is, there weren’t that many fools around Miles City. Not with the tourists all down in California at this time of year. Even drunks had better sense than to venture out in the middle of winter—and if they did, they didn’t end up in his cow pasture half-buried in a snowdrift.
No, something wasn’t right.
The early-morning light was still hazy, so he carefully checked the snow-covered ground in all directions. He was looking for boot marks or hoof prints. Rustlers had been hitting this part of Montana, and he’d even heard rumors of contract killers coming into the Billings airport yesterday.
But there were no prints around the car. He didn’t see anything but frostbitten sage and, in the distance, the low rolling hills of the Big Sheep Mountain range. He could make out the smoke coming from the fire in one of the bunkhouses on his ranch and he sighed. He should be home with his feet propped up in front of the fire having a second cup of coffee.
Instead he’d come out to be sure all the cows made it to the storm shelter last night, and here he was. Trying to decide what kind of trouble that red car was going to be.
He studied the car. Most likely it was empty. Failing that, however, it was a trap set by the rustlers. Whoever drove that car into the creek bed knew someone passing by couldn’t resist walking over and taking a look inside. Not after a brittle winter night like last night. Because—if the car wasn’t empty—it meant some poor fool needed help desperately.
Well, he might as well get it over with. He reached under the seat. He’d feel a lot more comfortable with a weapon of some sort. He usually had more tools there, but all he found was one old hammer. He’d picked up the hammer in a ditch a month or so ago when he was out mending fences.
Garth eyed the hammer doubtfully. He’d heard of men who could kill someone with a dinner fork, but he doubted even they could do much with this hammer. The wooden handle was splintered and the metal was rusty. It looked like it’d crumble with the first blow. Not that he needed to worry about giving a second blow anyway if the men inside the car were packing guns. He’d be finished before he began.
Garth opened his cab door cautiously. A light filter of snow was falling and the weather was so cold, Garth’s breath hung around him like smoke. He hefted the hammer in his bare hand as he walked low, gliding from sagebrush to sagebrush.
Garth half slid along the ground when he got closer to the car. The snow was cold on his stomach, but he hardly noticed.
The window of the Skylark was steamed up but Garth could see a shape. It could be a bundle of blankets. Or it could be a man.
A soft moan came from inside the car.
This is it, Garth said to himself. He took a deep breath, rose to his full height, hefted the hammer and opened the car door all in one swift movement. Garth was braced for the blast of a rifle, but not for the shrill scream that shook his earlobes.
He dropped the hammer on his toes.
“What the—” He swore until the small face in front of him blinked and then opened up a pair of eyes so blue, he couldn’t believe they were real.
How in the world had she gotten eyes the color of polished turquoise? Garth shook himself. Forget her eyes, old man. Remember where you are. She could be a criminal. Rustlers wouldn’t hesitate to use a pretty woman as bait. “What are you doing here?”
Sylvia looked up at the man. He was standing with his back to the rising winter sun. Flecks of snow clung to the gray Stetson that kept his face in shadows even though it was early morning. The hat was worn and dipped to shield his eyes like it had been trained for the task. He was tall, six foot two or three she’d judge, and sturdy.
She shivered a little from the sheer size of him. Big men made her nervous, not that she ever let them see it. With dogs and big men, she needed to keep her nerve up.
He was angry—she could see that. His face was red with anger even in the cold. But then she saw that his eyes didn’t squint the way a mean man’s eyes would. She had become expert at reading anger on a man’s face. At least her ex-husband had done that much for her.
“What?” Sylvia tried to listen to the man. She felt like she was coming out of a sleep. Something important had happened and she couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe this man knew. She’d driven so far and so fast, she felt as if she was still moving. Then she felt the pain in her head and she remembered—the accident, the twisting of her shoulder, the impact on her head and then the blackness.
“What are you doing here?” the man repeated, and then paused. “Are you working with the rustlers?”
“No,” Sylvia whispered. Her head was pounding. “I’m working with the—”
“The what?”
“The gang.” Sylvia didn’t know why her tongue was so thick. “The boys in the gang.”
The pain in Sylvia’s head twisted and she saw white…
Sylvia woke later to the sound of voices. There was a man’s voice. The big man. She remembered him. His voice sounded like a low rumble. Then there was an old man’s voice, raspy and quiet. Over it all, a woman’s voice soothed them.
“She’s coming round,” the old voice said with assurance.
Sylvia opened her eyes. She was in a Norman Rockwell painting. A white-haired man with a stethoscope around his neck was beaming down at her. A sweet-faced woman with her hair pulled back was looking around his shoulder and beaming, too.
Behind her she saw the big man. He must not have heard of Norman Rockwell. Instead of a smile he wore a scowl. “Give her room to breathe.”
“I’m fine,” Sylvia mouthed the words. They squeaked out softer than she wanted so she took a breath and tried again. “I’m fine.”
“You’re sure she doesn’t need to be in the clinic?” The big man kept talking about her like she wasn’t there. She noticed his gray jacket was still damp from melted snow. “I can take her to Miles City easy enough—the roads aren’t that bad.”
Mention of the roads reminded Sylvia. “I’ve got to go.” She started to sit up.
“You’re not going anywhere,” the woman said firmly, turning to the big man. “Is she, Garth?”
“Garth.” Sylvia rolled the name around on her tongue. She liked it. Even if he had a wife. “Thank you—all of you—but I need to leave.”
Sylvia slowly raised herself completely. She’d been lying on a plaid sofa in a high-ceiling living room. Huge windows opened onto a snow-dusted outdoor deck.
“What do I owe you?” Sylvia looked at the doctor. Doctors in Seattle didn’t make house calls, but if one did it’d be expensive. She wondered how much cash she had with her.
“No need for that.” The old man waved away her offer. “I was out here anyway—the boys had a horse that needed a look-see.”
“A horse?”
“I tend to all of God’s creatures,” the old man said with a smile. “Don’t worry. I went to medical school. Only took up vetting in my later years. Not that you’re complicated. A vet could tell
