Quinn (32 page)

They nodded before heading toward the other room.

Once inside, Quinn drew a chair close to the bed.

When Cheyenne was seated, she took the old man’s hand in hers and clung to it the way she had when she’d been a little girl.

Quinn hauled a second chair beside hers and sat quietly, watching and waiting. When he was satisfied that she had her emotions under control, he turned to her, keeping his voice low. “I’m going to drop by the chief’s office and report this latest fire.”

She nodded.

He brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I won’t be gone long. Would you like me to pick up something at the diner?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Maybe later. Right now I wouldn’t be able to eat a thing.”

“Okay.” He tugged on a lock of her hair. “Stay strong.”

She turned toward the old man, her eyes solemn, her mouth a grim, tight line of concentration, as though willing him her strength.

Quinn walked from the room and went in search of the police chief.

Rusty Perry drove into the yard and parked his truck beside Cheyenne’s house. Acrid smoke filled the air, and the charred remains of the bunkhouse still smoldered in the midmorning light.

One of the wranglers could be seen walking gingerly through the ashes, kicking at burned timbers, poking through the debris, as though searching for anything worth salvaging.

When Rusty stepped from his vehicle, the wrangler walked over.

“Hey, Rusty.” Austin stuck out his hand before nodding toward the smoking remains of the bunkhouse. “You picked a bad day to stop by.”

“Actually I was here earlier.”

Austin’s brows shot up. “Earlier? While the fire was still burning?”

“Yeah. Though it had pretty much burned itself out by the time I got here.”

Austin turned back to study the ruins. “That had to be
some fire to burn down the entire bunkhouse.” He shook his head from side to side and stared at the toe of his boot. “Poor old Micah. The way that old man sleeps, I figure he never had a chance.”

“Fortunately for him, he woke up.”

“What do you mean?” Austin’s eyes went wide.

“Well, he may have been asleep when the fire started, but he managed to escape. When I came by earlier I found him in the snow.”

“In the snow?” Austin’s voice lowered. “Dead? Or alive?”

“Alive. Barely. But I hauled him to town and the doc thinks he’s going to make it.”

Seeing the stunned expression on Austin’s face, Rusty clapped a hand to his shoulder. “I knew you’d be relieved to hear the good news. Since Cheyenne wanted to stay with him at the clinic and I was heading here anyway, I told her I’d let all of you know that the old guy survived, so you wouldn’t have to worry. Of course, he isn’t out of the woods yet. But at least for now, he’s got a fighting chance.”

“Good.” Austin seemed at a loss for words. “That’s… good.”

“Now, while you pass the good news to the others, I’ll get to the business that brought me here in the first place.”

Rusty walked to the door of the ranch house and lifted a hammer from his tool belt before nailing the building permit to the door.

As he walked toward his truck he called over his shoulder, “You’ll be sure to tell Wes and the others that Micah survived, won’t you?”

“You bet.” Austin stayed where he was, watching as Rusty climbed into his truck and drove away.

A
nother fire?” Everett Fletcher pulled up a form on his computer screen and began typing while Quinn fed him the details. When he’d heard enough, he paused to peer over his glasses. “I haven’t even received the investigator’s results of the first fire, but I’m telling you, a second fire on the same property raises too many red flags. With that first fire at Cheyenne’s home, her wranglers started the cleanup the next morning and I was in agreement, because she needed to get back into her house as soon as possible. This time, I’m going to insist that none of the debris gets touched until the fire and insurance investigators sift through everything and make a determination.”

Quinn nodded. “I agree, Chief.”

Everett rubbed a hand over his brow. “How’s Micah holding up?”

“Dr. Walton thinks he’ll recover. He received a lot of bumps and bruises and some burns before escaping the
bunkhouse. From the looks of him, he’s lucky to be alive. It had to take some pretty fierce determination to make it out with a fire raging and the building collapsing around him.”

“I’ve known Micah Horn for a lifetime. He’s a tough old cowboy.” The chief looked up as his phone rang. “Excuse me a minute, Quinn.”

He spoke into the phone and listened in silence before a look of alarm crossed his face. “You’re sure of that?”

Moments later he replaced the phone and shook his head in disbelief. “That was the state police. They ran a check on everyone on Cheyenne’s payroll and came up with some pretty shocking news.” He waited a beat before saying, “It seems that Cheyenne has a dead man on her payroll.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Quinn’s eyes narrowed.

“Austin Baylor was a twenty-seven-year-old inmate in a mental hospital in Laramie. The records show that he died there five years ago.”

“If Austin isn’t Austin Baylor, who is he?”

The chief shrugged. “That’s the million-dollar question.”

“So, you’re saying that some cowboy decided to use a dead man’s name and whatever documents could be forged in order to conceal his own identity?”

The chief nodded. “It’s not as rare as you’d think. We have a lot of transients working up here, especially during calving season and again during roundup. If someone has a criminal background, it’s hard to get hired.” He peered at Quinn. “Would you want to take on a part-timer with a criminal record?”

Quinn shrugged. “I’d want to know what the crime was and whether he really wanted to work or just wanted a place to hide out until he hatched his next big scheme.”

“Exactly. So, some of them figure it’s easier to forge a dead man’s documents than to deal with all the questions.”

