Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

S TUART WENT BACK inside the McKenna Ranch house. He hated to leave Holden to his own devices, but his instincts told him that Holly Jo's deceased father was a lead he had to follow.

As he came back into the house, he looked up to see Bailey coming down the stairway dressed as if heading out on a date. The sundress bared her shoulders and most of her long legs. She smiled, aware that she had caught his attention and clearly enjoying it. The sweet scent of citrus beat her down the stairs.

Holden came out of his office as she started past, headed for the front door. Stuart moved to the side to let her by. She didn't ask about Holly Jo, but then again, anyone could see that the girl hadn't been found yet.

She slowed to pass him. Holden seemed to think Bailey was angry. She sure appeared that way. Defiant as well. But she was also in pain, the sheriff thought as he glimpsed something raw flash in her eyes. She met his gaze, held it for a split second. Then, dragging it away, her jaw tightening, she walked out.

He watched her go, more curious and intrigued by her as he followed the sexy swing of her hips with his eyes, unable not to. In the time they'd spent together during her middle-of-the-night visits, they never talked about themselves. As the night got late, she could withdraw as if afraid of getting too close.

Bailey was hiding something and not just from him, he told himself. Nothing to do with Holly Jo, though. No, it was something else, something she'd been hiding for months, maybe even years.

Why was it that the women he'd been most interested in were the ones who lied to him? Or kept secrets from him, some deep and dark, some downright dangerous. He wasn't necessarily drawn to these women, he told himself. They were the ones who came after him. Was it because he was the law? Was that the attraction? Or did some women love getting close to the flame, but bailed before it engulfed them?

He, on the other hand, kept getting burned.

Dragging his gaze away, he told himself that he wasn't going to let Bailey draw him into anything that risked his life or his heart. He'd already risked both and almost lost both. He wondered about Bailey's relationships with men. Had she ever been romantically involved with anyone? Not that he knew of.

"Where's she going?" Holden asked as he joined Stuart to watch his daughter drive off.

The sheriff shook his head. He didn't have a clue. He'd been suspicious of Bailey's secretive behavior for some time now, but since it didn't appear to be illegal, he hadn't pursued it.

"She's been acting so distant lately," the rancher said, more to himself than Stuart. "I don't know about her."

Neither did he. The worst part was that the more Bailey kept him in the dark, the more he wanted to drag both her and her secrets into the light. He realized that could be a fatal flaw of his when it came to women.

"I need to check out something," Stuart said. "You know what to do if you hear from the kidnapper." He started to warn Holden about keeping his temper, but knew it was a waste of breath. Holden McKenna did what he wanted despite the consequences, he feared—which could explain Holly Jo's kidnapping. "Call me," he said and headed for Billings and the Sanderson Funeral Home.

H OLDEN HAD NEVER been good at waiting. After the sheriff left, as he paced, he grew angrier. He hated feeling so helpless, and he swore what he'd do when he got his hands on the kidnapper. At the same time, he prayed that Holly Jo was safe and that he'd get her back.

Praying didn't come naturally since he'd never done it before. His father hadn't held with religion. "Bunch of thieves, telling you what a sinner you are while they take your money," his father used to say. Margie had believed, though. He remembered her on her knees each night, thanking the good Lord.

He'd envied her faith. He had wanted to believe and wanted it now more than ever. He prayed, feeling as if he was covering his bets even as he suspected being such a hypocrite would eventually send him straight to hell. But he would do whatever he had to if Holly Jo got to come home. He'd done enough wrong in his life that he figured he was headed to hell anyway.

At the sound of the front door opening, he turned quickly to see his eldest son enter. Alone. Treyton stopped in the doorway as if not sure he wanted to come inside.

"Treyton." He motioned him into his office. "Close the door." He saw his son bristle and tried to moderate his tone. "Holly Jo's missing."

"I heard." Treyton sneered and looked as if he was trying not to laugh.

"There is nothing funny about any of this." That his son found humor in it both infuriated him and disappointed him deeply. How could Treyton be Margie's son? No one was kinder than the boy's mother. But Margie had died, leaving Holden to raise the kids pretty much by himself. He had no one to blame but himself for the way his eldest had turned out.

"What did you expect?" Treyton said, going on the defensive. "Who is she, anyway? And don't give me that malarkey about you doing some friend a favor."

Holden bit his tongue. Every time he tried to reach his eldest son, it turned into an argument. He wasn't up to one today. "I just wanted you to know what was going on. If you hear anything..."

Treyton shook his head. "Why would I hear anything?"

"If you should see her..."

"Trust me, I'm not going to see her." He turned and opened the door but stopped as if not finished.

Holden's cell phone rang, saving him from whatever hurtful thing his son was about to say—and the argument that was bound to follow. "Close the door on your way out."

His hope that the call might be something about Holly Jo vanished the moment he heard the neighboring rancher's voice. He listened to the man say how sorry he was and finally cut him off with a thank-you and, "We need to keep this line open."

He disconnected, trying to remember a time when he'd felt this miserable, this scared, this hopeless. He heard his father's voice as clearly as if he were standing in this room. "Looks like your chickens have come home to roost."

