Conard County Conspiracy Read online

  Grace closed her eyes briefly, remembering that night. She shuddered. “I’m going to have some bad dreams for a while.”

  “Understandable.” Mitch had brought the inevitable cup of coffee in with him and reached for it now, taking a couple of swigs. “It feels like beating my head on an invisible brick wall. I want answers. Seems like I’m not going to get any soon.”

  “I hate that,” she admitted.

  “You ain’t the only one.” He paused. “I’ve got all my men keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. I’m not ready to move on as if this is nothing but chance.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  His gray eyes met hers. “Grace, understand that I’ll do anything to protect you.”

  Mitch’s kindness reached beyond an ordinary friendship. He was offering something more. Something a whole lot bigger.

  “Thank you,” she answered, her voice thick.

  “Hey,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “You didn’t.” She turned her face back to him. “You...just made me feel special.”

  He smiled slightly. “Good. Because you’re one hell of a special woman. Stubborn as hell, but still special.”

  Dear Reader,

  Writing this book took me down some uncomfortable paths. Grief has no timetable, and a stubborn widow is plagued by it two years after her husband died. We have all known grief, and for some of us it doesn’t ease for a long time. Especially when death strikes suddenly and there is no time to prepare.

  Grace Hall has nothing left but the dream she had cherished with her late husband. She clings to it as best she can, but it is getting harder.

  Dreams can vanish, sometimes slowly, always painfully. In the end, this story is uplifting because inevitably grief gives way to renewed life.

  Rachel Lee

  CONARD COUNTY CONSPIRACY

  Rachel Lee

  Rachel Lee was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

  Books by Rachel Lee

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Conard County: The Next Generation

  Killer’s Prey

  Deadly Hunter

  Snowstorm Confessions

  Undercover Hunter

  Playing with Fire

  Conard County Witness

  A Secret in Conard County

  A Conard County Spy

  Conard County Marine

  Undercover in Conard County

  Conard County Revenge

  Conard County Watch

  Stalked in Conard County

  Hunted in Conard County

  Conard County Conspiracy

  Visit the Author Profile page at

  Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For all the people who helped me along this amazing path, especially my incredibly patient family.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Excerpt from Undercover K-9 Cowboy by Addison Fox

  Chapter 1

  Grace Hall awoke to gunshots in the middle of the night. The sound startled her, causing her to sit up abruptly and twist toward the window. She wouldn’t be able to see anything unless she pulled the curtains open.

  Her heart hammered. She wondered in her sleep-fogged state if someone was attacking her house. Two more shots. This time she could tell they were farther away. Not right here.

  She flopped back down on her pillow, staring up into the inkiness that filled her bedroom at night. She had some security lights outside, bright spotlights on poles, but seldom switched them on because they used electricity she could ill afford.

  Tonight she wished she had turned them on. But would she have pulled back her curtains anyway? Not likely.

  She lay there, reasoning more clearly as sleep seeped away. Some drunks, she decided. Who else would be shooting into the night? They’d found a wide-open area and had taken advantage of it. That had to be the reason. Too early for hunting season, and anyway, there was no night hunting allowed.

  This was one of the few times she felt acutely aware of her isolation. There had been times after her husband’s death when she’d felt it to her core, but she had moved past that. While the huge expanse of ranch land surrounding her sometimes seemed to swallow her, it no longer consumed her. Being alone had brought its own solace.

  Her heart slowed down and sleep crept close again. She’d check in the morning for damage, but for now she’d sleep.

  * * *

  There was a little bit of chicken inside her, Grace thought with mild amusement. She didn’t want to go out there even though the Wyoming day was bright.

  She dawdled over a breakfast of coffee and scrambled eggs. A piece of toast from a loaf of rye bread reminded her she needed to go to the store again.

  Another trip to the store daunted her, but not as much as before. People had realized she didn’t like to be asked how she was doing. Fine was a lie and they didn’t really want to know the truth. Just an empty, meaningless gesture. They asked, she answered and they moved on with their own lives.

  She’d let her friends slip away, not that a ranch wife had room for many, because time was at a premium. She’d worked as much as her husband had, caring for their sheep.

  She sometimes wished they’d been able to get the goats she’d always wanted. Their antics would be so much more entertaining than the placid sheep.

  She and John had never been able to see their way to the kind of fencing needed to keep goats from going walkabout. Those animals could jump almost anything. Plus, they needed special dietary supplements since the grazing here wouldn’t provide enough. It was one of those someday things they’d never gotten around to.

  There’d been a lot of those, she thought as she washed dishes. Too many, like the children they’d dreamed of having. Waiting, always waiting for the right time.

  Was there ever a right time?

