Chapter Three
April 3
Harper arrived at his home at six p.m. The April sky was starting to cloud over, but there was a nice pink strip of color to the west that he appreciated.
Stomping off his boots in the mudroom, he tried to tamp down his curiosity about Tara Dalton. He wanted to know a lot more about her for all the wrong reasons. She was trying to get her feet under her after leaving the military. Harper was sure she wasn’t interested in developing any type of relationship on top of all of that. Still . . . His heart had other ideas and he grimaced, placing his Stetson on a wooden peg next to his winter coat. He hadn’t expected to be drawn to another woman after the debacle of his marriage. And right now? It was the wrong time because he, too, was trying to get back on his feet.
Ears keyed to the nearby kitchen, he could hear Tara puttering around in it. Not wanting to appreciate those sounds as much as he did, and the familiar odor of food cooking, he tried to push it all away. Just having a woman in the house changed the energy, he acknowledged, unbuttoning his long sleeves at each of his wrists, rolling the cuffs to just below his elbows. The place was warm and inviting now. Did Tara have a boyfriend? He wanted to know and tried to ignore the reason why as he stepped into the kitchen.
“Hey,” he called, letting Tara know he was present and accounted for, “how are you doing? Need any help?”
She had just taken the corn bread from the oven, placing it on a trivet on the kitchen counter. “Hi. No, all’s going okay. But thanks. How’s everything out at the barn?”
Ambling over, he gave her enough room but smelled the corn bread that she’d slathered with some butter across its golden top. “Candy and her foal are doing just fine. We’re going to have the farrier out tomorrow morning and he’s got a lot of horses to trim or shoe. Are you familiar with those kinds of things?” He liked the way Tara’s blond hair was pulled into a single braid down between her shoulders.
“Yes.” She straightened up and put the butter back into the fridge. “My dad has a five-acre hobby ranch. He bought me my first horse when I was ten years old. Over time, he bought two more, one for him and one for my mom.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans. “I don’t have total ranch experience, but I’ll learn as I go.”
He smiled a little and watched her cut the steaming corn bread. “How about repairing barbed wire and replacing fence posts?”
“Done all of that,” she assured him, handing him the platter to take to the table. Her fingers briefly touched his. “My dad and I, plus the two wranglers he hired, would go out on weekends with them and do the duty. We all worked at that kind of thing together. I always loved it.”
“Not a fun thing to do in my world,” Harper said, walking over to the table and putting down the corn bread. Tara had set up the table so one of them would sit at the head, one on the left side. He liked the idea of being close to her. “Fence-post rot is our biggest problem here on the Bar C. Crawford, who ran this ranch before he had a stroke, had let the replacement of fence posts go for seven years in a row. He’s an alcoholic and he chased off all his wranglers, so the whole ranch suffered from years of neglect.” He walked over to the counter and drew out two bowls for the chili, handing one to her. “As a consequence, we have untold numbers to replace in all the various grass lease pastures. And before we can offer a lease to a rancher to put his cows out to fatten them up during the summer months, those posts have to be strong and solid. No one is going to lease a pasture with bad posts or unrepaired barbed wire. Cows are smart and will test the posts. If they give way, they’re very good at pushing them over so they can escape. Same with barbed wire that’s sagging or broken from rust and age. I’ve seen cows get down on their knees and duck under the weak strands and run off, too.”
Taking off the lid on the chili, she stirred it with a long wooden spoon, sniffing it appreciatively. “Shay mentioned there was a backlog of work to do but wasn’t specific. This smells great.”
Harper handed her the ladle. “Ladies first.”
Her lips quirked. “Thanks,” and she took the ladle from him. She spooned the thick, fragrant chili into her bowl, then said, “Here, give me your bowl. Tell me how much you want.”
“Up to the brim,” he told her. “Do you want shredded cheese and sour cream on top of your chili?”
