Lucy had been a good sport while her mother was gone, but there was no doubt she was sick of frozen pizzas and elk steak. Plus, Joe had learned that morning that he didn’t know how the washing machine worked. He hoped no one would comment on his rumpled uniform shirt.

The judge was still in his chambers. The gallery consisted of Joe, a bandaged-up Deputy Boner, and an older woman with steel-gray hair, who was sitting in the front row and knitting, by the looks of it, a garish afghan. She didn’t seem to be connected to the case in any way, he thought. She was likely one of those people who just liked attending court.

Cudmore sat with his back to Joe in an orange county jumpsuit. His hair was tousled and there was a four-day growth of beard on his face. Next to him was the public defender, Duane Patterson, who was intently scribbling something on a legal pad. Cudmore turned his head and sized up his attorney and seemed to regard him with sneering contempt.

At the prosecutor’s table was County Attorney Dulcie Schalk. She sat completely still with her hands clasped in front of her on the table, staring at the closed door of Hewitt’s chambers like a cat poised over a gopher hole. Joe recognized her dark gray pin-striped power suit, as she called it. She once told Joe she had never lost a case while wearing that suit. If she was wearing her blood-red ruffled blouse—which he couldn’t see because she hadn’t turned around—it meant she was going for the kill. Or in this case, the maximum sentence possible.

He’d heard Cudmore would be charged with aggravated assault, attempted murder, and kidnapping. That was just for starters. Joe knew Dulcie well enough to surmise that an indictment for first-degree murder—if April didn’t pull through—was already written and in her top desk drawer.

Joe felt a breeze on his neck as the courtroom door opened and he looked over to see Sheriff Reed wheel himself in. He stopped at Joe’s row and beckoned him over. Joe slid to the end of the bench so they could talk softly to each other.

“I had a dream about that damned tank last night,” Reed said. “In my dream, it drove across my front yard and a bunch of idiots playing army were behind the wheel. It made me so mad, I called Williamson at home and yelled at him again. Woke him up.”

Joe nodded.

“I heard about your friend Romanowski,” Reed said. “What a hell of a run you’re having.”

“Not as bad as the run April and Nate are having.”

“Both at the same hospital at the same time? Who would have put odds on that?”

Joe shook his head. He’d wondered that himself during his sleepless night.

“Why was he at that ranch?” Joe asked. “Any ideas?”

Reed said, “I talked to the owners of the HF Bar and they’re clueless. They’re still at their winter home in Arizona and they weren’t even planning to come back until next week. Apparently, that’s when they traditionally start opening up the guest ranch. They’ve never heard of Nate Romanowski and they don’t know why he was there.”

Reed leaned in closer to Joe. “It’s impossible to say how he even got up there, unless he was dumped. There were no vehicles on the ranch. Hell, the last I knew he was in federal lockup in Cheyenne. The first I heard he was out was last night, when the FBI called me at my house to tell me they were sending a helicopter up here to my county. They said Romanowski was wearing a tracking device of some kind, and when it went haywire that meant it had been damaged in some way. At the time, they suspected he’d tried to cut it off. They didn’t know he’d been shot up until they found him. Apparently, he was found in the road between the barn and the main lodge. I get the impression he’d crawled there.”

“I’ve got a call in to Chuck Coon with the FBI,” Joe said. “The feds sprung him for some reason. Coon can tell me why and how long he’s been out.”

“Strange Nate didn’t contact you,” Reed said.

Joe shrugged. He’d wondered the same thing. So had Marybeth.

“How did he get to the ranch?” Joe asked.

“The FBI guy in charge of the case is named Dudley. When I talked to him, he said Nate was last seen the day before getting into a white van in front of the Federal Building. A fetching, dark-skinned woman was driving. They’ve got it on closed-circuit video.”

“Liv Brannan,” Joe said. “That fits.”

“But she’s not at the HF Bar—and neither is the van. We’ve got an APB out on it. The markings on the side of it say ‘Yarak, Inc. Falconry Services.’ Does that make any sense to you?”

Joe nodded. It had been a while since he’d heard the word yarak.

Reed shook his head. “The front gate was locked, so he must have jumped the fence. But he couldn’t have walked all the way from Cheyenne to the HF Bar. We’ve got to assume this Brannan woman drove him.”

“Any tracks?” Joe asked.

“If there were any tracks on the road, the rain washed them away. Our evidence tech may find something, though. He’s up there today poking around.”

Joe said, “I’ve met Liv Brannan. She was mixed up with Wolfgang Templeton, but she’s a good person. Pretty, smart, and in love. Nate feels the same about her. I know you can never guess what goes on between two people, but it doesn’t make sense to me that she’d cut him loose the day after she picked him up.”

“I hope we find her,” Reed said. “She could shine some light on this thing.”

“How many people besides the owners have a key to the front gate?” Joe asked.

“I asked the owners that same question,” Reed said. “They could think of at least a dozen. Maintenance people, plumbers, the local utility companies, contractors, employees, state licensing inspectors, et cetera. I asked them for a complete list of names.”

“I have a key,” Joe said.

“You do?”

“Yup. They gave me one a few years ago, after I’d had to call them in Arizona. A hunter wounded a bull elk that went on the property. We wanted to go get it so it wouldn’t go to waste. The owners had one of their seasonal employees meet me at the gate and he handed me a spare key. It’s possible there are more keys than we know about floating around.”

“That makes things tougher,” Reed said. “But we’re on it.”

“Let me know, okay?” Joe asked.

“I will.”

Reed hesitated a moment, then said, “I hear he’s not going to make it.”

Joe nodded. “That’s what Marybeth said, but Nate is the toughest guy I’ve ever met. I know Nate, and he’d have taken some guys with him if he was bushwhacked.”

Reed said, “Maybe our tech will find some blood or spent shells up there. That’s providing he was shot on the HF Bar and not shot somewhere else and dumped.”

“I’ll stop by there on my way to Billings,” Joe said, raising his eyebrows as if to ask for permission.

“I guess it can’t hurt,” Reed said. “Another set of eyes and all. And because this isn’t connected to”—he paused and gestured toward Cudmore—“this.”

Joe said nothing.

—

“ALL RISE,” the bailiff sang.

Joe got to his feet as Judge Hewitt blew into the courtroom from his chambers behind the bench. The judge was short, dark, and twitchy, and his eyes narrowed for a second when he discerned that two occupants of his court had remained seated. One was Sheriff Reed, and Hewitt acknowledged his error with a quick nod of regret. The other was Tilden Cudmore. Cudmore was slouched in his chair, his legs splayed toward the bench, his head slumped to the side.

Joe observed Patterson surreptitiously prompt Cudmore to stand by jabbing him in the arm with his finger. The public defender faced the bench while he did it. In reaction, Cudmore rolled his shoulder away from his counsel.

Joe thought: Uh-oh.

Hewitt took his seat and glared at Cudmore. He was still glaring when he said, “Mr. Patterson, does your client have a problem?”

“Your Honor?” Patterson said. Even at a distance, Joe could tell Patterson was flushing red.