  Eventually the nibbling worry drove her out the door to stand reluctantly on the wide, covered porch. A little more than a mile. A mile where those rowdies could have damaged her fences last night. A walk that would do her good, allow her to check her mail and probably reassure her.

  Those guys might have found a great open space to do their manly shooting into the night, joking about firepower and probably full to the gills of the beer they’d been swallowing for hours.

  They shouldn’t have even been on the roads, but who was going to stop them? While sheriff’s deputies drove along here, they couldn’t come frequently. Too much area, too few deputies. The department needed more funding.

  Random thoughts filled her as she went out the front door. The night’s chill lingered but would be gone in a few hours. For now she needed the sweater she wore.

  The blue sweater John had given her their last Christmas together. Soft and warm, like a hug.

  The morning was bright, the sky
a cloudless blue. A range of Wyoming mountains filled the western horizon, not far away. A truly beautiful summer day on the way. She headed for the mailbox.

  In the distance she caught sight of the sheep, near the top of a rise. Mitch Cantrell, her neighbor and friend, now owned the sheep and leased her grazing land. Salvation for her, because otherwise she’d have had to entirely let go of the dream she and John had been building. Profitable for Mitch, she gathered. He’d even been able to hire two shepherds, a luxury she’d long ago given up.

  The morning began to cheer her up despite everything else. Maybe she should push herself to get back into the mainstream of life. John wouldn’t have wanted her to grieve indefinitely.

  When she was within sight of her mailbox, about a half mile away, she saw a sheep lying on the ground. They never did that. Was the ewe ill?

  She walked closer to the fence. What she saw sickened her.

  There was blood all over the animal.

  Those drunks last night must have used her as target practice.

  She stood frozen for a few minutes, then ran back to the house as fast as she could. No cell connection out here, so she needed the landline. Rage had begun to replace horror. A fury so big she wasn’t sure she could contain it.

  First she called Mitch. His voice sounded a bit crackly, probably because he was using his satellite phone.

  She dropped the news without preamble. “Mitch, a ewe has been shot in the pasture near my driveway.”

  A moment of silence, perhaps because of the satellite delay. “I’m on my way. Stay inside, Grace.”

  “I’m calling the sheriff.”

  “Good. I’m out on the range, but not too far away. Hang in there, stay inside. Thirty minutes max.”

  Grace called the sheriff. She heard immediate concern from the dispatcher who took her call. To judge by the roughened voice, it was probably Velma.

  “We’ll get someone out there as fast as we can, Grace. The nearest patrol is about thirty minutes away. Stay inside.”

  Stay inside? That was what everyone wanted, despite her not having an urge to go out to the sheep again. She did stand on her porch, keeping an eye out down her driveway to the county road. Just in case.

  Those idiot drunks might come back to admire their mayhem. She hoped they would. She had a rifle and a shotgun inside and wasn’t afraid to use them.

  * * *

  Mitch was the first to arrive. He came in his four-wheel-drive pickup. She guessed he had driven overland instead of taking the road. He did, however, come tearing up her drive, spewing dust and loose gravel, wasting no time.

  He passed the sheep, coming to her immediately. He practically jumped out of the truck and trotted up the steps to her.

  A hardworking figure of a man, broad-shouldered and browned by wind and sun. Wearing the inevitable jeans and shotgun chaps. He must have been on his horse before jumping into his vehicle.

  “You okay?” he demanded.

  “I’m fine, but I’m angry enough to explode.”

  “I don’t blame you. Will you be okay if I go out to take a look? I barely saw it as I raced by.”

  “They’re more important than I am.” Livestock mattered. They were life and livelihood.

  He paused, his gray eyes narrowing. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.”

  She’d say it as often as she wanted, she thought defiantly. Because it was true. Even though Mitch owned them now, she and John had worked hard to build that flock. Long summers and cold, dangerous winters. Yeah, the sheep mattered more.

  Part of that dream was now in tatters, but it was a part that meant the world to her.

  She watched as Mitch reached the sheep and climbed out to look. He’d barely begun his examination when a sheriff’s SUV rolled up, five-pointed gold star on its sides. She recognized Guy Redwing as he climbed out to join Mitch. The man had a distinctive stride. Well, so did Mitch, from years in the saddle. Guy was one of the deputies who, when patrolling out here, always came to her door to ask how she was doing. Somehow she didn’t mind it when he asked.

  The men stood looking and pointing, then Guy went back to his vehicle and stood beside it. Probably calling for assistance.

  Grace couldn’t stand it another minute. Hurrying, she closed the distance and joined the two of them.

  “You notice anything?” Mitch asked her.

