Twice he’d ridden with a local tow-truck operator to the top to attempt to retrieve the pickup. Twice they’d been turned back by heavy drifts. The agency had sent up another pickup that should have been sold off because of its condition and the 190,000 miles on the odometer, but until Joe could get his new pickup out, he was stuck with the old one. The situation was the object of jokes and asides at headquarters in Cheyenne because of Joe’s track record with state vehicles. It would be any day now, Joe thought, that a new Game and Fish director would be named by the governor and review his record and give him a call. He hoped to have his pickup out by then, but he wasn’t sure he could make that happen.
—
JOE HEARD his old replacement pickup from a distance. The speaker outfit on the hood was patched to the radio inside and broadcast chatter from the mutual-aid law enforcement channel. It was set up like that so a game warden could be kept in communication when he was out of his truck, but Joe couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.
As he rode closer, he was surprised by the number of transmissions, and the frequency of them, even though he couldn’t yet make out the words. That happened only when something of significance occurred—a high-speed chase on the highway, a hot pursuit in the county, or a felony in progress.
He hoped whatever it was wouldn’t involve him. He wanted to get home for dinner with Marybeth and his daughters.
Then he reined up for Toby to pause, and he turned in the saddle and looked far up into the timber on the mountain, where he’d last seen Butch Roberson.
3
MARYBETH PICKETT WAS GIVING AN INFORMAL TOUR of the historic Saddlestring Hotel building to her friend and county prosecutor Dulcie Schalk when she heard sirens race up Main Street directly outside. In mid-sentence, she checked her cell phone to see if there were any texts or messages from Joe. When there weren’t, she dropped the phone back into the pocket of her summer dress.
“You do that automatically,” Dulcie said.
“I guess I do,” Marybeth said. “That’s what happens when your law enforcement husband is out there somewhere by himself and you hear sirens.”
“I understand,” Dulcie said.
Marybeth brushed a strand of hair out of her face and wiped her hands on a cloth to remove the dust that covered everything inside. It was hard to stay clean just walking through the old place, and she didn’t want to show up for her afternoon shift at the Twelve Sleep County Library smudged with grime. Dulcie had the same concern with her severe dark business suit.
Dulcie was slim, fit, dark-haired, and tightly wound. Joe considered her a tough prosecutor and too rigid in her approach, but he liked her. Marybeth had never worked with her—or against her—but they shared a mutual interest in western dressage and simply being around horses. When Dulcie’s stable had closed, Marybeth had offered space for Dulcie’s horse at their place, and now they saw each other twice a day when Dulcie drove out to feed Poke, her aging gelding. Dulcie was single and the subject of local barroom speculation about her availability and sexual preferences, though Marybeth knew her friend was straight—but cautious. And in Twelve Sleep County, pickings were slim.
Marybeth’s secret plan was to find a man for Dulcie and set a romance in motion. She was considering possibilities when Dulcie said, “Back to the tour.”
“Yes, where were we?”
—
MATT DONNELL, a local realtor, had approached Marybeth two months before at the library and told her he had just purchased the Saddlestring Hotel structure at a foreclosure auction in Cheyenne. It had once been the finest hotel in the county and the place where anyone of note stayed in the area. President Calvin Coolidge, Ernest Hemingway, Gary Cooper, and John Wayne had all stopped there during its heyday, although it was now hard to believe, given the condition of the building. It was a shambling three-level structure built of knotty pine, with a steep roof and gabled windows, a wide portico where rocking chairs had once lined up, and it gave off an overall impression of faded frontier elegance. It had also been vacant and hulking for ten years.
Donnell’s idea, since home sales were slow and he and Marybeth were dedicated to historic renovation, was to figure out a use for the building that would benefit the community and restore an eyesore into something useful. He also wanted to make some money. He told Marybeth he’d always admired her business sense and entrepreneurship, and asked her if she’d like to become a twenty-five percent partner in his new venture. Since she’d once helmed a small-business consulting firm and had contacts and experience, he said he’d thought of her first.
She’d been surprised by the offer but intrigued by the possibilities. Her current schedule consisted of being the mother of three teenage girls, running the household, taking care of her two horses, and acting as unpaid research assistant, receptionist, scheduler, and sounding board for Joe. Only the library stint helped pay the bills, and family finances were tighter than ever. She knew from experience that uneven partnerships often resulted in tension and angst, but she had no capital to put into the deal. Sheridan was about to start her second year at the University of Wyoming, and both April and Lucy were on deck. Marybeth’s part-time salary at the library was small, and Joe’s game warden salary was hostage to an agency-wide freeze. Because of all that, though, Marybeth was frustrated with their situation—living in the battered state-owned home, scrapping for a better life—and wanted to break out of it. And she wanted to show her daughters that rewards could come by hard work and risk, especially since the only person of wealth they had known was Marybeth’s mother, Missy, who’d acquired a fortune by trading up husbands for richer and richer men.
She told Donnell she’d consider it, and he said he’d get the paperwork going for the Saddlestring Hotel Development Limited Liability Company.
Joe and Marybeth stayed up late that night, and the more she thought about it and they talked about it, the more excited she got. Donnell’s role was finance, compliance, permits, and materials, and her role would be restoration, recruiting, and administration. She loved the idea.
The deal wasn’t in place yet, and Marybeth wanted the advice of her friend before she proceeded, which is why she’d invited Dulcie to tour the building.
“So do you know what the sirens were about?” she asked Dulcie.
“Not yet. If it’s something important, they’ll call me.”
Marybeth slipped a rubber band off a roll of blueprints to show Dulcie the plans.
Dulcie smiled. “If I was married to Joe Pickett, I’d probably be hyperalert as well.”
“Tell me about it.”
—
“IF WE DO THIS, we’d have to gut all the old rooms and knock down half of the walls between them,” Marybeth said, tracing with her finger on the blueprints, which were spread over an old door propped up by sawhorses.
“The last owners turned the place into a flophouse for transients and day workers,” she said. “We want to restore it to its old glory.”
She pointed to one spot on the blueprints. “We’d convert the old lobby into a central reception area,” she said. “That way, we can offer the individual office holders a shared receptionist and secretarial services.”
Dulcie nodded approvingly. “So you’re thinking of gathering up some of the folks who are doing business in spare rooms and old houses, then? Architects, lawyers, insurance guys?”
“Exactly,” Marybeth said. “The types who want a turnkey operation in a really cool environment. I know this is the kind of place I wish had been available when I had MBP,” she said, referring to the business consulting firm she’d founded and run for years before the economy sank. “Of course, first we need to get it ready for business.”