Bitter Rain (Kate Fox Book 3) Read online

I hurried through the rain to the barred glass front door. Coors Light, Miller Genuine Draft, and the ever-present Budweiser signs flickered and glowed, promising the hopeless patrons forgetfulness for a few bucks. A bell above the door jangled, and I entered a dimly lit, cluttered room. A fluorescent light fixture flickered overhead. The gloom wasn’t enough to mask the grimy old linoleum floor. An overpowering cloud of cigarette smoke allowed only the slightest hint of wet dog.

  Kyle pushed in behind me, and we both made way for a staggering man, mumbling to himself as he headed outside. His odor of unwashed body and urine cut through the smoke and lingered after the door closed behind him.

  Barnett stood at the counter wearing his sheriff browns and cowboy hat, a black slicker glistening with rain. His mouth opened in surprise when he spotted us. “For the love of…What are you doing here?”

  Frankie’s store was a little bit liquor store and a lot like a fortress. The cash register was barricaded behind a counter with bars and a smooth cutout to slide money and change back and forth. Alongside the bars, solid shelves held pocket-sized liquor bottles, cigarette racks, snacks, and other items, effectively blocking the view behind the counter. A few feet away from the register, a door—no doubt locked—provided access to the area behind the counter. My guess was that Frankie had an office somewhere behind the safety of the door and bars.

  A skinny man in a plaid pearl-button shirt poked his head from behind the cash register. Tufts of white hair spiked from his scalp. His teeth seemed too big for his face and hard not to focus on when he gave us a fake smile. “Officers. What brings you to Dry Creek?”

  I slid my hands into my jacket pockets to seem friendly and casual. “Checking out an abandoned vehicle.”

  Barnett huffed in annoyance. “Still gnawing that splintered bone?”

  What a jerk, but I didn’t take the bait. “The car belongs to Kyle’s sister. She’s missing, and we’re afraid something happened to her.”

  Impassive, Barnett leaned against the counter. “That so?”

  Kyle sounded like a dangerous rez dog. “You knew that was Shelly’s car. She drives it around every day.”

  Frankie pulled his lips over his front teeth. “Shelly Red Owl? That your sister?”

  They say still waters run deep, and Kyle was as still as death.

  Frankie passed a knowing look at Barnett and raised his eyebrows to Kyle. “She was in here Saturday night, late. Wasn’t in too good of shape.”

  Kyle snarled. “That’s a lie.”

  Frankie’s white hair looked like dandelion seeds threatening to launch in a wind. He turned to Barnett for backup. “You’ve seen her around lately.”

  Barnett folded his arms across his barrel chest. “Running with a bad crowd.”

  Kyle seemed ready to spring. “She just graduated valedictorian. She’s a good kid.”

  Barnett tsked. “I’ve seen it happen before. The good kid breaks out and celebrates and that’s it. You know how you people can be. Sometimes all it takes is one drink to get you hooked.”

  Quicker than I thought possible, Kyle jumped at Barnett. I grabbed his collar as he flew past me and yanked hard enough that his first punch missed Barnett’s nose and barely grazed his chin.

  Barnett yelled and put up his fists, ready to swing. Frankie hollered and dove for something under the counter. I threw myself between Barnett and Kyle, pushing on Kyle’s chest, backing him toward the door.

  We hit the cold rain, and it seemed to douse some of Kyle’s anger. He spun away from me and stomped several paces into the muddy parking lot and stopped, his back to me.

  The drunk we’d passed on the way into the store leaned against the side of the building, joined by a ragtag woman wearing an unraveling stocking cap and ripped wool jacket. They passed a paper-bag-wrapped forty-ounce can between them.

  “You going to be okay?” I called to Kyle.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay?” He spun toward me. “Look at this place. These people.” He pointed to the couple sharing the malt liquor. “My mother.”

  Any words I had wouldn’t help him.

  He lowered his voice, eyes anguished. “The world wants to write the population off as drunks and losers, and I can’t do anything about it.”

  All I had for him was my willingness to listen.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “My motto has always been to save myself first, then my brothers and sister.” He gazed beyond the tacky store. “So far, I’m failing.”

