Montana Standoff (7 page)

“Would you like to come in?” she said, a clumsy shyness nearly overwhelming her ability to speak. “I owe you a meal, and I'm a great cook, especially if you like boiled cabbage. You could admire my original Remington print while I prepare you an authentic Irish supper.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I'll have to take a rain check,” Steven responded. “It's getting late, and tomorrow's a working day for the both of us.” He climbed out of the Jeep, opened her door, and took her hand to help her out, something no man had ever done before and he'd already done twice. He walked her up the flight of stairs and when she fumbled with the key, fingers trembling with nervousness, he took it from her, opened the door, and handed it back without a word.

She hesitated in the doorway, desperately trying to think of a way to keep this from being a forever goodbye. Was it possible that love at first sight could happen to one person, while the other remained indifferent? Was it possible that Steven didn't feel any of that special chemistry that flowed between them at all? “Thank you for the ice-cream cone.”

“You're very welcome.”

Another painful pause. “If I can't convince you to come inside with promises of boiled cabbage and Remington prints, I guess this is good night, Steven Young Bear.” She hoped on the one hand that she didn't sound as desperate as she felt, and on the other that he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her breathless.

“Good night, Molly Ferguson,” he said as he turned away.

“Wait,” she said, taking an involuntary step after him and damning herself even as she did. “Aren't you going to ask what my thoughts are about New Millennium Mining after today's field trip?”

He paused, glancing back. “I know what they are.”

“But…” She floundered in another wave of shyness. “Aren't you going to try to change my mind?”

His eyes were impossible to read. “No,” he said.

She clutched her keys tightly, sharp metal biting into her palm. “So, that's it? You drive me to this open pit mine, show me how ugly it is, tell me that it's killing a lot of people, and then you bring me back here and say good night. No closing arguments?”

“No closing arguments.”

She took a step back, thrown completely off balance by his candor. “Well, okay, then, counselor. Thank you again for everything, and good night.”

“Good night, Molly.”

She leaned over the stairwell and watched him walk down the stairs. He was a powerful, graceful man. Completely confident and self-possessed. She yearned for him to stop and look up at her with a parting promise that he'd call her again very soon, but he didn't. “I had a really good time today,” she said, but she spoke the words very softly, breathed them, really, and if he heard them, he made no response.

B
ACK IN HIS VEHICLE
, pulling away from the curb, Steven grappled with a bewildering tangle of emotions he'd never felt before. What was it about Molly Ferguson that
grabbed him and wouldn't let go? She wasn't the sort of person that he should be the least bit attracted to. She didn't share or even understand his feelings about protecting the environment. To him the word
gold
brought images of cyanide heap-leaching pits and poisoned waterways, whereas Molly heard the word
gold
and thought
jewelry.
There was absolutely nothing about her that should appeal to him…and yet he had very nearly taken her up on that offer of an Irish supper.

Was he
that
lonely and desperate that he would try to put the moves on a fellow attorney who had asked him as a courtesy to show her what the New Millennium mine on Madison Mountain would look like? She was a young and inexperienced intern just trying to understand the issues, and he had very nearly taken advantage of her. Dangerous stuff, especially when they were both involved in what could become a nasty bit of litigation between mining and environmental concerns. A definite conflict of interest.

The drive to Bozeman was filled with a silence so oppressive that Steven turned on the radio, and while the nonstop cacophony bombarded him, he wondered what Molly was cooking and which of Remington's prints she had on her apartment wall, but most of all he kept wondering what it would have been like to kiss her.

He had wanted to. Back at the picnic spot when he smoothed that stray lock of hair behind her ear, he had wanted to kiss her. Standing outside her apartment door, saying good-night to her just a few moments ago, he had wanted to kiss her. Perhaps now was the time in his life that he needed to go to the mountain on another vision quest. Perhaps now he needed to fast and suffer several
long, cold sleepless nights in order to drive the heat of this red-haired white woman from his blood.

Or maybe all he needed was a little time to regain his equilibrium. If Manning had his way, Molly would be removed from any association with the New Millennium mine project and Steven would never see her again. They certainly didn't live in the same town or travel in the same social circles. This strange, wild fever she'd ignited in him would slowly subside. All he needed was a little time….

