffet. In no time, she had the metal stands set up in Tilda’s preferred arrangement complete with the cans of warming fuel ready to be lit. Counting out three rectangular metal trays, she stood and carried them into the kitchen.
A tall man blocked the kitchen doorway, his shoulders filling the opening.
Malin skidded to a stop and gulped back her shock. Guests weren’t supposed to be in the kitchen during meal preparations. Where had he come from?
“Miss.” He dipped his chin in greeting then gave her a once-over, his grin widening. “I’m admiring your place here.”
“Uh, huh.” Biting her lower lip, she glanced around him to where Tilda had been at the stove. Was she alone with him? Her pulse raced, and she scanned the kitchen. Why was this man here? “Excuse me, sir. I need to take these to my sister.”
“Sure.” With a shrug, he pivoted and walked into the kitchen.
Dots floated across her vision, and she sucked in a fortifying breath. I will not panic. The man was a stranger, and she was supposed to enter the room where he was? The trays rattled in her shaking hands. Sucking in a deep breath, she held the metal rectangles in front of her like a shield as she walked through the doorway and moved to the opposite side of the island. “Here are the serving trays.”
Jude leaned over the counter, studying a delivery slip. White-blonde hair spiked in all directions from her head. She glanced up and her eyes shot wide. “Hey, Malin. I totally did not know you were here.” Facing the man, she gave a beckoning wave. “Gary, let’s go over this delivery together.”
“Well, I am.” Focus on the task and shove aside the uncertainty. Malin moved to the stove, grabbed two potholders, and lifted the huge Dutch oven filled with Spanish rice.
“Here, little lady. Let me carry that.” The stranger stepped close with his hands outstretched.
At the brush of his arm against her shoulder, she froze. Memories of being manhandled played though her mind. “Don’t!” Her voice was sharper than she intended. Without looking up, she muttered an apology. “Only ranch employees can handle food, per our license.” In her peripheral vision, she saw Jude and Tilda exchange an arched-eyebrow look. Focus.
“Gary, I checked the delivery slip against my order.” Jude waved the paper in the air. “Let’s go unload the supplies.”
Gary headed in her direction. “I’ll unload, and you can check off the items.”
Jude matched his strides toward the front door. “Now, are you implying women can’t do the physical work?”
Malin breathed out a sigh of relief as their voices faded. She leaned a hip against the island and relaxed her body.
“You all right?”
The concern in her sister’s voice brought tears to her eyes. When would these irrational fears end? Malin nodded then scooped steaming rice from the pot into the tray. From years of practice, the women gathered all the condiments needed for the meal. Soon, the buffet’s surface was filled with fresh guacamole, sour cream, grated cheese, jalapeno peppers, and three types of salsa.
“I’ll announce the meal is ready.” Tilda moved toward the back deck to where the meal bell hung on the wall. “Will you bring in the pitchers of iced tea?”
“I will.” Ringing sounded at the same time a vibration buzzed her butt cheek. Malin didn’t recognize the number, but seeing the Montana area code, she swiped the pulsing bar. “Hello?”
“Miss Malin Langstrom?”
The voice was firm, deep, but unfamiliar. Her pulse quickened. “Speaking.”
“Detective James Rayburn here, calling from the Butte-Silver Bow Sheriff’s Department.”
Detective. Her grip tightened. “Go ahead.”
“Multiple suspects in last month’s bank robbery have been arrested. We’d like you to come in and view a line-up to see if you recognize anyone.”
She’d been hoping for, and yet dreading, a call like this. Shoulders slumping, she leaned a hip against the counter. “Did you read the report I provided? I never saw any of their faces.”
“Miss Langstrom, we understand the crew wore masks. But you did hear their voices. You were the closest to the men for the longest amount of time.”
A chill ran down her spine. She didn’t need to be reminded how the robbers drove around for ten minutes, evading responding law enforcement vehicles, before dumping her in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. Her throat tightened. “When?” She lifted her head to look across the room toward the rooster-shaped clock on the wall. Twelve forty-five.
“This afternoon would be best, either two-thirty or three o’clock. Or tomorrow morning.”
She needed to change clothes plus allow for the drive time. God, she did not want to fulfill this duty. “I’m an hour away and can’t be there until three.”
“See you then. Corner of North Alaska and Quartz in Butte.”
With a shaky finger, she punched the red button to end the call.
“Malin, where is the iced tea?” Tilda scurried into the room then her eyes rounded. “What’s happened? You look so pale.”
“Sheriff wants me to view a line-up.” Malin moved to the commercial refrigerator and pulled out four plastic pitchers of tea.
“Oh, sweetie, when?” Tilda gripped the edge of the island. “I’ll come with you.”
