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  Due to Zandra’s petite size, Rory could clearly see Myles’s face and, despite the situation, he almost laughed. Myles looked as if he’d rather be anywhere but standing before Zandra. His face had reddened, and his tightly folded arms had parted to hang limply at his sides during her tirade. With a quick and nasty glance in Rory’s direction, he then looked back to Zandra, and snorted.

  “I’m sure most people would question whether or not you’d lie to protect your brother, considering why he went to jail.”

  Hardly believing Myles had said that, Rory surged forward, but Zandra turned to stop him by placing her palms on his chest.

  “Don’t, I got this.”

  As she swivelled her head to address Myles, her hands trembled slightly. “Yeah, he went to prison for me. We all know that. I’m not sure why you’re doing this. If you’re deliberately trying to antagonize him into reacting to the messed-up shit that comes out of your mouth, and give you a reason to arrest him, or if you’re trying to hurt me because it’s another way for you to get to him. Maybe you’re just an asshole. All I know is your behaviour is becoming harassment. Back off, Myles, I’m warning you.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Myles demanded.

  Her hands slipped from Rory, then she turned to face Myles fully, and plunked her hands on her hips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to give you a reason to come after a Bukowski? You can’t get Rory, so you set your sights on me? Let me remind you that there’s a third Bukowski in town, and Boone works for the RCMP as well. He outranks you, and he’s fully aware of your ridiculous accusations. So, yeah, I’ll remind you of that, and of the fact that I can reach him at any time, whether or not he’s actually in town. Here’s another reminder. This is our house, and you’re on a fishing expedition, not actual police business. It’s his choice to answer your questions, not an obligation. If you have any more questions, arrange to ask them at the division, and Rory will be pleased to go there to answer them. With his lawyer.”

  She turned back to Rory. “We’re done here. Go in.”

  Not bothering to look at Myles again, he did as told. She followed him in, and then slammed the front door. Releasing a loud and exasperated grunt, she shook her head.

  “What an asshole!”

  “I appreciate you coming to my defence, but you shouldn’t have lied to him.”

  “Screw that. So what if I wasn’t here at nine. I know you were, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Still, if he starting poking around, asking at the grocery store—”

  “He won’t because he knows you didn’t do it, whatever it is. He just doesn’t have a clue who did, and decided to throw his weight around, and harass you again. Maybe he does it when he’s frustrated, who knows? All I know is he should try doing some actual police work, and find out who’s really responsible for it instead of accusing you.”

  Headlights roved over the front window, signalling Myles turning his cruiser to depart, and she snorted. “Good riddance. I’m serious, Rory. If he comes here again, tell him to leave, and we’ll call a lawyer. This is bordering on harassment, if it isn’t outright harassment already. He has no right to do it, and if he doesn’t stop on his own, we’ll make him.” When she stared intently at him, he knew she expected an answer, so he nodded. “Okay,” she said, her voice more relaxed. “I’m going to bed. Again. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Night, sissy,” he said softly.

  As she climbed the stairs, he held in the frustrated roar he longed to unleash. If it wasn’t bad enough that Myles hassled him, now Zandra had lied to the cop to protect him. Puffing out his cheeks as he blew out an agitated breath, desperately trying to calm down before he did something stupid, his stomach turned with his deceit. He hadn’t been home all evening like Zandra had assumed, but he couldn’t tell her where he’d been any more than he could’ve told Myles.

  Wanting to punch a hole in the wall, kick the shit out of the couch, anything at all to release the rage within him, he did all he could. He stood in place and concentrated on breathing until his body calmed down. Breathing in deeply, he held the breath before slowly releasing it, and then performed the action repeatedly, distraught over how the cure took longer and longer to work as time passed.

  He couldn’t take his life much longer, not Myles’s accusations, Zandra’s protectiveness, nor Boone’s handouts. The rest of the town did nothing more than upset him further, the looks he received when faced with the townspeople, ones ranging from contempt to fear to pity, were slowly driving his anger to a boiling point. Although he shouldn’t have done what he had earlier this evening, he couldn’t help it. He needed an outlet for his rage before he lost control and hurt someone who pissed him off. While his choice of outlet was stupid, it was better than the alternative. He couldn’t go back to prison, no matter what. If that meant dealing with people like Saffron Bairstow the way he had earlier tonight, so be it.

