Stripped Bare

 

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About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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To Terri Bischoff, who makes dreams come true,

and

Catriona McPherson, who wouldn't let this one die

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Sometimes life takes us on unexpected journeys. I couldn't have predicted I'd find my way to the Nebraska Sandhills and that I'd be so happy for my time there. First, a thank-you to the warm, loving, fun, and friendly people of Grant County, who welcomed me and gave me a home for nearly twenty years. (Also, thank you to those others because they gave me lots of great conflict to write about.) There is no place quite like the Sandhills, full of beauty and challenge. The gifts of the Sandhills aren't always obvious and might take some effort, but the rewards of loving this landscape are worth it. I will always be grateful for getting to know the people and the land.

An enormous thank-you goes to Sheriff Shawn Hebbert. Always willing to answer my craziest questions, never once laughing at my ideas, and the first person besides me who talked about Kate like she's a real person. Where I've gotten it wrong, it's because I didn't ask the right questions, not because Shawn gave the wrong answer. Kate wouldn't exist without you.

Thank you to Alan Larson for egging me on and for reading early drafts. A most heartfelt thanks to Janet Fogg for not only all the great writing advice but also for being who you are. Jess Lourey gave me a nudge and the confidence to keep going. And to the electric minds of Karen Linn and Julie Kaewart, your brainstorming is nothing less than magic.

To my amazing agent, Marlene Stringer, who found the perfect editor, Kristin Sevick. I'm the luckiest writer in the world to have you both in my corner. And to Bess Cozby, who rides herd on me; Todd Manza, who keeps me and Kate from being too crude; Jessica Katz, who is paying attention to all the dead people; and everyone at Forge who labors behind the scenes, thank you, thank you. You make me look better than I deserve. A special hug to Alexis Saarela, the Big Gun. And to art director Seth Lerner, who captured the heart of the Sandhills; no wonder they call you an artist.

A special thank-you to Bob Gentry, a true Sandhiller, and to Chris Gentry, who is taking up the reins. Thanks to my Uncle Mike, who grumbled to me about L1 and L2 vertebrae and the effects of bullet holes and why don't I look it up on WebMD.

The book world is a whole lot better for Ron and Nina Else from the Broadway Book Mall in Denver. They love and are loved in return. Jessica Morrell gives a good edit and if I did everything she told me to do, I'd be a writing wonder. Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers gets the bulk of the credit and none of the blame for any skill I've gained as a writer. Thank you to Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America for all the knowledge and support you dish up daily.

To my daughters, Joslyn and Erin, who inspire me every day. And mostly, thank you to Dave, the saint who listens (or at least pretends to listen) to plots and plans, anxieties, and excitements. And listens. And listens.

 

1

I've never trusted happiness. Just when you think you've corralled that mustang, she busts through the fence and leaves you with splinters. I should have seen it coming.

Still, when I tromped across the back porch, feeling grateful to be out of the frosty night air, I wasn't worrying about my world turning into a sloppy, wet pile of manure. My calving ratio sat at a hundred percent so far this year. Maybe I could convince Ted to take a week off after the election and head down to a beach someplace, anyplace away from cattle and family and sheriffing.

The house lights weren't on when I'd trudged from the barn. Carly was supposed to be home working on the term paper she'd blown off last semester. Using her charm, Carly had convinced the English teacher to give her another chance. If she didn't finish the paper this time, though, she wouldn't graduate, and my dear niece would be living with me forever.

I pried off one cowboy boot and dropped it to the porch floor, wondering how to motivate Carly without pushing too hard. The jangle of the phone penetrated the door to the house. I could have ignored it, but if Ted didn't answer his cell, the county sheriff's number rolled over to the landline installed in our house. I burst through the door and thudded across the kitchen. With one boot on, one boot off, I flew into the closet-turned-office and grabbed the old-fashioned receiver. “Sheriff's phone.”

“Listen, Kate, Uncle Bud and Aunt Twyla are planning Easter at their place and I told them you'd bring that seven-layer salad.”

As far as the Fox family was concerned, you can run but you can't hide. “Hi, Louise.” My older sister. One of them, anyway. “We've talked about you using the sheriff's phone only for emergencies. Right?”

The reminder was as effective as ever. “You won't answer your cell. Let me talk to Carly.”

“Carly's not here.” Where was she, anyway? And where was Ted?

I stretched the phone cord. Grand County didn't believe in fancy equipment like cordless phones. They sprang for Ted's cell phone, but he wasn't supposed to use it for personal calls. I slapped on the light, squinting into the tiny living room. Several books were scattered on the floor. A potted plant spilled dirt onto the worn carpet and the throw from the threadbare couch puddled in the middle of the living room. The chaos seemed unusual, even for Hurricane Carly.