He reached his house in Gallatin Gateway by nine-thirty. He was hungry and looked in the refrigerator for something quick and easy. There was a fair assortment of things he liked, but his eye was arrested by a small green cabbage in one of the vegetable drawers. He used cabbage frequently as an ingredient in salads and stir-fries, but he'd never regarded it as the main course. He pulled it out and hefted it. Minutes later it was quartered and boiling in a covered pot, and the kitchen filled with the strong, steamy smells of what he assumed was a classic Irish meal.

He ate at the kitchen table with the ever-present law books laid out around him. He first tried seasoning a cabbage wedge with salt, pepper and butter. Then he retrieved a bottle of French dressing and doused another wedge and tried it. Italian on the third. Plain vinegar on the fourth with a glass of red wine. He ate the entire cabbage.

Without a doubt, it was the worst meal he'd ever voluntarily consumed.

He took this as a sign, and instead of taking the memories of a wild redhead to his bed, he took one of his books and studied until well past midnight…but his dreams betrayed him in the early hours of the new day.

M
OLLY WAS CALLED
on the carpet first thing on Monday morning by Mr. Skelton, one of the firm's three senior partners. She tried not to be intimidated by the fact that he was wealthy, successful and one of the most eminently respected members in a law firm she had barely managed to hire into. She stood before him in his office, determined to be professional. “As I've already explained, Mr. Skelton, it was an extremely unfortunate set of circumstances,” she said. “I was asked just three hours prior to that public meeting if I could temporarily replace Brad as New Millennium's legal representative, and I studied the file up until I had to leave for the meeting. Unfortunately, it just so happens that Tom Miller gave me the
wrong
file.”

“Ken Manning is demanding a written apology,” Jarrod Skelton said in his stern yet patronizing way, pushing out of his dark green leather chair. “Molly, surely you can understand the position I'm in.” Skelton had gained weight recently, and his vest strained to hold its own against his pampered paunch. He tugged at it self-consciously as he rounded his desk. “Don't take this personally. You understand that we have to appease him. New Millennium is a subsidiary of Condor Interna
tional, and they've been one of our biggest clients for several years. It's an extremely important and profitable account for us.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” Molly said, “but I can't help but take this personally. This was the first real project I've been entrusted with since I was hired, and I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted to prove my worth to you. The car accident was unavoidable, but I can't explain why Tom would give me the wrong file to study. Sourdough Mine and New Millennium are pretty far apart in the file cabinet. Have you asked him about that?”

“I just came from his office. He explained that a clerk must have misfiled the papers in the wrong folder, and he never thought to check the file's contents before giving it to you.”

“Perhaps that's what happened, but I don't think it's fair that I should take all the blame.”

“Mistakes are made,” Skelton said with an impatient gesture. “Unfortunately for you, that seems to have been the case, and somehow we must atone for it. Besides, Tom's leaving the firm. If we tried to implicate him in this matter, it would make you look even worse. We have to appease Ken Manning, and he's asked for a written letter of apology from you. Brad's meeting with him for lunch. He said he'd deliver it for you.”

In the silence that followed, the perfectly modulated and rhythmic cadence of Skelton's twenty-thousand-dollar custom-made cherry grandfather clock gave a beat to the time it kept. Ticktock, ticktock. Never varying, always the same, the clock gonged on the hour and half hour and the entire office measured their day by the time it kept. Molly listened to the clock as heat climbed
into her face and wished that her Irish temper wasn't so blatantly visible, but she could see no reason why Tom shouldn't share the blame, even if he was leaving the firm. Or better yet, shoulder all of it, since Molly was sure he'd switched files on her deliberately. But clearly, Skelton had already decided what the course of action should be, and she was in no position, as a lowly intern, to second-guess him.

“I could deliver the letter myself,” Molly said. “Wouldn't that be better, Mr. Skelton?”

“I got the distinct impression from Manning that he'd rather not see you again. I'm sorry, Molly. Brad's meeting him at two at the club. If you could have the letter ready…?”

“Of course,” Molly said. “I'll get right on it.” Her throat squeezed up around her final words and she left Skelton's office, her eyes stinging with tears. She mustn't let him see her cry. Crying was for weak, silly women and she was neither weak nor silly, just spitting mad. She retreated to her office and closed the door behind herself, sinking into the chair behind her desk and clasping her trembling hands atop it. For a long while she was unable to do anything but seethe, yet somehow she had to compose a note of apology to that awful Ken Manning, and to do that she had to quell her murderous thoughts about Tom Miller. She drew a shaky breath and brought up the writing program on her computer. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she eyed the blank screen and the blinking cursor as if both were mortal enemies.