“Ohhh, that sounds delicious. Yes, please.” She filled his bowl and then replaced the lid on the chili. “My mouth is literally watering.”
“Hungry, huh?” he asked, bringing over a pouch of shredded sharp cheddar cheese and handing it to her.
“I think it’s because I got a job. I lose my appetite when I’m stressed and things aren’t going well for me. When I got home, my mom told me I was way underweight and I needed to regain it,” and she pointed to herself with a grimace.
“That’s what a mom’s supposed to say,” he said. “And she’s right; you’re pretty skinny for your height,” he informed her, looking her over. Her clothes were loose-fitting, and that meant weight loss. Some pink came to her cheeks and he realized he had made her blush.
Sprinkling the sharp cheddar cheese across the top of her chili, she said, “I’ve always been on the lean side.”
“Probably the black-ops mission work you did entailed a lot of time pounding the ground for miles.” He took the cheese from her, liking that their fingertips met once more. There was turbulence in her willow-green eyes, and he realized he’d triggered a memory, probably from her black ops past.
“Yes,” she said, opening the sour cream and rising to retrieve a spoon from the drawer. “As a photographer, I was always jumping in and out of a helo miles from our objective.”
Harper gave her a studied look. Her full lips were thinning. “Does talking about that make you uncomfortable, Tara?”
Shrugging, she dropped a dollop of sour cream on her chili. “Yes and no. I’m still more there than here right now, to tell you the truth.”
“You’ve only been home a week. I know when I got home, it took me months to adjust.”
“Yeah, it’s an adjustment all right,” she muttered, pushing the sour cream in his direction and handing him the spoon. “I hope the walls are thick in this house.”
He snorted. “Don’t worry. If you wake up screaming or hitting the floor, thinking it’s an IED, I’ll understand. I do the same thing: flashbacks and nightmares. Usually at least once a week.”
She gave him a warm look. “Good, because that’s why I wouldn’t stay with my parents at their ranch or their home in town. I know I’d scare the hell out of them when I wake up screaming. Or hitting the floor. They’ve never been in the military and I’ve tried to explain it to them, but it wasn’t going to work.”
“I understand,” he said, sympathetic. He placed two heaping dollops of sour cream on top of his chili. “I lost my wife because of my PTSD,” he admitted, surprised by the words coming out of his mouth. Glancing over at Tara, he saw her worried look relax. Her eyes became filled with sadness as she met and held his gaze.
“I’m so sorry, Harper. That had to be rough on both of you.”
“It’s in the past,” he said, more gruffly than he’d intended. What was the connection swirling between them? Harper felt like he was blathering his most personal information out to Tara. He hadn’t intended to do that. The words just popped out of his mouth; he’d been unable to catch them in time. Unhappy, he said, “Let’s eat.”
Tara sat at his elbow, and Harper was happy to have her near. Those loose blond tendrils around her temples made her look younger than he knew she was. Some of the grind of combat was there, though. The fine, feathery lines at the corners of her eyes were just beginning, but he knew how she’d gotten them. That meant a lot of missions on the ground, out in the hot, bright Afghan summer. It happened whether one wore sunglasses or not. He also saw some white scars on the backs of her hands here and there. Probably gotten during firefights. He decided to probe her past a little more between bites of corn bread and chili.
“As a combat corpsman in Afghanistan,” he said, “I was assigned to black ops groups, mostly Navy SEALs but some Delta guys, too. A lot of them worked together on bigger missions. I’ve met FBI women who were out with the teams from time to time, too. They were along because of their expertise in translation and reading captured documents.”
“Yes, there are a lot more women who work in black ops. We had FBI women, some CIA case agents with us, too.”
“I never met a combat cameraperson, though. Were you pulled in on certain missions or were you assigned to a team and went out every time?”
Tara buttered a bit of corn bread. “I was assigned to Bagram Army Base. Because there weren’t a lot of combat camera people around, I often got shoved into a Night Stalker MH-47 for night missions. Sometimes it was with SEALs, other times Delta Force operators or a Special Forces team.”