  Chapter 6

  A week had gone by with no further scary events and Saffron allowed herself to think the attempted breakin on her house was a prank, perhaps teens looking for a place to get drunk or high, not realizing someone actually lived in the house. After all, it had sat empty for quite some time before she’d taken possession of it.

  Managing to find hands from surrounding properties looking for extra work on weeknights and weekends, her ranch was coming together slowly, but surely. Some work remained, most notably the repairs the barn needed, but all the fencing was mended, the paddocks and pastures cleared of any debris, and the ranch was ready for its eagerly anticipated addition: the alpacas.

  Although they’d need the shelter of the barn in winter months, it was late spring now and, as they had adequate shade if the weather got too hot, the repairs on the barn could wait until fall. Pens have been erected to house the alpacas at night for the time being, and she wanted them to be in the pastures during the day. Several alpacas were arriving tomorrow, and she was overjoyed they’d finally be at the ranch. While it would take much time until she’d run the ranch as she envisioned, it all started with the animals, and she couldn’t wait to set eyes on them.

  Ethan had volunteered to be present tomorrow morning, and had promised to bring a few of his hands along to help. She’d offered to pay him and his men but he’d refused, calling it a ranch-warming gift from him and Zoë. Overwhelmed with the kindness the couple had shown her, she again thanked her lucky stars for having such amazing neighbours.

  Tonight found her walking the property, pleased with everything she saw. It was dusk, and a balmy evening, and she almost skipped with excitement as she took in the sight of her developing ranch, the fruition of a dream she’d had for so many years. Movement in her peripheral vision caused her to turn her head in time to see a man run away from the barn, scale the fence, and then dash through the field beyond it.

  Knowing she should return to the house and call the police, she stood a moment, waiting to see if anyone else was around, straining her ears to hear movement, voices, anything at all. All that reached her ears was the sound of wind rustling the tall grasses in the field. Screwing up her courage, she approached the barn, hoping she wouldn’t see further damage done to it. Drawing closer, she saw writing on the side of it and each further step made the block letters more legible until she stopped dead, reading the spray-painted message: LEAVE TOWN BITCH.

  Chapter 7

  Exiting his cruiser, Myles dipped his head to Ethan who stood waiting for him. Illuminated by the porch light from Saffron’s house, Ethan’s face was grim, his posture tense.

  “Got your flashlight?” Ethan barked.

  Myles forgave his harsh tone, and lack of greeting. The situation regarding Saffron had just escalated dramatically, and Myles knew Ethan was as worried as he was. He’d just finished a shower after an invigorating run, when Ethan called him to tell him of the vandalism at Saffron’s ranch. He’d hurriedly dressed, and made his way here. Pulling his flashlight from his service belt, he flicked it on, a
nd then followed Ethan who, revealing the way before him with his own flashlight, led Myles to the barn.

  It was in dire need of repair, but its dilapidated condition paled against the crude message scrawled in red spray-paint on its wall. After sweeping a beam of light over the message, Myles trailed the beam down the wall to a where a spray paint can lay, along with a pair of latex gloves. Knowing he’d find no prints on the can, he also knew attempting to track its purchase would be fruitless. A popular variety of paint, available at every home-repair store in the area, it was a standard colour, one that would have been purchased numerous times and, he suspected, as the perpetrator had the foresight to use gloves, he’d also be smart enough to acquire the paint out of town, or even have stolen it to cover his tracks.

  “You have to find out who did this, Myles.” Trying not to grunt at Ethan’s obvious statement, he merely nodded. “She has alpacas coming tomorrow, and is worried they might be in danger. And let’s face it, that’s a real possibility at this point. Whoever did this is obviously escalating.”

  “Yes, he is,” he agreed. It could be a woman of course, but Myles was certain it was a man. A particular man, but he’d need more than his gut to tie Rory Bukowski to this crime. He turned to Ethan, barely making out his face in the darkness around them, his features only slightly recognizable in the light from the flashlight beam he too trained on the evidence left behind by the culprit.

  “I’m going to investigate this, of course, but she needs a security system. I told her that a week ago. I’d love to be able to have cruisers patrol past here on a regular basis but I just can’t.”

  “I know,” came Ethan’s response.

  He knew Ethan, a retired RCMP officer himself, did understand how Myles’s staff only just covered the duties they had to perform. Regular patrols this far from town would be hard to pull off for a substantiated threat, but not something he could justify with what had occurred on the property so far.