“Where is she?” Louise asked.

“Not sure.” Maybe I wasn't fit to be a guardian, but I thought a girl destined to graduate from high school in a month ought to have a fair bit of autonomy. Course, with Carly's history, I was balancing on barbed wire there.

Louise paused to build up steam. “You should supervise her better. She needs—”

A syllable blanked from her lecture. “Gotta cut you off,” I said. “The sheriff's second line.”

I punched line two, expecting another one of my siblings, who'd also been warned against using the official sheriff's line. “Sheriff's office.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” Sobbing, hysterical. A woman blubbered into the phone. “Oh God!”

It took a moment to recognize the voice. It wasn't one of my favorites. “Roxy?”

More sobbing. “He's dead. He's dead. I think. Oh God.”

“It's Kate. Who's dead? Where are you?”

“Kate. Oh my God. Blood!”

My skin chilled and my scalp prickled, despite knowing Roxy's penchant for drama. As Ted's old high-school girlfriend, and by some unfortunate quirk of fate, Carly's stepmother, she'd been plaguing me for years. “Roxy!” I yelled, trying to shock her hysterics away.

It didn't work. “I don't know who to call. I came home and the door was open. There's blood everywhere.”

“Whose blood? Where are you?”

She finally sounded as if someone caught her with a grappling hook and dragged her slowly down to the ground. “I'm at Eldon's.”

Eldon Edwards was her father-in-law. Their houses were only one hundred yards apart and a good half hour from the nearest town. “Is he hurt?”

She started to sob again. “He's dead. He's been shot.”

Dead? Eldon? No. My brain tried to push the words away. This was definitely a job for the sheriff. “Okay, hang on. I don't know where Ted is, but I'll find him and get him out there right away.”

“He's shot.” Roxy sounded like she jumped on the panic wagon again.

“I'll get an ambulance and find Ted.”

She wailed out his name. “Ted.”

“Stay calm and he'll be there soon.”

“He's bleeding. Oh God, he's dying!”

I'd often wanted to slap Roxy, but this time I could probably get away with it. “I thought you said he's dead.”

“No, Eldon is dead.” Sob, sob.

“Then who is dying?” Maybe Ted was buying drinks at the Long Branch, since it was campaign season. Or visiting his mother in Broken Butte, more than an hour's drive away. I ran through a list of places he might be.

“Ted!” Roxy shrieked into the phone.

That's when her stampeding words started to make sense. “Ted what?”

“He's shot. And there's blood everywhere!”

I dropped the phone and didn't hear whatever else she said.

 

2

It took me about ten seconds to push my foot into my muddy cowboy boot, grab my barn coat, jump down the back steps, and hurl myself into the nearest vehicle, my '73 Ford Ranchero.

Night had set in, and with low clouds masking the moon, the headlights of the Ranchero didn't light up much. I wrestled with the phone while maneuvering around the hay meadow in front of our house on Frog Creek Ranch. The Hodgekiss village emergency number picked up after two rings. Rocks pinged from the dirt road and the back wheels slid as I careened around the sharp curves of our one-track ranch road and relayed the scant details.

By the time I hung up, I'd made it the five miles to the highway, burying the speedometer on the straightaway. Speed might be Elvis's finest quality—Elvis being the Ranchero I'd owned since before I could drive.

It took me a couple of tries to get Milo Ferguson, Choker County sheriff. Even though the Bar J was in Grand County, where Ted was sheriff, Milo was closer to the scene than me or the ambulance.

Before I made it to Hodgekiss, twelve miles from home, I punched in Carly's speed dial. No answer.

I didn't let off the gas as I barreled through Hodgekiss. Light spilled from the open doors of the firehouse and the bay sat vacant. The ambulance should be far ahead of me.

A few pickups and four-wheel-drive SUVs lined the highway in front of the Long Branch Bar and Grill, but the rest of the town, population one thousand, had hunkered in for the chilly night. Fortunately I didn't need to dodge any traffic.

Snow sparked in the headlights. The dried-out, sharp kind that couldn't really be called flakes. More like minuscule butcher knives. I'd left the heavies—cows about ready to calve—out in the calving lot for the night. If the snow got after it, as it often did in April, the cows could be in trouble. I could tolerate ears and tails frozen off, a common casualty of spring snowstorms, but on a night like this the calves might freeze to death. I'd planned on going back out after supper to bring in any critters that might be at risk. Nothing I could do about it now. I had to go to Ted.