“So? You were busy all the time?” he guessed, seeing the turbulence, the darkness in her eyes once more. Something was driving him to find out about Tara. He felt how closed up she was, but he knew it came with the territory of black ops work.
“I was never not busy,” she said, spooning chili into her mouth.
“Were there other women with you on these missions?”
“Sometimes. There was also a group of combat women who were part of a larger top-secret trial to see how they did under combat conditions.”
“Well, that’s settled now that the Secretary of Defense has opened up all careers, including combat, to women, across the board.”
“Yes, we were guinea pigs in the trenches, and I guess we proved we had the right stuff,” Tara said, wrinkling her nose.
“But you saw the worst of the worst,” Harper guessed. “You were the one who had to take video and photos. You were the intel woman out on the front lines.”
“Front lines never existed,” she snorted, giving him a wry look. “And yes, I saw more than I ever wanted to see, Harper. But as a combat corpsman with black ops groups, you did, too.”
“Which is why we both have PTSD,” he agreed.
“You’ve been out how long?”
“A couple of years now.”
“Has your PTSD ramped down at all? I’m worried mine is going to stay high like it is now.”
Looking around the warm, toasty kitchen, Harper said, “Since coming to work here at the Bar C, being with other vets who have similar issues, I’m sleeping better. I don’t get as many nightmares as I did before. We meet every Friday evening over at Reese and Shay’s house. A psychologist from Jackson Hole, Dr. Libby Hilbert, comes down and kinda guides us through what the week has been like for each of us.”
“Ugh, shrinks.”
“Nah. Libby, even though she’s a civilian, understands PTSD. She’s actually been helpful to all of us over time.”
“Yes, but you all know one another. I’m new.”
“That will change,” he soothed, seeing the concern in her expression. “And you don’t have to talk or share if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure on anyone to speak up. Libby’s a very gentle, kind person, and I think the more you see her deal with all of us, you’ll come to trust her like we do.”
“Well,” she grumbled, “maybe it will work in the long run. I just hate baring my soul in front of strangers.” She poked and prodded her spoon at the last of her chili.
Chuckling, Harper said, “You’re a vet. You’re among your own kind, Tara. We aren’t strangers to one another because we’ve shared similar experiences. That bonds us for life. Sit next to me this Friday evening and you won’t feel so threatened.”
“I’ve yet to meet Noah, Garret, Reese, Kira, or Dair. I know Shay, which is really a blessing. We were fast friends growing up here in the valley together.”
“Yes, and you can count on her. She’s solid. I think you’ll appreciate the ones you haven’t met yet.” His tone grew amused. “They don’t bite.”
Smiling weakly, Tara nodded and set her empty bowl aside, taking one more piece of warm corn bread from the platter. “That’s good to know, Sutton.”
He grinned. “A day at a time, Tara. You’re one of us. And you’ll find out these are really good people here at the Bar C. Wait and see.”
* * *
It was almost nine a.m. The April sunlight was strong through the low-hanging gray clouds. Tara wasn’t sure if it was going to snow or not. Probably it would.
She was at the kitchen sink when there was a knock at the back door. Frowning, she dried her hands on a towel and hurried to answer it. Who could it be? Thinking it was Shay or someone else from the Bar C, she was surprised to see a woman wearing a law enforcement uniform standing there. Her heart took off in dread as she opened the door. Sheriff Sarah Carter. Her father, David, had been the sheriff for twenty years in the county before he retired. And Tara remembered Sarah because they went to the same schools here in the valley.
“Sarah, it’s so good to see you again. Is something wrong?” She always worried about her father, because some of the men he’d put in prison had sworn revenge once they got out.
The woman sheriff shook her head and smiled a little. “Hi, Tara. Nice to see you. I heard you just got back in town, and I had a talk with your dad two days ago. I’m here on official business. But first, I want to welcome you home.”
