Tough Enough

  Automatically Denver reached for her mother’s locket at her throat as she got up and walked to the window facing the lake. The glow of the fire flickered behind her, searing her silhouette to the glass.

  “You’re right not to trust me with your heart,” he said. “But you have to trust that I’m here to help you.”

  She was right not to trust him with her heart? The words made her ache inside. Didn’t he realize that trusting him meant surrendering not only her heart to him? There was no half way, no possibility of compromise, not between them. They could never just be friends. At least she couldn’t.

  “I saw Davey slip you a note, Denny.” The hurt in his voice tugged at her heart.

  She turned slowly, searching for the words. “I needed to open that note alone.” Her desperation to find the name of Max’s killer printed on that scrap of paper in that boy’s young hand had pushed her away from J.D., the one man she longed to be close to. The fire danced wildly behind him, throwing his face in shadow. “It wasn’t you. It was me.” She began picking books up off the floor without even realizing she was doing it.

  “Denny …” She continued gathering up things from the floor. Pictures from the walls, pillows, an overturned chair. Suddenly she felt J.D.’s hand on her arm. “Talk to me, Denny.” She looked up and saw some of her own fears mirrored in his eyes. J.D. pulled her to him and held her with a force that comforted her as nothing else had since Max’s death. She pressed her cheek against his shirt, listened to his heart thunder next to her ear. “Talk to me, please.”

  She breathed in the scent of him. “I feel like my world is falling apart, like nothing is real—or ever was.”

  He stroked her hair, his hand sure and strong. “I’m going to help you put it back together. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, Denny. I promise you that. But you have to trust me. No more secrets.”

  She struggled to find solid ground beneath his silver gaze. Instead, what she saw deep in his eyes made her heart dance to a beat she’d never known before. Overwhelming desire. It raced through her blood, melting the wall of ice around her heart. “Did I destroy any chance of you ever trusting me?” he asked, his eyes darkening like the storm outside.

  She shook her head and looked away. “I’m just afraid your music will call you back before we can find Max’s murderer.”

  He took her face in his hands; his eyes met hers. “I won’t leave, Denny, until you no longer need me.”

  Then you will never leave, she thought.

  Chapter Nine

  “Here,” Denver said, handing him the note. “And don’t bother to say it.”

  J.D. read the words, then looked up at her. “Say what? That you’d be a fool to meet him in an even more isolated place than the fire tower—that is, if he bothers to show up, if he has any information for you, if it’s not a trap, if he could even spell?”

  “That about covers it.” She dropped into a chair by the fire. He could see the day’s events had taken their toll on her, but a steely determination still burned in those incredible eyes.

  “But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

  As she curled her feet up under her, she met his gaze. “You saw him at the hospital. He’s obviously scared. Why would he have run if he didn’t know something?”

  J.D. hadn’t the heart to tell her that the kid might have taken off just to avoid reform school. “I’m going with you.”

  She smiled. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  God, she was beautiful. The firelight played in her hair, igniting it. And her eyes. Light, mysterious eyes. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself in them.

  “As long as I’m being truthful, I guess there’s something else you ought to know. I found Max’s pistol and a box of shells he’d hidden in a compartment in his desk. If it’s some kind of message to me, I don’t know what it could be.”

  He felt his heart expand, his desire for her growing with the trust she was putting in him. She was still as defiant, stubborn and fiery spirited as anyone he’d ever known, only now there was an elegance to it that made her all the more fascinating. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt this woman. He promised himself he’d protect her—not only her life—but her heart.

  He thought about his music. He’d come home, running scared. Nothing had mattered. Or hadn’t until he’d seen her standing over him holding a lamp base.

  Denver brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “The only lead I have to go on is a case Maggie said he was working on before his death. He’d been trailing a possible cheating husband and spending late long hours following the man.”

  “Any chance Max would have cross-referenced his files?”

  She laughed. “You knew Max.”

  “It was just a thought.” J.D. wondered if either of them really knew Max. “Denny …” Her gaze held a warning, almost convincing him it would be better if she found out from Deputy Cline. Almost. “Max made a rather large deposit in his account the day before he was murdered.”

  “How large?” she whispered.

  “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Where would he get that kind of money?”

  “I was hoping you might know.”

  She shook her head, her eyes filled with dread. “There’s this reporter in town from the Billings Register. She stopped by Max’s office earlier. She asked me where Max got his money and insinuated he’d been in on the bank robbery.”

  J.D. swore. “That’s ridiculous. Your parents were killed during that robbery.”

  Denver shook her head. “The woman didn’t know Max.” She took a breath and let it out slowly. “But it doesn’t look very good for him, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Denver buried her face in her hands for a moment. “He’s innocent, J.D.,” she murmured sadly, lifting her gaze. “But then, I want to believe Pete is innocent, don’t I?”

  WITH VERY LITTLE prompting, Denver agreed to spend the night in town at Maggie’s. J.D. knew she was running from all the evidence building against Max, from her dreams about her parents, her worries about Davey, her fears about Pete. Max looked like a crook, and that, J.D. knew, was much more frightening to her than anything else that was happening.