  I could point out his success. Stellar military record, police academy certified, employed, responsible. But he didn’t need that. One glance at Dry Creek told me the awful battle he waged on behalf of Shelly and Alex. I reeled away from him, fueled by contempt.

  The door jangled as I stepped back into the dank store, under the winking light. Barnett still leaned against the counter. Frankie, all wispy tufts and teeth, stood behind the cash register. A shotgun rested on the counter next to Frankie. Guess that was what he’d reached for when Kyle went after Barnett.

  I was a tiny spark away from explosion. “What’s the deal?”

  Barnett smirked. “With what?”

  I addressed Frankie. “The man you just sold to is obviously drunk. That’s one offense. He is out on your property drinking, another offense.” I shifted my attention to Barnett. “Why aren’t you arresting Frankie for selling to an inebriated man, and why aren’t you arresting the people in the parking lot for drinking illegally?”

  Barnett scoffed. “First time to Dry Creek and you’re turning into some kind of activist. Save the red man.”

  “Laws are on the books. It’s your job to enforce them.”

  Barnett straightened. “I’m not here in an official capacity. Just visiting my buddy.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  A bolt of anger shot across his forehead. “What? You think I ought to round up every drunk Indian and haul them into my jail? How do you suppose Spinner County would pay for that? Cleaning up this place is a job too big for one county sheriff.”

  “So you just give up?”

  Frankie watched this exchange go on before jumping in with the ingratiating voice of a snake oil salesman. “I know it looks bad. You want to help these people. Don’t you think it breaks my heart to see them come in day after day and know they’re ruining their lives?”

  No, I doubted it ruffled his conscience at all. “Then why do you stay here?”

  “If I didn’t, someone else would. And that someone wouldn’t know the people here like I do. I keep an eye out. Like that Shelly Red Owl. I sold to her, sure. If I didn’t, she’d go to A-1 or one of the other stores, or down the road to Potsville, or maybe up to Rapid City. She’d get her beer, for sure. But then she’d have to drive. When they buy it here, most times they walk back to the rez. No one gets hurt.”

  That was about the biggest lie ever told. “Everyone gets hurt. Except you. You get rich.”

  Frankie faked a sad smile through his big teeth. “You see? That’s what everyone thinks. I’m exploiting the poor Indian. But here’s the truth. We’re in America, and we believe in people’s right to make their own decisions. I’m not twisting anyone’s arm to buy their beer from me.”

  If I’d ever wanted to puke on demand, this was the time. All over the front of his shirt, on his cash register, on the floor of his gold mine.

  He shrugged. “I’m not to blame that they voted over a hundred years ago to make the reservation dry. The people have a right to drink if they want. I’m allowing them personal freedom.”

  He was probably still justifying his motives when I pushed through the door.

  Kyle waited for me in the cruiser. I slammed the door and started the engine.

  A sad grin flitted across his face. “He pissed you off, too, huh?”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  Kyle laughed. “Is that what you call it?”

  No, actually. “Prick. Asshole.”

  “That’s more like it.” He sat up. “I’ve had more p
ractice than you at dealing with this crap. It’s wrong, yeah. You can fight it. But you won’t win.”

  Black, hot, boiling over. Grab me a can of spray paint and I’d color my rage over storefronts and cop cars.

  I backed out and eased toward the highway. A newish white pickup heading from the east slapped on a signal to turn into Frankie’s. I focused on the driver. A ball of dark hair.

  “Holy. Is that—”

  Kyle leaned forward. “What?”

  “It is. It’s the kid from the Olson place.”

  When he got close enough to see us, the blinker stopped, and he slinked down and kept driving. “What’s he doing up here?” I said.

  Kyle watched in the side mirror. “Guess Indians aren’t the only ones Frankie sells illegal beer to. That kid didn’t look anywhere near twenty-one.”

  Maybe. Probably right. But I did wonder if Barnett being here in his pickup instead of his official ride had anything to do with the kid. “I saw him at the preppers’ place yesterday and then at the fairgrounds. Do you know him?”

  Kyle shrugged. “Nope. Why would I?”

  Weird. “My niece said he was looking for you.”