“You can’t afford the time. I’ll be fine by myself.” I have to be. Grabbing two handles in each hand, she lifted the pitchers and walked to the dining room. Now, because many of the guests were already seated, she’d have to make a circuit of the occupied tables. Although her stomach roiled so much she thought she’d puke, Malin poured servings of tea and smiled like a gracious hostess for the next ten minutes. She would get past this experience and recover to where serving the guests again came naturally.
Almost two hours later, Malin pulled into the public parking lot at the dead-end stub of Quartz Street. She hurried across the two-lane street toward the imposing three-story Justice Center at the intersection. Gray stones—some smooth and some rough—created the blocky first floor. Beige bricks formed the upper two floors, complete with a corniced overhanging roofline and roaring gargoyles guarding the building corners.
For the past ten minutes, she’d recited affirmations aloud to bolster her courage. Now, she had to act on that trumped-up confidence. Once inside, she followed directions to the detective’s office, walking along the outside of a grouping of desks, and knocked on the wooden jamb of the opened door. “Detective Rayburn?”
“Yes.” A burly-chested man with thinning black hair and bushy eyebrows looked up from paperwork spread on his desk. “Miss Langstrom?”
Swallowing hard, she nodded.
“Come inside.” The detective, dressed in a blue shirt and gray slacks, stood and swept a hand toward two wooden chairs against the wall. “Have a seat.” He moved around the desk.
Gasping, she scooted sideways and grabbed the top of a chair to steady herself.
He stopped, his brows wrinkling. “I’m headed to close the door for privacy. Is that all right?”
Malin moved to the chair farthest from the door. “That’s fine.” She tucked her purse at her feet and clasped her hands in her lap.
The big man closed the door and stepped to the front of his desk, sitting on the edge. “The process you’ll go through is straightforward. I’ll take you to a room that overlooks another room where several men will be standing directly under a number. You’ll watch through a one-way window, and they can’t see you. Normally, a witness is asked to view the assembled line-up for a visual identification. But since the crew wore masks, we’ll have them read a script compiled from witness statements. Hopefully, you’ll recognize a voice.”
“Okay.” Her mouth dried. The robbery replayed often enough in her mind she’d never forget the one thief who’d slapped and groped her. If only the voice was all she remembered. Dread weighted her muscles. “I’ll try.”
“Remember, Miss Langstrom, the men will neither hear nor see you. You’ll be safe.”
The reassuring note in his voice indicated she must look more scared than she thought. “I appreciate that. I’m ready.” Her hands trembled as she reached for her purse and stood. The faster she completed this process, the sooner she could return to the safety of the ranch…and her sisters. Malin followed through a maze of short corridors between offices, a room with a copier and shelves holding supplies, and an area with vending machines. The sound of ringing phones faded the farther she walked.
Detective Rayburn stopped at a door marked “Observation” and twisted the knob.
Pressing a hand against her jumpy stomach, she turned sideways then stepped inside and positioned herself in front of the glass. The room was painted a pale green except for the numerals one through six on the opposing wall a foot below the ceiling. Corresponding numerals designated selected spots on the concrete floor.
The detective stepped to a metal speaker on the wall next to the window and pushed a button. “Officer Daley, walk in the line-up.”
Hugging her purse to her chest, she steeled herself for what was to come. The door opened, and six men of varying heights and shapes entered.
“Move along and stand on a number. Hands at your side.” The officer, wearing a navy-blue uniform, leaned against the door with feet braced apart. His hands rested on his bulky belt.
She scanned the men, noting hair colors from dark to light and styles from buzz cut to shaggy. When viewed together, the men exhibited relatively similar heights—none very short or very tall. All sported average builds. Their facial features meant nothing. She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.” Detective Rayburn punched the button. “Pass the first one the card, Daley.”
The uniformed officer pulled a white card from his back pocket and passed it to the average-sized man with dark hair in the number-one position. “Read this and speak up.”
The man glanced at the card then looked at the officer. “The whole thing?”
Daley nodded.
“This here’s a robbery. Everybody stay where you are.”
Goose flesh rose on Malin’s skin. The words from that day hit hard, the shock kicking up her pulse.
“Tellers, hands up. Do not hit the panic buttons if you want to live. Put your cell phones in this can. Everyone on the ground. Lie down and don’t give us any trouble. Move it, Gramps. Get on the floor. Sassy, huh? I like a bit of spunk.”
The last sentences had been spoken just to her. Hearing them again chilled her blood. She closed her eyes, and the incident flashed through her mind in slow motion. Hazel eyes under brown eyebrows surrounded by the cloth mask. A crooked front incisor and a scar under his nose. Had she remembered those details the first time? Her eyes shot open as the man continued reading, and she studied their faces, but the distance was too great to see a scar. She gulped in a breath of stuffy air, hearing a faint buzzing in her ears.