Tara smiled thinly and gave her old friend a warm hug. Sarah was at least five-foot-eight-inches tall and medium-boned, her ginger-colored hair short, just below her ears. “It’s good to see you again. Come in.”
“Thanks,” and she shrugged out of her heavy brown nylon jacket and hung it on a peg. Taking off her brown baseball cap, which showed an embroidered gold badge on the front of it, reading “Lincoln County Sheriff,” she picked up her briefcase. “I need about half an hour of your time. I heard you got a job out here, so congratulations. How about we have coffee, if you have any, in the kitchen? We can talk there.”
Stymied by Sarah’s unexpected appearance, Tara said, “Sure. I just made a fresh pot.” What was this all about? Sarah was very pretty, despite her unadorned khaki, long-sleeved shirt and olive-colored trousers. She wore polished black boots of a combat style, but then, the winters here in Wyoming necessitated heavy footwear.
Sarah took a seat at the table, waiting for her. She drew out some papers from her briefcase and set them next to her hand.
“I know you left here when you were eighteen,” Sarah told Tara as she brought over a tray with the coffee, milk, sugar and cups on it.
“Yes, after being kidnapped by Cree Elson, I had to get away.” Sitting down opposite Sarah, she poured coffee into the two mugs. Handing one to Sarah, she said, “I’ve been meeting a lot of old friends since coming home. I was hoping to run into you sooner or later.”
Grinning, Sarah poured cream and sugar into her coffee. “Even though this is official business, I was looking forward to seeing you again. How are you doing?”
“Adjusting to civilian life. It’s really tough right now. I know from my mom that you enlisted in the Marine Corps after we graduated, but you went into the law enforcement end of it. I ended up as a combat cameraperson, spending seventy-five percent of my years on deployment to Afghanistan.”
“Yes. I came back about a year and a half ago. My father wanted me to run for county sheriff and I wanted away from the combat in Afghanistan. I know you understand.”
“Oh, yes, I do. But you look good, Sarah. Life must be agreeing with you.”
The woman pulled out a file. “I like what I do and I’m happy. My dad was loved by just about everyone in the county and I want to run it like he did. I don’t want people afraid of us. I want them to continue to see us as friends who can help them when they need us.”
“So, why are you here? Not that I don’t love seeing you.” Tara tried to tamp down her fear. Was it Cree Elson? Again? God, she hoped not.
Sarah sipped her coffee, holding Tara’s eyes. “I wanted to meet with you personally because I went over my father’s notes on your case regarding Cree Elson. I read all the transcripts of the trial and his sentencing.”
Wincing, Tara muttered, “Him. I was afraid this was about him. Damn.” She saw Sarah’s green eyes soften with sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “When I heard from your father, who I’m always running into over at the courthouse, that you were home, he asked me to get involved in your kidnapping case. A snitch who works with Cade, my assistant sheriff, told him Cree was talking about you after he found out you were back. This snitch works for us; used to be a druggie but is clean now. When Cade sat down to interview him about Elson, who works up at a restaurant in Jackson Hole, I got called in on it. The reason I’m here is to ask you to take out a restraining order against him. I wanted to meet with you, find out what you wanted to do about him, if anything. The only thing I can offer you is the restraining order. It will put him on warning not to approach you.”
Moving uncomfortably, Tara said, “Do I really need one?”
“I’m trying to assess the situation, figure out if there’s still a threat toward you from Elson. My gut is screaming at me to get this restraining order enforced.”
“What does your dad think?” she asked. “Because my father admires and respects him. He’s worked on many cases involving people here and I’d like to know his thoughts.”
“I did discuss it with my dad and he thinks there’s good reason to go forward with the restraining order.” She pushed the papers toward Tara. “Based on his knowledge and my going over your kidnapping case, I agree with him. Elson works fifty miles north of us, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t come to visit his mother or hang around with his three brothers when he’s got time on his hands.”