“But in this case, Austin, or the guy pretending to be Austin, has been living and working at the ranch for the past couple of years. He’s become like one of the family.”

“So, the question is, why? What’s his game?”

Quinn gripped the arms of his chair. “How long will it take to figure out who this guy is and what he’s up to?”

The chief pointed to the fax across the room, spitting out pages of documents. “If we’re lucky, the state boys may have already sorted things out.”

He stood and began retrieving the loose pages before setting them on his desk. As he read through them, his eyes narrowed and his mouth became a grim line of anger.

“This guy is a real piece of work. His real name is Abbott Monroe. His parents were killed in a house fire, and he entered the foster-care system when he was only twelve. His first foster parents managed to escape a fire in their home, and he was evaluated by psychologists working with the state as a sociopath. This guy, they say, fits the description to a T. Charming as hell until he doesn’t get what he wants. To him, the end justifies the means. And woe to anyone who refuses him anything he’s set his sights on. He’ll do whatever it takes.”

Chief Fletcher’s voice lowered as he added, “He was supposed to be in a mental health facility, but an inquiry discovered that he went missing several years ago and seems to have fallen off the face of the earth.”

Quinn got to his feet so quickly he nearly knocked over the chair. “And, while he was there, he got to know Austin Baylor.”

The chief nodded. “You got it. Knowing that Austin
Baylor was dead, he felt safe using his name and any personal information he could glean.” Chief Everett Fletcher checked his handgun before pushing away from his desk. “I’m heading up to Cheyenne’s ranch right now to take him into custody.”

Quinn started toward the door. “Call me when you’ve made the arrest. I’ll be at the clinic. I’m not leaving Cheyenne’s side until you have him under lock and key.”

Cheyenne sat stiffly in the chair beside Micah’s bed, his hand clutched firmly in hers. Though she told herself that she was willing him her strength, the truth was, she was seeking his. She had a desperate need to touch him, to assure herself that he was truly alive. With every heartbeat, every unsteady breath he took, her own heart rate began to slow and her world to settle.

As long as he continued to live, to grow stronger, she would be content to do nothing more than sit quietly, his big, rough hand in hers.

As the quiet minutes ticked by, she found herself thinking back to her childhood, and the cowboy who had always had time for a joke or a lesson for the little girl who had followed him like a shadow. It was Micah who had put her in the saddle for the first time, who had taught her to groom her horse, to muck stalls, to fetch grain and water for the animals in her care. And always with a smile and a wink, as though what they were sharing was the most important part of his day. He’d made her feel safe. Protected. Loved. Cherished.

“Oh, Micah.” She leaned close to kiss his grizzled cheek. He smelled of woodsmoke and leather, familiar scents from her childhood. “Please get better. I need you.”

His lids flickered. His eyes opened and she could see him struggling to focus.

The agitation was back. His fingers closed around hers with enough pressure to cause her to wince. His throat, badly injured by smoke and fire, caused his words to be little more than guttural sounds as he struggled to speak.

“It’s okay. Don’t tax yourself, Micah.” She pressed a hand to his shoulder when he tried to sit up. “You’re in the clinic now, and Dr. Walton says you’re going to be fine.”

“Here you are.” At the sound of Austin’s voice Cheyenne looked over.

He strode across the room and studied the way Micah was twisting and turning in the bed. “Rusty Perry stopped by the ranch and said he’d brought Micah here.”

At the sound of his voice Micah went very still before becoming even more agitated.

Cheyenne put her hand on the old man’s forehead, hoping the touch of her would have a calming effect. “Thank heaven for Rusty. I don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t arrived when he did.”

“What’s the doc think?” Austin nodded toward the figure in the bed. “He going to make it?”

“She thinks so. He was so agitated she had to give him a sedative.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working.” Austin stepped to the other side of the bed. “Maybe you ought to go find her and ask her to bring something to quiet him down.”

Micah stared in horror at the man beside the bed before swiveling his head toward Cheyenne.

“She’s in her office next door.” Cheyenne sat down and captured Micah’s hand in hers. His pulse, she noted, was pumping like a runaway train. He seemed even worse
now than when she’d first arrived. “Dr. Walton said that if I needed her, I should press the buzzer on the desk in the outer office. Maybe you could do that now and she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“I saw a couple of cars pulling up in front of her office when I got here.” Austin glanced at his watch. “Even if she hears the buzzer, she could get sidetracked by her patients and forget all about him. I’d be happy to stay here and keep an eye on him while you get her.”

Micah moaned and thrashed about, waving his arm in the air before both his hands closed around hers in a viselike grip.

Cheyenne felt a moment of panic. Micah was definitely worse now, and so highly agitated, she feared for his heart.

She looked over at Austin. “Something is terribly wrong. I think you’re right. The doctor needs to see him right now.”

She extricated her hand from the old man’s grasp and leaned over him to murmur, “I’ll only be gone a minute, Micah. Hold on. Austin is right here.”

With the old man making strange sounds she turned and hurried from the room.

She followed the small corridor that connected the walk-in clinic with the doctor’s office. Once in the office she had to wait until the receptionist got off the phone with a patient before she could let her know that she was very concerned about Micah and ask that the doctor come immediately.