Odd Man Out. B.J. Daniels

      Chapter Two

      Pete slowed on the outskirts of town. At first glance, West, as the locals called it, appeared abandoned. They drove down the main drag, past the Dairy Queen, a row of T-shirt and curio shops and Denver’s camera shop. All were still boarded up behind huge piles of plowed snow. A melting cornice drooped low over Denver’s storefront. Out of a huge drift peeked a partially exposed homemade sign. See You In The Spring!

      The only hint of spring was in the rivers of melting snow running along the sides of the empty streets. Dirty snowbanks, plowed up higher than most of the buildings, marked the street corners they drove by. Everywhere, a webbing of snowmobile tracks crisscrossed the rotting snow still lingering in the shadow of the pines. Down a muddy alley sat a deserted snowmobile, its engine cover thrown back, falling snowflakes rapidly covering it.

      Only a couple of gas stations had their lights on. Near a mud puddle as large as a lake, two locals sat visiting, with their pickups running.

      It was April. Off-season. Snowmobiling was over for another winter and the summer tourist trade wouldn’t officially begin until Memorial Day weekend. Denver usually cherished this time of year, a time for the locals to take a breather before the tourists returned. But today, the town seemed to echo her lonely, empty feeling of loss.

      “I’m going to get you something hot to drink,” Pete said, touching her arm.

      Since the near accident with the semi, she hadn’t been able to quit shaking. Pete pulled up to a convenience store and came back a few minutes later with two large hot chocolates. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, motioning toward the falling snow. “I love this time of year.” His gaze turned from the storm to her. “And I love you.”

      “Pete, don’t—”

      “When are you going to stop fighting it, Denver? I love you.” He put his finger to her lips when she tried to protest. “I know you don’t love me. At least not enough to marry me. Not yet. But you will, very soon.”

      As she looked at Pete’s handsome face, she wished he were right. Marrying Pete was safe, and Max had made no secret of the fact that he had liked Pete for that very reason.

      They finished their hot chocolates and drove farther on into town, finally stopping in front of a house on Faithful Street. The place was typical of the older West Yellowstone residences: rustic log with a green metal roof, surrounded by lodgepole pines.

      “Let’s get this over with,” Pete said as he parked in front of Maggie’s house.

      * * *

      J.D. STOOD AT THE WINDOW of his room in the Stage Coach Inn, watching snowflakes spin slowly down from the grayness above. He blamed his restlessness on being back in West Yellowstone after all these years, on the weather, on Max’s burial service.

      Jeez, Garrison, you’ve been lying to yourself for so long, you’ve started believing it. He stepped away from the window and went to the makeshift bar he’d set up on the dresser. It’s seeing Denny again that’s thrown you. He frowned, still surprised at his reaction. Denver. He swore under his breath as he ripped the plastic off one of the water glasses and poured a half inch of Crown Royal into it.

      All these years he’d remembered Denny as the little freckle-faced girl he’d had water fights with on the beach and beat at Monopoly. Not that there hadn’t always been something about her that made her special to him. A fire in her eyes and a spirit and determination that had touched him. But she’d been just a kid. Now he couldn’t help wondering about the woman he’d seen at the cemetery—the woman Denver McCallahan had become. How much was left of the girl he’d once shared his dreams with?

      The window drew him back again. His dreams. He sipped the whiskey and looked out at his old hometown. It was here he’d picked up his first guitar, a beat-up used one. He’d fumbled through a few chords, a song already forming in his head. It had always been there. The music, the knowledge that he’d make it as a singer—and the ambition eating away inside him.

      He stared at the town through the snow. It had been here that he’d performed for the first time, here that he’d dreamed of recording an album of his own music, here that he’d always known he’d end up one day. But not like this.

      Nine years. Nine years on a circuit of smoky bars and honky-tonks, long empty highways, flat tires on old clunkers and cheap motel rooms. Somewhere along the way, he’d made it. Even now, he couldn’t remember exactly when that happened, when he realized it was no longer just a dream. J. D. Garrison was a genuine country and western star. Grammys and Country Music Association awards, his songs on the top of Billboard’s country charts. Since then, there’d been more awards, more songs, more albums, more tours. And better cars, better bars, better motel rooms.

      But one thing remained the same. That distant feeling that he was drifting off the face of the earth, that he’d become untethered from life. A few weeks ago, he’d awakened in a strange motel room and forgotten where he was, and when he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he realized he’d forgotten who he was, as well. He was losing the music. The songs weren’t there anymore—and neither was the desire to make them.

      J.D. spread his fingers across the cold windowpane. The white flakes danced beyond his touch; a tiny drift formed on the sill. “Oh, Denny,” he whispered. There was no doubt in his mind that she would try to find Max’s murderer. The question was how to keep her safe. And how to keep Pete away from her until he could sort it all out.

      But he knew one thing. He’d do whatever he had to do. Like hell. You’re looking forward to coming between the two of them. But is it because you believe Pete might have changed so much in these nine years that he could kill someone? Or is it simply that you don’t want Pete to have Denny?

      He frowned as he remembered the woman he’d glimpsed at the cemetery. Denver McCallahan was definitely a woman worth fighting for. And if he were Pete Williams, he’d fight like hell for her.

      * * *

      MAGGIE MET PETE and Denver on the screened-in porch in worn jeans, an old flannel shirt that could have been Max’s, and a pair of moccasins. She hadn’t attended the burial, saying she preferred to remember Max the way he was. A bag of groceries rested on the step, and from her breathlessness, Denver guessed she’d just come from the store.

      The buzz of the going-away party spilled through the door behind her as she hugged Denver. “You okay?”

      “I need to talk to you,” Denver whispered.

      Maggie