Stomach tightening, feeling as if an invisible hand were gripping it, Tara studied the restraining order form. “My parents haven’t spoken to me about this yet. Was my dad in favor of it after finding out the details?”
“I talked to your parents abonnt it last night. Given that your father’s a judge in this county and that my office works daily with him, I wanted his advice. We talked about it, and he felt I should be the one to discuss this with you. It’s more of a formality, but it’s an important one in the chain of events on something like this, should Cree ever try to approach you again. The i’s have to be dotted and the t’s crossed. I have no problem throwing his ass back into prison because you need to feel safe here, Tara.”
“So, my dad thinks a restraining order should be in place?”
Sarah nodded, watching her. “It makes sense under the circumstances. Elson threatened you as he walked out of the courtroom after being convicted and being sent to prison for ten years for your kidnapping. He’s been out for a year on parole.”
“I haven’t really asked my dad about him because, frankly, out of sight, out of mind with that crazy bastard. I guess I didn’t want to know. I’m still hiding.”
Mouth quirking, Sarah said, “I’m in close contact with Commander Tom Franks of the Teton sheriff’s department in Jackson Hole. They know Elson is part of a gang in that area that sells drugs on the side. He’s got a part-time job as a dishwasher at the Red Pickup Saloon in town. So far, they haven’t been able to find him with drugs or selling them, but we know he’s doing it. But he hasn’t tested positive for drug use.”
“Is he selling drugs somewhere else in Lincoln County, Sarah?”
“We know Hiram, Kaen and Elisha are. But they also work with a drug lord from Central America, too. Often, they’re out of state, and we don’t have the manpower Teton County has to follow them around to prove it. This is one of the poorest counties in Wyoming, so my budget can’t be stretched as much as I’d like.”
“What’s your gut say?” she asked, feeling her hands tighten painfully into fists.
“That Cree sells his nickel bags where and whenever he can. We’ve got a major Guatemala drug cartel in Wyoming that’s trying to gain traction locally. We don’t know if Elson is part of a bigger drug dealer scene or not. We know his three brothers are involved.”
Making a muffled sound, Tara slid her hands around the mug of coffee. She had grown up with Sarah Carter. She was a no-nonsense kind of person but had a kindness to her, too. “His mother, Roberta, is the county gossip. What’s she saying?”
Smiling a little, Sarah said, “Not much on that account. On everyone else? Any dirt she can find, she’s spewing like the toxic person she is and will tell anyone who stands and listens to her nasty tales.”
“Like mother, like sons,” Tara muttered. “Nothing’s changed since I left at eighteen.”
“No, same players, same scumbags, same upstanding citizens. The canvas hasn’t really changed much, except that we have a lot of military vets coming home to work in the county.”
“That’s a good thing,” Tara said.
“I think so. I was in the Marine Corps from eighteen until I was twenty-two. After I left, I got a job with the Teton sheriff’s department, where I cut my teeth on civilian law and got to know the lay of the land in western Wyoming. That’s why Tom Franks and I are so close. I worked under him.”
“And then you ran for sheriff here when your father said he was retiring?”
“Yes.”
Looking at the restraining order form, Tara asked, “Do you think by serving Cree with this that he might focus on me even more? If he’s focused at all?”
“That’s a question I wish I could answer, Tara, but I can’t. What I’m trying to do is put legal protection in place for you. I don’t want Elson coming into my county causing problems. He’s mentally ill, unpredictable, and everyone knows it, but no one can do anything about it. He’s not allowed to have a gun. He’s been in bar fights in Teton County. I just don’t want him bringing it all here. If I can nip it in the bud and give you some protection, I’d like to do it. What do you think?”
Tara nodded, looking at the demands on the restraining order. “We both know it’s a worthless piece of paper if Elson doesn’t want to obey it.”
“I know that. But at least we’ll have legal documents on record should he attempt to bother you after I serve it to him. Then? I can arrest him.”
