all here inside the gates?” Buford asked.
Kevin checked the second sheet of paper he’d taken from a separate pocket. “All except JJ. She left this morning at 10:16 a.m.”
Buford glanced over at the body. 10:16 a.m. That had to be close to the time of the murder, since the dead man’s blood was still wet when a woman wearing cowboy boots appeared to have knelt by the body, then sprinted for the front door.
Blythe pressed her cheek against Logan’s broad back and breathed in the rich scents on the cool spring air. The highway rolled past in a blur, the hours slipping by until they were cruising along the Rocky Mountain front, the high mountain peaks snow-capped and beautiful.
The farther Blythe and Logan traveled, the fewer vehicles they saw. When they stopped at a café in the small western town of Cut Bank along what Logan said was called the Hi-Line, she was ravenous again.
“Not many people live up here, huh,” she said as she climbed off the bike. A fan pumped the smell of grease out the side of the café. She smiled to herself as she realized how much she’d missed fried food. All those years of dieting seemed such a waste right now.
“You think this is isolated?” Logan said with a chuckle. “Wait until you see where we’re headed. They say there are only .03 people per square mile. I suspect it’s less.”
She smiled, shaking her head as she tried to imagine such wide-open spaces. Even when she’d lived in the desert there had been a large town closeby. Since then she’d lived in congested cities. The thought of so few people seemed like heaven.
Blythe could tell Logan wanted to ask where she was from, but she didn’t give him a chance as she turned and headed for the café door. She’d seen a few pickups parked out front, but when she pushed open the door, she was surprised to find the café packed.
One of the waitresses spotted her, started to come over, then did a double take. She burst into a smile. “I know you. You’re—”
“Mistaken,” Blythe said, cutting the girl off, sensing Logan right behind her.
The girl looked confused and embarrassed. “I don’t have a table ready. But you look so much like—”
Blythe hated being rude, but she turned around and took Logan’s arm. “I’m too hungry to wait,” she said as she pulled him back through the door outside again.
“Did you know that waitress?” Logan asked, clearly taken aback by the way she’d handled it. “She seemed to know you.”
She shook her head. “I must have one of those faces or that waitress has been on her feet too long. I didn’t mean to be abrupt with her. I get cranky when I’m hungry. Can we go back to that barbecue place we passed?” She turned and headed for the bike before he could press the subject.
“You sure you’ve never been to this town before?” he asked as he swung onto the bike.
“Positive,” she said as she climbed on behind him. It wasn’t until he started the bike that she let herself glance toward the front windows of the café. The young waitress was standing on the other side of the glass.
Blythe looked away, promising herself that she would make it up to her one day. If she was still alive.
She shoved that thought away, realizing she should have known someone would recognize her even though she looked different now. It was the eyes, she thought, and closed them as Logan drove back to the barbecue joint.
It wasn’t until later, after they’d settled into a booth and ordered, that she tried to smooth things over with Logan. She could tell he was even more curious about her. And suspicious, as well.
“When I was a little girl I used to watch old Westerns on television,” she said, hoping to lighten both of their moods. “I always wanted to run away with a cowboy.”
“So you’re a romantic.”
She laughed softly as she looked across the table at him. There were worry lines between the brows of his handsome face.
“Or was it the running away part that appealed to you?” he asked.
“That could definitely be part of it. Haven’t you ever wanted to run away?”
“Sure.” His Montana blue-sky eyes bore into her. “Most people don’t have the luxury of actually doing it though.”
“Good thing we aren’t most people,” she said, giving him a flirtatious smile.
“Oh? You think we’re that much alike? So tell me what you’re like and I’ll tell you whether or not you’re right about me.”
“No big mystery. I like to dance, drive fast, have a good time and I’m always up for an adventure. How else could I have ended up living that little-girl fantasy of running away with a cowboy?”
“How else indeed,” Logan said, but he was smiling.
“HAS ANYONE LOOKED IN this house for the four approved guests who are unaccounted for?” the sheriff demanded.
Kevin was reaching for his phone to check with his security personnel when Buford caught a glint out of the corner of his eye. Turning toward Sanderson’s body, he saw something glittering on the lapel of the dead man’s robe that he hadn’t noticed before.
Stepping over to the body again, he crouched down next to Sanderson and inspected the lapel. Someone had attached a safety pin to the left-hand lapel of the dead man’s robe. As Buford looked closer, he found a tiny piece of yellow paper still attached to it.
The killer had left a note? Or was it possible that Sanderson had left a suicide note?
The thought took him by surprise. He’d been treating this like a homicide. But what if it had been a suicide, complete with note?
If so, then why would anyone take it? To protect Sanderson? To purposely make it appear to be a homicide?
A history buff, Buford thought of a famous death that perplexed historians still. Captain Meriwether Lewis of the famed Lewis and Clark Expedition through Montana had suffered from depression that was thought to be the cause of his apparent suicide. But there were still those who believed he’d been murdered.
Very perplexing, Buford thought as he moved to a small desk in the kitchen. On it was a yellow sticky note pad. The top sheet had been torn in half horizontally, leaving the glued piece and a ragged edge. The paper was the same color as the tiny scrap still caught on the safety pin.
A blue pen lay beside the pad. Unfortunately there was no slight indentation on the pad. Whoever had written the note had ripped the scrap of paper off first before writing the note.
“Did anyone remove something that had been pinned to the deceased’s robe?” he asked. Both Kevin, the two guards and Jett swore they hadn’t. From their surprise at the question, Buford suspected they were telling the truth.
But someone had taken the note.
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