“You sure smell pretty. In fact, spunky lady, you’re my designated helper. Hey, got a hero over here. On your belly, or the dog eats it. Gimme your phone. You, too, lady. Slide it over. Number One, I’m not collecting much here. Only small bills. Bring over the president so he can get into the vault. Not the plan, Number Two. Here he is. I vote with Number Two. Number One, we gotta split. No worries. That’s a fire truck. Just turned the corner and is headed in the opposite direction. Grab it all. Wait here. Shit. Number Four’s spotted something. Let’s haul ass. I’ve got my human shield.”
Her stomach knotted. She braced herself for the next part, her skin crawling at the memory of the man’s rough touch on her body. How he’d groped her breast to gain her compliance.
“Stop it, bitch. Now, walk out that door. Get inside, bitch.”
The tone wasn’t right—too nasal. She opened her eyes and glanced at the detective. “Not him. Could I please have a chair?”
“Of course.” He opened the door and stepped outside. Within seconds, he returned with a molded plastic one and set it in the middle of the window.
By the time she’d listened to the audio version of the robbery five more times, Malin was a shivering wreck. She finished the bottle of water the detective brought, but her tongue felt as dry as a slab of jerky. Perspiration wet her blouse’s collar, and her bra chafed with dampness.
A throat cleared. “Miss Langstrom, are you ready to sign your statement?”
She glanced up and gazed at the surroundings, surprised at the bookshelf and desk. They’d moved from the observation room to the detective’s office.
He slid a document forward on a cleared spot on his desk.
Malin lifted the paper and scanned the printed text. She’d recognized two of the voices—numbers three and six. During both of the men’s readings of the script, she’d experienced a roiling of her stomach and a breakout of nervous sweat. “I agree with what’s printed here. Where do I sign?” This statement might get two members of the crew off the street. But what about the others?
Moments later, she stood on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s department and breathed fresh air. Now, she wished she’d let Tilda come along. Her vision kept narrowing and zooming out, making her dizzy. Traffic moved but the sounds were muted. In this state, she doubted her ability to safely drive home. Nothing seemed real—like she wasn’t actually in touch with the physical surroundings. She leaned a hand on the gray stone, still cool on this spring day. The structure was solid and would keep her grounded in reality.
Walking close to the building, she rounded the corner on shaky legs and inched a halting path toward the parking lot. Toward the end of the street, a couple of women talking with their heads close together walked in her direction. Behind her, vehicles drove along Alaska Street, but the sounds remained distant, meaning no one turned onto this dead-end street. She stopped only a couple times to catch her breath, hoping her heart rate would return to normal. Did she need to call Suzanne? Or could she work though this panic attack on her own? If she followed her normal coping routine, then the panic should subside…like on the other occasions.
The beige ranch truck with the Dream Vistas logo on the driver’s door stood within sight. But the span across the two lanes of asphalt and five slots deep into the lot stretched impossibly far. Almost as if each step she took moved the goal an equal distance away.
Fumbling inside her purse, she wrapped her fingers around her cell phone and dragged out her earbuds. Plugged in, she scrolled for her empowerment playlist and let “Fight Song” roll through her mind. Strengthened, she absorbed Cher’s voice singing “Woman’s World” and those lyrics carried her across the street. “You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me” got her to the truck, and she jumped inside. The cocoon of the truck’s cab surrounded and protected her. She slumped back against the seat, escaping into the rhythm of the pounding drumbeats. By the time the lyrics of “I Am Woman” sounded, Malin sang along, bopping her head, with tears of release streaming down her cheeks.
A rap-rap against the window wrenched a scream from her throat. She froze then eased her head to the side.
Outside stood a tall, muscled man hunched over to eye level, his face shaded under a straw cowboy hat.
“Go away! I don’t have any cash.” Scrunching her eyes closed, she shook her head and slapped a hand on the armrest until she heard the door locks click. What should she do? Her pulse spiked, shattering the calm she’d achieved. She grabbed for her key ring and inserted the correct one into the ignition.
“I’m not looking for money, miss.”
Panting shallow breaths, Malin glanced sideways to see the man had backed away and stood with palms raised. I have to get away. She cranked over the engine and reached for the gear shift lever. Then she heard a dog yip. Turning, she spied a tri-colored dog with floppy ears wearing a red vest being held at window height. The horrible day of the robbery replayed in her mind. She remembered the tall cowboy who’d held open the bank’s door accompanied by dogs wearing the same vest. She punched the window lever until the pane lowered a couple inches. Then she gazed into the same brown eyes where she’d looked for reassurance during those awful twenty minutes.
“Hi. Remember me?” The handsome man smiled, displaying a shallow dimple in his left cheek.
For the first time since that traumatic day, her lips spread in a natural smile. How could she forget her hero?