  “Can you help her install motion-detector lighting around the place? That might help.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” Ethan said, his voice calmer now. “I don’t know how much solace that’ll provide her, but I’ll do it. She’s really shaken up over this. I wish there was something more I could do.”

  “Me too. Hasn’t she been able to find hands yet, someone who might be able to live on the ranch, at least during the week? She does have that small bunkhouse on the premises.”

  “Yeah, but, well, shit. She’s starting an alpaca ranch. In cattle country. Most of the men think it’s a joke, and don’t want to work for her. A few of my men, and the Carsons’, have put in a few extra hours, but as far as I can tell, no one’s interested in full time work here.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised to hear that, but having a man around the place might help. I’m still hoping this is someone playing a cruel prank, trying to rattle her cage, you know? But—” His eyes scanned over the can, and gloves again. “But this looks more organized than that. Did she scare him off, and he ran, leaving this stuff behind, or was it purposely left, that guy knowing I can’t trace this back to him? Like a ‘fuck you’ gesture.”

  “That’s a good question,” Ethan said, and then shrugged. “Well, let’s head back to the house and you can do your best to calm Saffron. I haven’t had much luck with it.”

  Following Ethan back to the house, he doubted he’d be more effective at alleviating Saffron’s concerns. They were valid ones, her ranch, not to mention her person, could be in danger. The only way to alleviate those concerns would be to catch who’d done this, and he knew what a longshot that was at this point.

  Chapter 8

  Sitting in the interrogation room, Rory tried to hide the nervousness he felt. Chase Briggs, the town’s sole lawyer, occupied the chair beside him. While Chase wasn’t a defence attorney, he was present to legally advise Rory. After exchanging pleasantries upon meeting Rory in the building’s foyer, Chase had instructed him to remain silent unless Chase informed him it was okay to answer Myles’s questions. It was a strange situation, as Chase and Myles were best friends, but Rory knew both men were nothing but professional when it came to their jobs. Even Myles’s harassment of him was something Rory believed centred on the corporal’s intent to protect the citizens of Bison Bluffs, and not a personal issue.

  Still, he feared what Myles would ask, knowing certain answers to Myles’s questions would land him in hot water again. It seemed, yet again, his fate was in the hands of a lawyer and, while he liked Chase, and believed the man would act in his best interests, he’d thought the same thing about the lawyer who represented him almost ten years ago. The angst from his manslaughter trial was back, slapping with a sharpness that contrasted the dullness of the interrogation room, with its grey walls, and non-descript, pitted, and worn furniture. His hands were folded on an old table, worn with the passage of time, and many pairs of hands before his. It couldn’t be more different from the highly polished table in the courtroom, the one his folded hands had spent seemingly endless days on, but the feeling was the same. Despite how shocking the guilty verdict had been, he’d thought in the years since that some part of him had known it was coming. He’d felt it. He felt it now, in the subtle apprehension leaking from Chase, the oppressive feel of being in a small room—something he avoided since his release—and the waiting. That might be the worse part: waiting. He’d waited for his trial to begin, waited through the testimonies, through the legal bantering of the lawyers, and then had waited for the verdict. Now, he waited for Myles.

  “This is just a formality,” Chase informed him, undoubtedly picking up on Rory’s unease. “If you haven’t done anything, then Myles has nothing on you. Just remain calm, and remember what I told you.”

  Rory thought he nodded in response, but couldn’t be sure. It was hard to breathe as deeply as he wanted to. Prickles covered him, his scalp was crawling. He wanted out of this room but, like so many small rooms in the past—don’t think of the cell, don’t think of the cell—he couldn’t escape this one. Chase’s advice was solid. The problem was that he had done something. He shouldn’t have, but he had.

  A standing fan in the corner blew a current of cool air in an oscillating stream. He wanted to stand in front of it, his arms spread wide, certain he was sweating. It was hot out today. It had been hot during his trial. The fan moved with a lazy efficiency, back and forth, smoothly and quietly, except for a ticking sound each time it hit the apex of its swing in one direction. A soft whoosh of air, then a click. Over and over again. Whoosh, click. Whoosh, click. The click sounded like the clicks that had issued from the court stenographer during his trial. Funny how sounds could transport you back in time, but there was nothing funny about the memory of his trial.