  As Denver gathered her ski gear for their meeting with Davey and her overnight bag to go to Maggie’s, the phone rang.

  It was obvious from the frown on her face that she wasn’t delighted about what was being said on the other end of the line. Nor was that person letting her say much.

  J.D. watched, suddenly frightened, knowing Pete was on the other end of that line. And that Pete wasn’t happy about something. It scared him.

  What bothered him most was the $150,000. Did the reporter really suspect something, or was she just following up on the rumors?

  “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Denny was saying, irritation in her tone. She twisted the phone cord around her fingers. “Fine, I’ll see you then.”

  He didn’t like to hear that last part. “Everything all right?”

  “Pete just wants me to stop by the Stage Coach. The band’s playing there tonight.”

  J.D. nodded. “Denny, you wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,” she said, touching the bruises on her neck.

  He wanted to say something to take the hurt from her eyes. “Until we find out who killed Max, we’re going to suspect everyone.”

  She nodded and glanced toward the window. It had stopped snowing and the first stars had popped out over the mountains.

  “You still want to go dig through Max’s files? I’ll help you.”

  THEY SPLIT A PILE OF Max’s papers in the middle of the floor. And began sorting through them looking for the “Case of the Wayward Husband,” as J.D. called it, as well as the fingerprint results from the crime lab. She was glad for the company and even happier that he’d suggested it.

  “I love Max’s system,” J.D. said, holding up a file mar
ked RoadKill. “What do you think goes in here?”

  Denver shook her head. “Knowing Max, it could be anything.” She read a file name. “How about this one—Rock ’n’ Roll.” They laughed together, their gazes locking. “I guess we’ll have to rename the files.”

  J.D. nodded. “We could even use last names. What do you think?”

  His hand brushed hers as he reached for more papers. Her pulse took off running. Her heart yearned to go chasing after it. His touch earlier seemed like an appetizer and she was one starved woman.

  “Hungry?” J.D. asked.

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “You just said you were starved.”

  “I did?” She ducked her head to hide her embarrassment.

  J.D. got to his feet. “Why don’t I get us something? I’ll be right back. Want me to surprise you?”

  “Great.” Not that anything could surprise her after that. She sat in the middle of the floor trying to still her panic as she listened to his pickup leave. When was she going to learn not to say what she was thinking? She could just imagine what she’d say one of these days if she continued to hang around J. D. Garrison, feeling the way she did about him.

  J.D. returned with two chili dogs loaded, fries and large Coke floats.

  “You remembered,” Denver said when she saw the food.

  “Who could forget what you like?” he joked. “Not that many women like jalapeños and tortilla chips on their chili dogs.”

  “I have an odd appetite,” she admitted, studying him through her lashes. As much as she loved chili dogs, right now all she really wanted was J.D.

  He groaned softly, a smile playing at his lips, as he sat down beside her. “You know, I’ve always admired your appetite. Among other things.” When he looked at her, she could have sworn he was reading her mind.

  They wolfed down the food, then leaned against the wall to finish their Coke floats. Denver idly thumbed through a stack of Max’s papers, thinking more about J.D.’s long legs than the words on the pages. One word jumped out at her. Affair. She plucked the sheet from the pile and checked the date. The last entry was less than a week ago.

  “This is it!” she cried, sitting up straighter.

  J.D. moved closer to read it with her. “Lester Wade? Is that the one I know?”

  Denver nodded, momentarily mute from the scent of him. “Lester still plays in the band.” She read down the page through a series of surveillance times and dates, all late at night even after the bars had closed. “That’s strange. He had to be cheating on his wife, Lila. What else would he be doing out this hour every night?”

  “Not so.” J.D. pointed to the last notation on the page. It read simply: “No other woman.”

  They looked at each other. “You don’t think—”

  Denver flipped the page. Written in Max’s scrawl was the comment:

  Informed wife Lila, Lester not having an affair. Paid in full.

  “Well, I guess that takes care of that,” Denver said, then squinted at the notation Max had made at the bottom of the page:

  Bil 69614. Pearl file.

  “Pearl file?” J.D. asked. His leg touched hers; the jolt rivaled any faulty toaster she’d ever known. “Do you know anyone named Pearl?”

  Denver shook her head.

  “How about the numbers?” J.D. asked.

  She shook her head again. He was so close she thought for sure he’d kiss her. He must have thought the same thing because he moved over and got to his feet.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of billing code,” J.D. suggested.

  She groaned at the loss she felt when he moved away from her. “With Max, they could be just about anything.” But she wrote them down, noticing it was late. “I didn’t see a Pearl file, did you?”

  “No. I didn’t see anything with Bil on it, either,” J.D. assured her. “Our burglar could have taken it, too, I suppose.”

  “That and the fingerprint results,” Denver reminded him. She glanced at her watch. “I told Pete I’d stop by the Stage Coach.”

  The closeness she’d felt with J.D. all evening disappeared in one blink of his gray eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Denny. If you say anything to him—”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “I’ll be careful.”

