style="font-size:15px;"> As it was, her father had. Ely Cahill wouldn’t tell, though. Trask had always liked the old man and thought Ely liked him, as well. It was Lillie’s brothers he had to worry about—especially Flint, the sheriff.
He knew he was taking one devil of a chance by being back in the state, not to mention what he planned to do now that he was.
As he drove the back roads he knew so well—even after nine long years of being away—he felt happy just to be home again. He’d missed all of this, but nothing like he’d missed Lillie. She was more beautiful than she’d been nine years ago, as if that was possible. She’d grown into the amazing woman he’d always known she would become. He couldn’t have been more proud of her for what she’d accomplished with the old stagecoach stop.
Leaving Lillie had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Now he feared he’d come back too late. If he’d lost Lillie, then all his plans would have been for nothing.
He reached the turnoff that would take him up in the mountains and drove through thick pines as the narrow dirt road snaked upward. The day was incredible from the blue of Montana’s big sky to the white puffy clouds riding on the breeze to the jewel green of the pines against the snowcapped mountaintops. He’d forgotten how breathtaking it could be.
Or how much he would miss it. But he’d had no choice but to leave all those years ago. He was facing a murder rap for a crime he hadn’t committed. The law was looking for him, and Lillie... Just the thought of her made his heart ache. He should have stayed and tried to find out the truth. But he’d been young. And scared.
He’d left here a young arrogant rodeo cowboy with a chip on his shoulder and a temper. Now he’d come back a changed man determined to set things right—not just with the law, but with Lillie.
Trask worried that the latter would be the hardest one to right.
The road turned into a Jeep trail. He shifted into four-wheel drive and drove a little farther up the mountainside before pulling over in the pines and walking the rest of the way.
This spot on the mountain had been a favorite of his when he was a boy. He used to come here when life got too tough even for him. The view alone buoyed his spirit. As a boy, he’d pretended that all of this would be his one day, as far as the eye could see.
He’d definitely been a fool in so many ways, he thought now as he reached his campsite. Back in his youth, he hadn’t known what the real cost would be and not just in money.
Now, though, he knew. He’d come home determined to fix the mess he’d made—or die trying.
* * *
ANVIL HOLLOWAY LOOKED shocked that the sheriff would suggest he had beaten his wife, let alone killed her. He looked guiltily at his bruised and bloodied knuckles. “That’s not from hitting my wife. I...I... After she left...” He pointed to the hallway.
Flint got up to inspect a spot where the Sheetrock had been smashed repeatedly. There was still bloodstains where it had soaked into the ruined Sheetrock, although it was clear Anvil had also tried to clean it up as well as the rest of the kitchen.
When he turned back to the man, it was with growing dread. “That wall shows a lot of anger, Anvil.”
The farmer nodded and hung his head.
“It must have been some argument.”
Anvil said nothing.
“You need to tell me. If there is any hope of my finding Jenna...”
Slowly, the farmer lifted his head. “She told me she...had met someone else.”
Flint had expected the complaints most wives of farmers and ranchers who lived out of town often aired. Too much work, no comforts, too far from town and other people, a hard existence with little thanks, let alone money.
But Jenna had never seemed like the complaining type. A plain, big-boned, solemn, conservative woman, she’d appeared to be the perfect wife for Anvil despite their decade difference in age. Jenna was only forty-seven.
“She met someone?” Flint repeated. “You mean she had an affair?”
Anvil buried his face in his hands and began to cry in huge body-shuddering sobs.
He waited until the farmer got control of himself again. “Do you know who?” Flint asked, thinking that was probably where Jenna had gone. That is, if Anvil was telling the truth and she’d actually left under her own power last night.
The recently mopped floor still bothered him, now more than before. Just as the destroyed Sheetrock in the hallway did. He feared the wall could have been busted before Anvil turned that rage on his wife.
Anvil wiped his face with his sleeve and took a few choked breaths. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
Flint let that sink in, hearing not just frustration in the farmer’s voice, but anger. “Did she say why she wouldn’t tell you who he was?”
He swallowed again and looked at his worn work boots. “She said she was afraid I would kill him.”
Great. So Jenna had already been aware of her husband’s temper.
Flint closed his notebook. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to give Jenna a little time to think. I’m betting she will call pretty soon or maybe even show up. If that happens, you call me right away, okay?”
Anvil nodded, looking relieved.
“She say how long she’d been...seeing this other man?”
He shook his head. “I got the feeling it had been going on for a while.”
“So you’d been suspicious?”
Anvil emitted a bitter laugh. “Hit me like a bolt of lightning out of the blue. Never saw it coming. Not in a million years.”
Flint had had the same reaction. Jenna Holloway just didn’t seem the type. Whatever type that was. He thought of his ex. Right, that type.
“How long have you been married?” he asked.
“Twenty-four years. She’s quite a bit younger than me.” Anvil seemed to grind his teeth. “I reckon the man is younger than me, as well.”
“I’m going to need the clothing you were wearing when Jenna left.”
Anvil looked up at him. “You still think I did something to her.”
“It’s protocol in a situation like this. I’m sure Jenna will call today and we can put all this behind us.”
The farmer rose slowly from his chair and disappeared into the other room. He came back with a pair of overalls and a T-shirt. “This is what I was wearing, but I washed them...since they were soiled.”
Flint met the man’s eyes. “How often have you washed your own clothes, Anvil?”
The man looked confused. “It isn’t how it looks.”
“It looks like