“Dear Mr. Manning,” she began. “Please accept my deepest apologies for…”

For what?

“…for allowing myself to be so deliberately and cruelly deceived by my colleague, Tom Miller, whose immature and reprehensible actions caused me to fail you so terribly at the public meeting in Moose Horn Friday evening. Apparently he thought substituting the wrong file for me to study was fair payback for my repeated refusals to date him, which no doubt bruised his glorified male ego.”

She scrutinized the words and tried to calm her pounding heart. She deleted the entire opening and sat for a few moments more, thinking about her mother and father and how devastated they would be if she was fired from this prestigious law office after bragging about her to all their friends and acquaintances nonstop for the past year.

“Please accept my deepest apologies for failing to represent you adequately at the public meeting in Moose Horn on Friday evening. I was ill prepared, and can offer no excuses that could possibly forgive such a blatant transgression on my part.

“Furthermore, I also apologize for being late to the aforementioned meeting and for arriving with the attorney representing the citizens of Moose Horn.

“In closing, Mr. Manning, I hope you understand that my actions and behavior yesterday evening were no measure of my usual standards, nor did they represent in any way the excellent legal representation consistently provided to both you and your parent company by the law firm of Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein.

“With utmost respect and deepest apologies…”

Molly closed her eyes, rotated her shoulders and took a deep, even breath. Steven had said that Ken Manning
was involved in the Mountain Militia. She wondered if that organization had a Web site, and if it did, what it would be like. Just the idea of Ken Manning being connected to a militia was a little frightening. Semiautomatic weapons, Steven being threatened. She wondered if Mr. Skelton knew….

J
EFFERSON WAS A TWO
-
HORSE TOWN
, and Steven had no trouble finding Maffick's Salvage, the garage where Sam Blackmore's ruined station wagon had been hauled. “I've done a preliminary autopsy on the wreck,” Maffick said when Steven asked about the station wagon. “The police asked me to give it a once-over, but everything seemed to be in working order.” Maffick wiped his greasy hands on a rag he pulled out of his hip pocket. He was lean and wiry, in his early sixties, with faded blue eyes and three days growth of a beard that was mostly salt with a dash of pepper. “Take a look if you want. A lot of folks've already come by. They like to see the blood, I guess. I should charge admission, make some money. It's out back of the garage. Can't miss it.”

The station wagon was a crumpled mess. Windshield missing, roof flattened onto the backrest of the seats, and a lot of blood in the driver's seat. Steven wasn't a physician but he did know that dead men didn't bleed. The crash hadn't killed Blackmore right away, though it seemed impossible he could have survived it long enough to bleed that much.

Maffick was working on salvaging the starter out of an old pickup that looked like it couldn't possibly have anything useful left on it. He shook his head when
Steven asked him about finding anything inside of the vehicle. “Nope. The police must've took out all his personal belongings before I hauled it here. Nothing left but the blood when I got it.”

The sheriff's department that had responded to the crash was twenty miles north of Jefferson, and when Steven knocked on the office door, the sheriff himself opened it, sandwich in one hand, chewing. “Sorry to disturb your lunch,” Steven said as he introduced himself. “I phoned you earlier this morning about Sam Blackmore.”

“Oh, sure,” the sheriff said around a mouthful, opening the door wide and motioning him in. He extended his hand. “Conrad Walker.” Walker was close to Steven's age, in his early thirties. Medium height and build wearing a tan uniform, big badge and pistol holstered on his hip.

“I was wondering what happened to Sam Blackmore's digital camera, his briefcase, and the water samples that he was carrying.”

Walker frowned. “What?”

“Did you search the interior of the vehicle at the crash site?”

“Of course.” The sheriff stood a little taller, immediately on the defensive. He laid the sandwich atop a wrapper on his desk. “When there's a death involved, we follow strict procedure. There was no camera, no briefcase.”

“What about a container filled with vials of water?”

“No. His wallet was on him, and some loose change in the ashtray. There were a few pieces of junk mail, an empty paper coffee cup, and a sandwich wrapper from Happy's Hamburger Joint.”

“Any money in the wallet?”