  Kyle twisted around at the taillights disappearing in the gloom. “Your niece say what it was about?”

  “Nope.”

  Kyle turned toward the front, wound as tight as a rattler. “I’m not that hard to find. He can call if he wants.”

  I glanced at him. “How do you keep it from getting to you? The rage, I mean.”

  He looked like cold steel. “I got out. I can’t tell you why I fought to get out and so many of my family and friends let it wash over them. It was in me from as far back as I remember. I never wanted to stay on the rez.”

  We left Dry Creek behind. “So, you’re trying to help Shelly and Alex?”

  Kyle stared at the hills, but I doubted he saw them. “And Darrel. He was stealing beers from Ma and skipping school before he turned ten.”

  “What was Darrel like?”

  Kyle hesitated and then spoke in a husky voice. “He loved to draw. Had pictures taped all over the trailer.”

  I stayed silent.

  “Ma got drunk one night after he died and burned them all.”

  After several minutes of silence, he drew in a breath. “Darrel was always in trouble. I never could help him. He wanted to beat me up, didn’t want to listen to me.”

  “But Shelly and Alex are different?”

  He swallowed as if pushing down the pain. “I was ten when Shelly was born. Ma wasn’t so bad then and had a job, and Dad didn’t hang around much. I took care of Shelly most of the time. She looked up to me.”

  Half of my brothers and sisters were older and half younger. I was both the look-upper and the one being looked up to. “That’s a big responsibility.”

  He grunted. “Probably why I kept straight. I wanted to show Shelly how to be. I wanted her to make a good life, maybe more than I wanted one for me.”

  “So you got good grades and then enlisted?”

  “I didn’t plan on going into the Marines. I wanted to go to college. Stick around to help Shelly and Alex.”

  “What changed?”

  “Dad moved back. He was drinking bad, and I was his preferred punching bag. My existence pissed him off. I thought if I left he’d be better.”

  “Was he?”

  He didn’t move for a moment. “He died in Dry Creek a couple of months after I enlisted.”

  “Why did he pick on you?”

  Kyle grunted again. “Pick on me.” The tires rumbled on the road, and the occasional swish of the delayed wipers kept us company for several moments. “No one ever said, but we all knew. Dad wasn’t my real father. I’m eight years older than Darrel, and the other two came along pretty quick.”

  “Do you have any idea who your real father is?”

  His lips twisted. “Probably some worthless piece of crap. He didn’t stick around to see how I grew up, and obviously, Ma felt ashamed of me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He snorted. “I’ve got no doubts about that. Ma didn’t like me much. Ever. She paid attention to the other kids, hugged them, laughed with them. Not me. She ignored me as much as she could.”

  I didn’t ask for any more details. Talking seemed to hurt him more than silence.

  My phone rang, and I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. My sister-in-law Lauren chirped a greeting. “I have this bumper crop of rhubarb, and I mentioned it to Doc Scranton, you know, the new vet.”

  Yeah, I knew.

  “Anyway, he said rhubarb pie is his favorite, so I invited him out for dinner tonight. Michael and I thought we might as well make it a party, and Robert and Sarah are going to be here, too. So, you’ll come, right?”

  My guess was that Michael had no idea Lauren was trying to set me up. “I’m probably going to be working.”

  While Lauren absorbed the rejection, I checked on the sleeping king in my rearview mirror. Poupon seemed content.

  “Oh.” She obviously hadn’t counted on me saying no. “Well. Everyone else said they’d be here, so I guess we’ll go ahead. I won’t say anything to Doc in case you can get away.”

  I had no intention of changing my plans. “Thanks for thinking of me.” I hung up, but Kyle wasn’t about to let it lie.

  “Got a date for tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I stared at the rain popping onto the windshield. “Not discussing this.”

  Kyle took notice of our surroundings. “Hey, where are we going?”

  I’d scooted past the turnoff to the highway heading south to Hodgekiss and kept going east. “We’re going to the research ranch.”

  He twisted in his seat to look west. “Why? Shelly’s not hiding out there.”