  As they were leaving, Denver reached into the mailbox, amazed she hadn’t thought to check it before. She thumbed through the stack of bills and junk mail, then thumbed through again, this time paying closer attention. The return address of the crime lab in Missoula caught her eye. She plucked it from the pile and handed it to J.D. with trembling fingers. He took one look at it and tore it open.

  “Who?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “I don’t know. The prints belong to a man named William Collins. Do you have any idea who that is?”

  “J.D., I knew everyone at Max’s party. Whoever this William Collins is, I know him. I just don’t know him by that name.”

  WHEN THEY WALKED INTO the Stage Coach Inn’s bar, Pete spotted them right away. The band was just finishing a number and Pete looked up. Just the sight of J.D. seemed to make him angry.

  “Why don’t you wait for me at the bar,” Denver said.

  “You’re calling the shots.” His gaze warned her to be careful. “But if you need me, I won’t be far away.” He strode off into the bar, where a group of fans was already on their feet with pens and paper in hand.

  Denver felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on her as she watched the women huddle around J.D. for autographs. Sometimes she forgot about his fame.

  Pete said nothing as he came toward her but grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the bar to the lobby.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded as he pulled her over to the side of the wide, sweeping staircase. “I asked you to wait at the apartment for me.”

  Denver jerked free of his hold and glared at him. “I had to talk to Davey Matthews.”

  “Davey Matthews? When is this going to end?”

  “When Max’s killer is caught,” she said.

  “I’m trying to protect you. Can’t you see that? And what is J.D. trying to do?” He pulled off his hat and raked his fingers through his blond hair. “You still believe that I hurt that kid up at Horse Butte?” Pete looked toward the lounge, anger in his eyes.

  “I don’t know what to believe.” The sweet scent of his cologne was the same as the man’s who’d attacked her at the lake cabin, but in her wildest imagination, she couldn’t conceive of Pete trying to kill her. She could hear J.D.’s warnings but she couldn’t stop herself. She’d worn a turtle-necked sweater to hide the bruises on her neck. Now she pulled the collar down so Pete could see her neck.

  He let out an oath; his eyes filled with shocked horror. “Who did this to you?” he demanded.

  She shook her head. “There were two men. They ransacked the cabin.” She stared at him, remembering the feel of the man’s arm around her throat. Anyone could buy the same cologne as Pete’s—anyone with money, she reminded herself again. And yet she’d never wondered until that moment where Pete got the money to buy expensive cologne or new pickups or live the way he did. He certainly didn’t make a lot playing with the band. But his family had money, she reminded herself, sick at the doubts she was having. “One of the men tried to kill me,” she said, needing to get it all out. “He wore the same cologne you wear.”

  Pete rocked back as if he’d been slapped. “What are you saying? That you believe I could do this to you?”

  Tears rushed to her eyes. This was a man who’d professed his love for her, who’d asked her to marry him. “I think the person who hurt me wanted me to believe it was you.”

  “Why?” He looked pale under the hotel’s lights. Pale and sick. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt as if she’d been punched. “I thought maybe you would know.”

  He looked away for a moment, and she had the strongest feeling he knew more than
he was telling her. His gaze softened as he turned back to her. “Remember when we were kids on the lake?”

  She nodded. It had always been the three of them and Max. “Do you remember the tree house we built?” She wanted those times back. They’d been so close. Like family.

  “The tree house.” Pete looked up at the ceiling. “I’d forgotten about the tree house.”

  “You and J.D. didn’t always agree, but we pulled together and we got it built,” she said, memories flooding her heart. “Remember how it was? We were all best friends.”

  “Times change,” Pete said, jamming his hands into his jeans.

  “You and I have always been friends.”

  “Yeah, friends.” He grimaced; it had never been enough for him.

  She bit her lip, knowing she shouldn’t say any more, but needing to know, and more than anything, wanting to give him a chance. “The day Max was murdered, you were in Missoula with the band.” She studied him, thinking of the years they’d shared. The words caught in her throat. “Were you, Pete?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked toward the bar again. “You want me to write it in blood? Because I’m sure my word won’t be enough.”

  “Tell me about the photograph,” she whispered, her voice as lost as the look in his eyes. This was Pete. Pete Williams, a man she’d always trusted.

  “The photograph?” Pete sighed as he pushed his hat back on his head. In the other room, the band started up again, only it was J.D. singing instead of Pete. And it was one of the songs that had made J.D. famous—“Good Morning, Heartache.”

  “Max called me and said he had to see me before I left for Missoula,” Pete said slowly. “I knew something had been going on with him but he’d never wanted to talk about it before.”

  Denver held her breath, afraid of what Pete was going to say.

  “But when I got to his office, he wasn’t there.” Pete looked her in the eye. “The photograph was on his desk.”

  “You took it and ripped J.D. out of the picture.” It seemed like such a childish thing to do.

  Pete shrugged. “He has it all, Denver. Everything. Including you. I’d let him have all his success and more if I could just have you.”