“What a pain,” Joe said. “But weren’t you going to repaint anyway?”

“Of course,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter that we weren’t going to keep any of the old paint. And it doesn’t matter that in eighty years of people using this building, nobody ate any paint chips and got sick from it.”

Donnell rolled his eyes and said, “They’re worried flakes of the paint will come off when we strip it and kids will eat them, I guess. So we have to hire guys in hazmat suits and with special certification to strip the walls.”

Before Joe could speak, Donnell said, “And that’s not the worst of it.”

“Tell him the worst of it, Matt,” Marybeth said.

“He’s worried about asbestos in these old buildings. The wallboards and the insulation might have asbestos in them. The shingles, too. And all of the wiring needs to be replaced.”

Joe said, “So they want you to gut the entire building?”

“Worse,” Donnell said. “We have to hire a specially certified asbestos-removal company to gut the entire structure down to the bricks and framing. Then we can’t proceed until the fire marshal sends up his own personal inspector from Cheyenne to give us a permit.”

Joe understood the look of panic in Marybeth’s eyes now.

“And we can’t do any of the work ourselves,” Marybeth said, “because we don’t have certified training or licenses.” Then, to Matt: “Tell him about these certified asbestos-removal companies.”

Matt sighed and looked away. “There aren’t any.”

Joe said, “What?”

“The closest one is in Salt Lake City,” Donnell said. “They’re backed up for eighteen months. And the cost of getting them up here to all but demolish the hotel . . .”

“. . . is more than Matt paid for it,” Marybeth finished for her partner. “All these new costs are way beyond what we budgeted to rebuild the hotel.”

“Oh, man,” Joe said, rubbing his face. He’d forgotten about the gunshot burn on the side of his head, and it stung when he touched it.

Donnell said, “No bank is going to even talk to us until we have all the permits and sign-offs.”

He stepped back and raised both of his hands, palms up, toward the old vaulted ceilings.

Donnell said, “I’ve been buying and selling real estate in this valley for twenty-five years. There have been up and down years, but it was based on free market. It’s just the way it is, and I never bitched about the bad years because the good years made up for them, and I always knew that if I worked hard and didn’t screw anyone, I’d succeed—and I have, up to now.”

Joe interrupted and asked, “What’s it going to cost, Matt?”

Donnell made a pained face and said, “If I were to guess, I’d say rebuilding this hotel like we wanted it will cost us four times more than we thought and take three times as long.”

Joe narrowed his eyes. Marybeth looked stricken. He wanted to knock Matt Donnell’s head off. He said, “You’re supposed to be the expert here. You’re supposed to know this stuff. Marybeth trusted you.”

“I know,” Donnell said, lowering his arms and listing his head slightly to the side as if defeated already. “This wasn’t my first rodeo. But it’s the first time I ever tried to rebuild a historic building. I thought the bureaucrats would want to help us. I honestly thought—and I remember telling your wife this—that removing the blight from the middle of a small town and building a business incubator in its place would be cheered on. I had no idea they’d throw every possible regulation and roadblock in our way.”

Joe still wanted to punch him.

“Look,” Donnell said, “thousands of people passed through this hotel over the years. They ate and slept here, and nobody got sick or died. But all of a sudden, when we want to fix it up so people can use it again, it’s considered a goddamned death trap. It’s like it’s painted with poison and infested with toxic waste. Knowing what we do now, who in their right mind would want to build anything, or fix anything, anymore?”

Donnell’s face was bright red, and he looked to Joe like he might break down. Joe and Marybeth exchanged worried glances.

Then Marybeth said softly, “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

Donnell looked up, took a breath, and said, “I think we should give up on this project. I’ll take my losses while I still can. It’s not worth it trying to push back because they hold all the cards. They’ve got paid lawyers and regulators with no personal financial stake in this building like we do. They can sit at their desks and tell us what we can and can’t do, and they can drag this out for years or until we’re both bankrupt.”

“You’re saying we should just walk away from our deal?” Marybeth said, and Joe noticed the welling in her eyes.

Donnell nodded. “Yes. I’ll put the hotel back on the market and sell it for whatever we can get, even if we’re just selling the lot itself. A corner lot on Main Street in the middle of town has to be worth something. I’ll do what I can to return some of the money we’ve already sunk into it, I swear. I’m sorry I got you two involved.”

Joe took a deep breath.

Marybeth said to Donnell, “I’m sorry you’re going to take a loss, and I appreciate the opportunity you gave me.” She looked at Joe. “I’m sorry.”

He knew how much it meant to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine.”

And it was a hurdle removed from not taking the job in Cheyenne, he thought but didn’t say.

Then he looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to go.”

“Call me,” Marybeth said to his back.

14

AS JOE DROVE UP BIGHORN ROAD WITH TOBY ONCE again in the horse trailer, the immediate anger he’d felt in the lobby of the Saddlestring Hotel subsided and was replaced by frustration. He thought about the look of utter defeat on Marybeth’s face, something he’d rarely seen before. He didn’t like seeing his wife so disappointed.

He wanted to fix it somehow but didn’t know where to start. He wondered what she’d think about the job offer from LGD, and anticipated her response. Which is why he hadn’t told her about it.

—

AS HE DROVE, changing channels from one problem to another, Joe tried to imagine what Butch felt like up there in the mountains, away from his wife and daughter, sleeping on the ground and listening for the sounds of approaching pursuers. Unlike Butch, Joe and Marybeth had dodged a bullet. If they’d made the hotel deal they’d have been ruined instead of disappointed.

Butch had to know, Joe thought, that his life wasn’t worth anything anymore. His construction company would go bankrupt and his family would be affected in ways he could never have imagined.

Butch would know that if he turned himself in he’d be locked away for years. Did he regret what he’d done, or did he feel justified for having done it?

Joe sighed, knowing the question was academic. Butch Roberson was the only suspect in a double homicide—it didn’t matter what he felt.

—

HE WAS SURPRISED to see a jam of vehicles in front of the gate to the Big Stream Ranch. Pickups with horse trailers, SUVs trailing pods of ATVs, law enforcement panel vans, and a dozen other vehicles were massed on the shoulder of the highway and in the right- hand lane itself—a convoy that had been made to stop. Several uniformed deputies were standing on the blacktop, directing traffic.

Joe slowed and powered his window down as he approached Deputy Justin Woods.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked. “I thought they were going to set up their command post up at the forest boundary.”

“That was the idea,” Woods said, “but they can’t get access to cross the ranch.”

“What?”

“Frank Zeller won’t let them through,” Woods said, trying to stifle a smirk.