Rubbing her face, Tara muttered, “I hate this. I knew coming home would stir up this crap, Sarah.”
Sadly, Sarah nodded. “It has to be hard on you. I can’t imagine how you feel, your worry that he’ll start stalking you again, watching you, as he did when you were sixteen.”
Rubbing her arms, Tara said, “Exactly.”
“But you’re not sixteen. You’re twenty-seven now, mature, far more savvy than before. You were in the military, so you know how to defend yourself. Have you gotten a concealed gun license yet?”
“No, I haven’t. Shay said all the wranglers on the Bar C have them, and that I should carry, too. I just got here, so I haven’t made it a priority yet.”
“I think it would be a good idea,” Sarah said. “Do you want to sign the order?” and she motioned toward the papers beneath Tara’s hands.
“I guess. What are you going to do then?”
Sara finished off her coffee and sat up. “Once I get the Clerk of Courts and everyone who has to sign it taken care of, I’ll pay Elson a visit up in Jackson Hole. Tom will work with me on that. They’d like nothing better than to get rid of Elson because they know he’s dealing. There’s a huge effort to get that Guatemala drug ring out of there, but it’s been slow going. The FBI are finally going to send some agents and money our way to try to run the bastard out of our state.”
“Not the Wyoming I knew growing up,” Tara said, regret in her tone. Sarah had provided a pen along with the order and she picked it up, signing the papers with a trembling hand. “Is there anything I need to do—tell Shay or anyone else here on the ranch?”
“Once I get you a copy of the signed restraining order, I’ll inform Shay. I’ll ask the Clerk of Courts to send her a copy because you’re living on her ranch. I know she holds a Friday-night meeting with Libby Hilbert, which is two days from now. I’ll make sure she has a copy of it, as well as you. Let everyone know on Friday. The more eyes we have on you when you go to town or leave the ranch property, the better off you’ll be.”
Pushing the papers toward Sarah, she muttered, “I feel like I’m in prison. I’m going to have to be watching over my shoulder, remain alert. Like I did when I was rescued from Cree.”
Sarah folded the papers and tucked them into her briefcase. “Look at it this way: You were in the military. Your dad told me you were black ops and saw combat. You can use your PTSD to remain alert. That can help you in a perverse way under these circumstances.” She pushed the chair back and stood. “If you need help,” she pulled a business card from her pocket, handing it to Tara, “call me. I’ll have my department up to speed on Elson and this restraining order ready to go by tomorrow morning.”
“Do you think he’ll try to hurt me?” Her stomach ached with tension and she unconsciously rubbed that area of her body.
“Elson knows the Teton sheriff’s department has him under their microscope. If he breaks the law, he’s going to spend a long time in a federal prison. I don’t think he wants to do anything to jeopardize his freedom.”
“I hope you’re right,” Tara whispered, shaking her head. “He’s obsessive, Sarah. Sick and obsessive.”
“I know. All we can do is be watchful and alert. I’m hoping Elson will get nailed on drug charges up in Teton County. I don’t want him in our backyard. The only time he comes here is to visit his mother.”
“How often is that?”
“Maybe once or twice a month. I think he gives her some of his paycheck.”
“Okay, good to know. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to have to adjust to my new reality,” she offered, standing.
“I’ll be in touch with you. In the meantime, welcome home. I know your parents are really happy to have you back.” Sarah came over and gave her a quick hug.
If only her PTSD wasn’t so bad . . . Looking at Sarah, she suspected she had the same symptoms. She just cloaked them better than Tara. “Thanks for everything you’re doing. I really appreciate it.”
Sarah placed her hand on her shoulder. “Keep integrating into the Bar C. Let the other vets here help you, Tara. Shay has a tight group of wounded warriors here, and I know they’ll be like vigilant guard dogs. They may be able to take away some of your worry and concerns. I’ll be in touch.”