Odd Man Out
B.J. Daniels
To Kathrina,
who showed me the way, and Kitty and Judy, who read every word along the way. Special thanks to Neil and Dani.
Cast of Characters
Denver McCallahan—She was determined to find her uncle’s killer—no matter how dangerous it was.
J. D. Garrison—A country music star, he’d come to help Denver, but could she trust him?
Pete Williams—All he wanted was Denver, but how far would he go to have her?
Max McCallahan—Someone killed Denver’s uncle because he was getting too close to the truth.
Sheila Walker—The reporter had a nose for news but she was making the wrong people nervous.
Cal Dalton—He had an eye for Denver and every reason to want her stopped.
Maggie Jones—She feared she knew who killed Max McCallahan, and knew him too well.
Taylor Reynolds—Was Max’s old friend staying around to help or was he after Max’s woman?
Davey Matthews—The teenager wanted to be a private eye, but snooping wasn’t good for his health.
Deputy Sheriff Cline—Did he have his own reasons for not wanting Max’s killer caught?
Contents
Prologue
Rain pelted the tops of the parked cars like rocks hitting tin cans. Rivulets of the icy stuff ran off the brim of J. D. Garrison’s gray Stetson as he hung back in a stand of snowy pines on a hillside overlooking the tiny Fir Ridge Cemetery. Hidden from view, he eyed the funeral service taking place beneath the swollen dark clouds covering the valley below. He’d been away far too long. He hunched deeper in his sheepskin coat, his head bent against the cold wetness of the Montana spring day, as he wished it hadn’t been death that had brought him home again.
Half the county had turned out for Max McCallahan’s burial even in the freezing downpour. Snatches of the service reached J.D. on the hillside. He had to smile at the priest’s portrayal of the old Irish private eye. Max must be turning in his grave to hear such malarkey. Too bad the good Father didn’t just tell the truth—that Max had been a big, loud, red-faced Irishman and damned proud of it. That he’d loved his ale. And that, if the need arose, he hadn’t been one to back down from a good brawl. The truth was, the devil had danced in the old Irishman’s eyes most of the time. But there’d also been another side to Max, a gentle, loving side, that a young girl had brought out in him.
As the priest led a prayer, J.D. studied that young girl—Max’s niece, Denver McCallahan. She was no longer a girl but she would always have that look because of her slight build. She stood under the dripping canopy at the edge of the grave, a large black felt hat hiding most of her long auburn hair and part of her face. Her manner appeared almost peaceful.
J.D. wasn’t fooled. He knew Denver’s composure was an act. Max had been her only family; she would have killed for him. J.D.’s jaw tensed under his dark beard as the tall cowboy beside Denver slipped an arm around her shoulders. He’d have recognized the man anywhere, not only because of his blond hair and his arrogant stance, but by his trademark—the large, white Western hat now dangling from the fingers of his right hand. J.D. swore, surprised by his reaction. He didn’t like seeing Denver in the arms of his childhood friend, Pete Williams.
J.D. looked up as an older woman joined him in the seclusion of the pines. She wore a worn wool plaid hunting jacket, Max’s, no doubt, jeans, a flannel shirt and boots.
“I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” Maggie said as she stepped