“Thirty-six dollars in various denominations and a Susan B. Anthony coin.”

“Did you examine the vehicle at the crash site?”

Walker's flush deepened. “Of course.”

“Might you have been distracted by having to deal with the body?”

“Is this some kind of cross-examination?”

“I spoke to a person who claims that Sam Blackmore had a digital camera, five hundred dollars in cash, and a case of water samples with him in his vehicle on the morning that he crashed.”

“Maybe he went somewhere before he drove up on the mountain.” The sheriff shrugged. “But I can tell you this. There was nothing in the car with him but what I told you.”

“What time did you reach the accident site?”

Walker thought for a few moments. “Just past eleven.”

“Was the vehicle's engine still warm?”

“I…” The sheriff began to look embarrassed and shook his head. “I don't know. I didn't check. Maybe someone else did….”

“Who discovered the wreck?”

“One of the contractors driving a dump truck. It was just lucky he spotted it, the damned thing was way over the embankment, buried in the trees. He called for help on his radio and stayed until we arrived. We closed the road down shortly after that, once all the contractors were off the mountain.”

“Do you have the dump-truck driver's name?”

“Of course, and the written statement he gave if you'd like to read it.”

“I would. Where was Blackmore's body taken?”

“St. Mary's in Bozeman.”

Steven nodded. “You saw it, of course.”

“Yeah.” The sheriff hooked his thumbs in his belt. “You wouldn't have been able to recognize him, even if he'd been a close friend. Poor bastard.”

“Do you know if the hospital performed an autopsy on the body?”

Walker shook his head again. “I don't know. I mean, as far as we knew, it was just an accident, that's all.”

“You think he was killed in the crash?”

Walker stared for a moment and then barked out a laugh. “What kind of a question is that? Of course he was killed in the crash.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “Why, you think there was foul play involved?”

“Blackmore had a briefcase, a digital camera and some important water samples. Where are they now? He was carrying a five-hundred-dollar cash retainer that he'd just received from the citizens of Moose Horn. What happened to that? There are some questions that need answering, that's all.”

“Well, I can't say what happened to his stuff, but it was clear enough to me that he was driving too fast down that access road. Some people don't realize that loose gravel acts just like ice under a vehicle's tires. He came to that sharp corner and skidded right off the edge of the world. Murder?” Walker shook his head. “Excessive speed is what killed him.”

 

A
T THE HOSPITAL IN
B
OZEMAN
, Steven learned that Blackmore's body had been released that same day to the funeral home and that a cause of death had been es
tablished. “Massive head trauma,” the pathologist told him. “I estimated the time of death at somewhere between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m., but that's just an estimate. The postmortem was routine and uninvolved. I wasn't looking for anything suspicious, just blood-alcohol levels, other drugs, routine stuff we check for in all car-accident victims.”

Steven mulled over the evidence on his way to the office and sat for a long while at his desk, jotting down what he'd learned and then studying his notes. He glanced at the phone several times and then finally threw down his pen and called information. “Butte,” he said to the operator. “Sam Blackmore, Esquire.”

Moments later a woman answered. He asked to speak to Mrs. Blackmore.

“This is she,” the woman replied quietly.

Steven drew a steadying breath. “Mrs. Blackmore, this is Steven Young Bear. I'm an attorney and I knew your husband. I was very sorry to learn about his death.”

“Thank you.”

“Mrs. Blackmore…” he began, rubbing his forehead as he fumbled for the right words. “Mrs. Blackmore, according to a witness who saw Sam before he drove up to Madison Mountain, he was carrying his digital camera, some water samples taken from the Madison Mountain watershed, five hundred dollars in cash, and his briefcase. The police found none of these things in his vehicle after the accident. Did he, by any chance, stop at home or the office and leave any of it behind?”

There was a long pause. “No, no, I don't think so. None of it's here, at home. I haven't checked his office yet, this has all been such a shock, but I will, Mr. Young Bear.”

“I'm sorry,” Steven said. “I know this is a terrible time to be discussing these things—”

“It's all right,” Mrs. Blackmore interrupted in a voice that trembled with emotion. “I understand what you're saying, and I won't lie to you. Sometimes I've imagined just this sort of awful thing happening to my husband. He fights for unpopular causes, just like you. My husband spoke of you often, Mr. Young Bear. He admired you greatly, and shared your passion in protecting the environment.”