  “Gunshots in the middle of the night. I thought some drunks were out here firing into the air.” She hesitated, battling down fury and hating her perceived cowardice. “I didn’t dare come out to look.”

  “Good,” Mitch said. “Good. Wise move. Who can predict what a bunch of drunk men might do?”

  She hadn’t thought of that, but she knew what he was suggesting. Gang rape. All of them ginning each other up. Anger turned into a shudder.

  “The techs are coming out,” Guy said as he returned from his car. “Don’t touch anything.”

  Flies were buzzing around now, emerging from drowsiness as the temperature rose. The odor began to grow, too. Feeling her gorge rise, Grace turned away.

  “You don’t have to stay for this,” Mitch said almost gently. “My sheep, my problem.”

  “My land, near my house. My problem.”

  Let him argue with that. She didn’t want to think too much about what had happened, or about what could have happened, but she meant to stand her ground. She had been dismissed too often over the last couple of years since John had died.

  Nobody of importance. A widowed ranch wife. Sympathy that had quickly blown away like autumn leaves.

  Except for Mitch. He’d been her friend and John’s after they bought this place He always checked in with her since the funeral. Friendly over a cup of coffee, occasionally bringing a dish over that his housekeeper had made. Always asking if there was any way he could help out.

  A genuinely nice guy who had often kept her from feeling totally alone. Letting her know she had a friend no matter what.

  But she wouldn’t allow him to dismiss her as others had. Too many others. While he never had before, she refused to let him start now.

  “Have it your way, Grace.”

  She thought the corners of his eyes crinkled, suggesting a smile.

  She spoke again. “Yes, I will.”

  “I always thought you were as tough as barn nails.”

  She didn’t know if she liked that analogy, but it would do. She was tough. She’d had to be tough, except in the middle of the night when she sometimes cried herself to sleep.

  But she was still here, still standing, refusing to yield ground in her own driveway.

  When the crime scene techs arrived, she faced the fact that she couldn’t do anything else. Not that they’d find something useful.

  She didn’t need a police report to tell her that this crime wouldn’t be solved. Shots fired on a deserted road from a vehicle nobody had seen? No evidence.

  A sheep was dead. Mitch was going to take the loss. He’d survive it, but loss of livestock was a ding on any rancher’s bottom line.

  In fact, killing livestock was about the worst thing you could do in these parts. She wouldn’t be the only angry person when word got around.

  She turned and walked back to her house. It didn’t look as much like a refuge as it had yesterday.

  * * *

  Mitch watched her walk away. He was more concerned about her than about the ewe. Yeah, it was ugly. Even horrifying. Clearly those men last night hadn’t been content with a single shot. They’d used that poor animal for target practice. Anger simmered inside him.

  But Grace was another matter. All alone out here. Gunshots in the night and no one around to make her feel safe, or help her deal with it. Then this morning, to find this atrocity so close. Not out on a distant pasture, but right near her driveway.

  She might stride away with purpose
with back straight and shoulders squared, but she wasn’t always the brave woman she appeared to be.

  No, she was as stubborn as an army mule. Only stubbornness could have kept her out here by herself. Never give an inch. That was Grace’s motto.

  He admired it, but it worried him, too. She was unlikely to ask for help even when she needed it. She probably never would have mentioned the gunshots last night except for the sheep. Or maybe if her fence had been damaged.

  Otherwise, she would have rolled with the blow, as she almost always did.

  Hell no. She wouldn’t have told him about a broken fence at all. Instead she’d have tried to figure out how to pay someone. Given that he knew she was squeaking by, it would have annoyed him no end to learn she’d done that.

  Damn, he had hired help he could send over.

  His thoughts needed to be corralled. He’d have to quit imagining things that hadn’t happened, and deal with what was.

  A dead ewe. Some drunks, most likely, thinking they were having fun. Still, the ewe was dead.

  He could absorb the loss financially, but the act itself incensed him. What kind of person got his kicks from shooting up a defenseless animal? Hell, a steer was more of a threat than a sheep.

  Guy Redwing wrapped up the investigation, as little as it was. Techs in Tyvek suits bagged and took the remains for examination. Mitch doubted they’d learn much.

  “So,” he said to Guy as the techs took the ewe, “what’s your impression?”

  Guy hesitated. “Drunks shooting up the county.”

  That wasn’t all, Mitch sensed. “Got any other cases like this?”

  Guy shook his head. “One and only. Maybe others will turn up in the next few weeks.”

  Mitch studied the man, thinking he was being closemouthed, but about what?

  Was it the savagery? Or something more?

  Guy spoke again. “Grace ain’t around enough to have made anyone angry. So drunks it is.”

  Most likely, Mitch thought. Grace couldn’t have an enemy on this entire planet.