  13

  In the 70s, Angus and Mary Magnuson donated their ranch to the University of Nebraska (Go Big Red). Since then, the Magnuson Ranch housed a world-class ag research facility. Mainly, their projects included cattle, range, wildlife, and insect research.

  My brother Douglas, an honored graduate from both the university ag college and its graduate program, had snagged the operations manager job two years ago. Something of a big teddy bear, he surprised everyone but his family with his firm management style. We all knew he didn’t suffer laziness or inaccuracy, so he rode herd on his graduate assistants. He’d fired his share of day workers and sent a few researchers packing. He might seem easygoing and complacent to others, but he had a perfectionist streak a body didn’t want to mess with.

  Kyle and I were lucky to find his university pickup parked at the headquarters. I opened the back door and demanded Poupon get out this time.

  He didn’t move until Kyle growled, “Ločhíŋ.” Then he jumped up, tail wagging, and hopped out of the car. We waited while he trotted off into the pasture to relieve himself.

  “What did you say?”

  Kyle raised an eyebrow at me, and I was glad to see humor glint his eyes. “Reminded him I’m hungry.”

  After Poupon had done what he needed to do and we let him sniff a few smells, all three of us tromped through the damp air to the ranch headquarters.

  Douglas’s office took up most of the ground floor of the old ranch house with his bedroom upstairs. I knocked and opened the door to the savory, welcoming scent of beef stew. My stomach sat up and begged.

  Kyle’s nose twitched, and he licked his lips.

  Douglas sat at his kitchen table propping a veterinary journal open with his fleshy elbow while he clasped a spoon in his other fist, halfway raised to his lips. He dropped the spoon when he saw me, his eyes flew open in surprise. “Kate. What are you doing out here?”

  He jumped to his feet and stuck out his hand to Kyle. “Have you eaten? I’ve got a bunch of stew.”

  “Hell, yes.” I hurried to a cabinet and found two bowls and plates while Douglas yanked out a drawer and grabbed spoons. Over my shoulder I addressed Kyle. “Douglas is the
best cook of the Foxes.” To Douglas I said, “Don’t tell Louise I said that.”

  He gave Poupon a skeptical appraisal. “New deputy?”

  “Temporary.”

  “Not much of a cow dog.”

  I set the bowls on the counter. “I don’t have any cows.”

  Douglas tipped his chin toward the window. “How about this rain?”

  Keeping sarcasm out of my voice, I answered, “It’ll make the grass grow.”

  Douglas nodded with enthusiasm. “Damn right!”

  Kyle plucked two paper napkins from a holder on the table and set them at our places. “I was about to die of starvation, so this is appreciated.”

  Douglas spooned hot stew into the bowls. “You’re in for a treat today. This might be the best batch I’ve made yet. Dorsey Minden gave me an indoor herb garden and it’s making a big difference.”

  I lifted my brows. “Dorsey? Anything I should know?”

  He placed the steaming bowls on the table, and we both sat. “I don’t suppose you need to know much.”

  Poupon flopped under the table at Kyle’s feet.

  I punched Douglas in the arm. “Come on. Are you and Dorsey a thing?”

  Kyle blew on his stew and, without looking at me, said, “You sure you want to open up the topic of who’s dating who?”

  Douglas’s eyes sparkled. “Yes. Let’s talk about that. My vote is for Trey Ridnoir.”

  I shoved the spoon into my mouth. The rich, thick beef broth mingled with potatoes and onions, a hint of garlic. “Is that thyme? Or marjoram?”

  Kyle tucked into his stew and kept his head down.

  “A little of both,” Douglas said. “Along with a touch of cinnamon. So now, about Trey.”

  “Dorsey enjoy your cooking?” I spooned in another delicious bite. “You’ll make her a fine wife someday.”

  Douglas laughed. “Okay. Just let me say I’ve known Trey for a while. We served on a youth committee together a few years ago. He volunteers with troubled kids.”

  Kyle scraped his bowl. “This is the best stew I’ve ever had.”

  Douglas indicated the pot on the stove. “Help yourself. There’s plenty.”

  I buried my spoon and pulled up a potato bit, celery, and a chunk of beef. If heaven had a taste, this would be it. “This is amazing.”