T HE ORIGINAL OWNER of the Sanderson Funeral Home, Lloyd Sanderson, was long deceased. The person who greeted Sheriff Stuart Layton was John Banner, manager. Banner led him into his nicely appointed office and offered him a chair.

Stuart introduced himself and told him that he was inquiring about Robert Robinson, who died after a fall off The Rims. He gave him the date the officer had provided for Robinson's death and waited as the man searched his files.

"Yes, I have it here," Banner said. "He was cremated. There was no service."

Stuart had been afraid of that. "I need to know about next of kin."

"There's his wife—"

"What about siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, anyone?"

"I wasn't employed here at the time, but according to the records, his wife came in, requested a cremation. There was no viewing. This is odd, though."

Stuart waited. "What's odd?"

"No one picked up the ashes. It looks like the bill was paid, but..." Banner looked up and frowned. "I think we still have his ashes."

Minutes later, Banner came out with a cardboard box with Robert Robinson's name and a date on it.

"I need to borrow these as part of an ongoing investigation," the sheriff said and signed a form saying he would be responsible for the ashes.

Once out in his SUV, he swung by the crime lab and left the ashes. He needed to know why a man's wife hadn't cared enough to retrieve her husband's remains. All his instincts told him the answer would be in the DNA results.

H OLLY J O FRANTICALLY looked around the room for something to fight off the two people as she heard their footfalls growing closer. But there was nothing even if she had felt strong enough. Earlier, the man had taken her plastic spoon and the paper plate, leaving her with only the bottle of juice. She spotted the small plastic bucket and her empty juice container on the floor in the corner, her heart sinking as she heard the key in the lock.

As the door swung open, she knew there was nowhere to run, no place to hide. For the first time, they both came into the room, making her terror rise after what she'd heard the woman say outside the door. The man had his mask on. The woman didn't wear one. Her face was pale in the dim light, and she looked as scared as Holly Jo felt.

But it was what she held in her hand that had Holly Jo too terrified to cry or speak. The woman carried a large pair of scissors.

Holly Jo frantically looked around the room again for something to use to defend herself. There was nothing. There was no one to save her, and even if she hadn't felt so weak and tired, she knew she couldn't fight them both off.

"Let's just get this over with," the man snapped, shoving the woman toward Holly Jo and closing the door.

She pressed herself against the wall as they approached and heard herself begin to whimper. Her body felt so sluggish from the juice drug that when the man rushed her, she could hardly lift her arms to fight him off. He forced her down on the floor.

She tried to curl up in a ball, but he jerked her head up by her hair.

"I'll hold her. You do the cutting," he snapped at the woman, who had stopped in the middle of the room. "Come on. Do this."

The woman took a step closer, then another. She was shaking her head and looked close to tears. "You said I wasn't going to have to do anything."

"Oh, for crying out loud. You want the money? Then get over here and do it."

The word money made the woman look up. "But you said—"

"I've changed my mind. You're right. After everything we've had to go through, I should be reimbursed. But I want a whole lot more than some ten-thousand-dollar reward. Now do it." He pinned down Holly Jo's arms and forced her into a sitting position.

The woman came over and knelt beside them. "Once we do this, we get the money, let her go and leave, right?"

"Just do it," he ordered.

Holly Jo tried to pull away, but the man snapped, "You want her to cut your throat? Hold still or you're going to bleed." She stopped fighting, closed her eyes and held her breath, not knowing what the woman planned to do with the scissors. Her heart raced. The man's grip was painful, and he was sweaty and gross.

When the woman took hold of her hair, Holly Jo opened her eyes. She heard the snip and saw a lock of her hair flutter downward. That was all they had planned to do? Take a little of her hair? She felt so relieved that her eyes burned with tears. She took a shaky breath, her chest aching.

"What is wrong with you?" the man demanded. "You aren't giving her a trim. I said cut off a chunk. A big chunk, right in front. I want it for the photo."

The woman grabbed hold of her hair again as the man held her too tightly. She watched the woman grab a handful of hair at the front and begin sawing through it only inches from her scalp.

"No!" she cried as she thought of all the nights her mother used to brush her hair, saying how beautiful it was. Then her mother had gotten sick and died. Heartbroken, Holly Jo had chopped her hair off one day in her grief. In all the months she'd been at the ranch, it had finally grown out. It had become beautiful again, the memory of her mother brushing it no longer breaking her heart. "No!"

"There," the woman said, holding out the thick hunk of hair to him as he let go of his grip on her. Holly Jo struck out at him and tried to kick the woman.

"Stop it!" he ordered her, grabbing her hair and hauling her up to shove her against the wall. "We aren't finished. You have to help," he said to the woman.

The woman took hold of Holly Jo like he had, pressing her against the wall and at the same time trying to stand back as much as she could. All Holly Jo could do was glare at the phone as the man took photos of her. She swore that she would never drink the juice again no matter how thirsty she got. She would find a way to escape. After she got away, HH would find these two. Then they would be sorry for what they'd done.