  The dry, clinical way the first witnesses had delivered testimony had been bearable. The police officers, and doctors, delivering observations and findings in minute detail, but with a detachment that was audible. It had caused him to zone out at times, and wonder if those slight clicks he heard were the steno machine itself, or the woman’s fingernails on the keys. He’d stared at the machine for hours it seemed, watching her fingers fly, not grasping how such few keys could construct the long medical terms he heard. He understood much of what he’d heard, as he’d been studying veterinary medicine at the time, but still his mind had wandered. Sometimes to worry about the outcome, more often to dwell on his culpability.

  The direction of the trial changed then, with those testifying having a personal connection to the case. He’d wished he could have blocked out these testimonies but couldn’t. First, was Daniel Marchand, Tom Parsons’ roommate. His testimony had helped Rory’s case, at least according to Joe Delmonico, Rory’s lawyer. Marchand testified that Rory seemed ‘like a wild animal’ and ‘not in control’. Not a flattering description, to be sure, but a needed one. His defence, of course, was based on his inability to control himself at the time. Marchand described the altercation from the beginning, how Rory had pushed his way i
nto the apartment when Marchand had opened the door, to its end, with Parsons on the floor, barely breathing, and two police officers pulling a raging Rory off the man. The middle part, according to Delmonico, had helped the most, where Marchand outlined how Parsons had managed to get a knife from the kitchen, and how Rory had wrestled the knife from Parsons’ hand, and then thrown it aside.

  If Marchand had brought some solace, it was killed by Parsons’ sister taking the stand. She painted a picture of Tom Parsons as a loving, kind, gentle man who never would have hurt a soul, let alone rape a woman, an act, according to Kim Parsons, so aberrant it had always sickened Tom. It was bullshit, all of it. Maybe she viewed her brother that way, but that was not the man others had known, who Rory and Zandra had known. Even before the rape, Parsons had displayed a violent streak, confirmed by Marchand, but seemingly ignored by the jury. Kim Parsons’ testimony had tanked Rory’s case and he knew it at the time, but worse than that was seeing Tom’s parents in the courtroom. Having to face them was the worst experience Rory had ever endured, and he was grateful they’d only been present for Kim’s testimony, and for the verdict, certain he couldn’t have faced them the entire time.

  Seeing the parents of the man he’d killed made Rory feel like a murderer, even as he hadn’t intended to kill Parsons. His sole intention—if he was thinking anything at the time—was to beat the shit out of the man, to make him pay for hurting Zandra. He’d lost control though, didn’t stop when he should have, when Parsons begged for mercy, when he lost consciousness, not even when he heard police officers loudly demanding he stop.

  He’d dissected his actions every day since the event. He hadn’t meant to kill Parsons, but knew he could have. That part ate at him, seemingly more as the days passed. He’d sat stony-faced in the courtroom, as he’d been instructed to do, listening to Delmonico state that Rory hadn’t thought about the possibility of Parsons dying at his hands, that he’d acted in a blind rage, outraged over Parson’s alleged actions where Rory’s sister was concerned. Alleged, my ass, he’d thought, Parsons raped Zandra. Everyone knew he had, but Rory’s lawyer couldn’t say that in court. A dead man couldn’t stand trail for his crimes. Alleged crimes. Had that word, one word, been the catalyst that had the jury so swiftly decide on a guilty verdict? They’d deliberated for less than an hour. Rory had seen by his lawyer’s face that it was a bad sign. The jury, supposedly made up of his peers, had found him guilty of first-degree manslaughter, and had recommended the harshest sentence the judge could enforce. His peers? Surely his actual peers would have seen he’d lost it when Zandra had been raped. After all, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to Parsons’ apartment (he’d been told in the aftermath that he’d driven there), nor could he remember Parsons’ roommate trying to stop him (another thing he’d been informed of afterwards). But the jurors had seen nothing but his blameworthiness. The same people who’d cried during Zandra’s testimony, when she’d recounted what Parsons had done to her—after a battle between the lawyers that ended with the judge allowing her testimony—and begged for leniency for Rory. They’d seen Zandra break down, weep uncontrollably, and plead for her brother, yet still returned a guilty verdict. Rory had died inside during her testimony. He hadn’t sat through it stony-faced. He’d matched her tears.