The Renegade And The Heiress. Judith Duncan
“Well, she did and she didn’t. Finn’s appeal was denied, and he was hauled off to a maximum-security prison. Then about a month after he was put away, that girl was killed when her car went over an embankment. No one really knew if it was an accident, or if she just couldn’t face life without him—or if maybe she blamed herself for what happened to him. But the truth was, she was behind the wheel when it went over the edge, and they said she was going a fair clip.” Old Joe shook his head, recalling the funeral. Things like that weren’t supposed to happen in a place like Bolton. That sort of darkness wasn’t supposed to touch a small town, but it had. And the ripples were felt far and wide—maybe folks still felt the effects.
As much for himself as for George, he felt compelled to finish the story. “Old man Bracken eventually drank himself to death and Sally’s folks moved to the coast. And just when most everyone had put it behind them, Finn got out of jail.” What happened after that, Old Joe had seen with his own eyes, how folks couldn’t quite look Finn Donovan in the eye. Maybe out of shame for what happened. Maybe out of guilt because no one had reined Roddy in before. Or maybe, Old Joe figured, because no one could face the man. But the truth was that folks gave Finn Donovan a wide berth after he came home. Maybe because of the ugly scar across his face or the cold, flat look in his eyes.
Resting his weight on his cane, George spoke. “You have to wonder why he came back here, after all that happened.”
Joe shrugged. “I expect because he had roots here. When he first came back, I used to hear things from his uncle. Like how he’d bought a big chunk of property just off the main road to Kananaskis Country. I heard he was building a log cabin on the place, and then somebody told me he was restoring the old log cabins that were already there. Then the fella at the lumberyard blabbed it around that he had put a new roof on the old log barn.” Joe took off his cap and combed his fingers through his thinning hair, then replaced his cap. “Yep, when he first came back, there were all kinds of rumors going around. There was one that when he was in jail, that he’d invested the money he got from the sale of their little house. Some folks say he made a killing on some gold shares. Then it got out that he bought a string of horses from the McCall brothers and he was back in business. But to be real honest, I don’t think anyone really knew for sure what he was up to. After his uncle died, the talk slowed to a trickle.” He looked out the window, watching a cat stalking something in the long grass beside the drop-in center. “But we’d hear about him from time to time—when something happened in the backcountry, and he’d be brought in to help out.”
He met his old friend’s gaze. “I started working for him about five years ago—must be five years—I know he was thirty-seven when he hired me. And all I can tell you is that Finn Donovan doesn’t show his cards to anyone. Folks still speculate, but the facts are a muddle,” he said. Then drawing on his skill as a poet, he added, “It’s all twisted by time an’ tainted by fiction. But he’s pulled a lot of people out of that backcountry. And his reputation as a tracker is part of that there legend. And it’s kept alive by the retelling.”
But there were some things Old Joe didn’t tell his shuffleboard partner. He didn’t tell him that he had the feeling that Finn Donovan knew he cast a long shadow in the ranching community, and that was one of the reasons he kept to himself. Old Joe knew that sometimes in the winter, when the nights were dark and cold, Finn Donovan would take off for warmer climes. And, Old Joe suspected, warm bodies. He figured that it had taken his boss a lot of years to disconnect from the past. And that he wanted to keep it that way. As Old Joe saw it, Finn Donovan lived from season to season.
The cemetery stretched across a rise of land, opening it up to a view of the mountains, the trees along the drive still golden with the last of the autumn foliage. Finn Donovan settled his black low-crowned Stetson on his head as he got out of his SUV, then reached across and retrieved a spray of perfect pink roses off the passenger seat. Slamming the door behind him, he walked between the rows of headstones, the flowers clutched in one hand, his expression somber as he thought about this pilgrimage. He wondered where the last year had gone.
The scent of autumn hung in the crisp clean air, underscored by the faint smell of burning leaves and the sweet fragrance of the roses. Reaching the small white marble headstone tucked in between two lilac bushes, he crouched down, brushing away the fallen leaves.
Sally Lynn Donovan, beloved wife and daughter.
Experiencing the familiar hollowness in his chest, Finn took off his hat and carefully placed the spray against the white marble. She would have been thirty-seven today. He couldn’t imagine her at thirty-seven. She had been so young when she died—only twenty-two—and she had remained young and full of life in his mind. But after fifteen years, he could no longer recall her image, and that made the empty feeling in his chest expand. His sweet, sweet Sally. It had been so long ago, it was almost as if that part of his life had never happened.
Getting to his feet, he repositioned his hat on his head and stared at the grave for another moment. Then he turned and started back toward his truck, the fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet. He looked toward the western horizon, checking to see if there was a weather system moving in against the Rocky Mountains. He wanted good weather. First thing tomorrow, he was heading out into those mountains to restock and repair the line shacks he used as base camps on his most frequently used routes. It was a trip he made every fall. Sometimes he wondered why he did it. Other times, he knew exactly why.
Chapter 1
The weather did hold, and Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. There was still a touch of frost hanging in the air as Finn reined his big buckskin gelding around and headed up the trail behind the barn. His dog Rooney nosed through the underbrush, his head down tracking some scent. The packhorse, all loaded down with supplies, plodded along behind him.
If he had special-ordered it, Finn couldn’t have asked for a better day to head out. Not a cloud in the sky, the air crisp and clean, aspens still cloaked in gold, the rugged countryside so beautiful it made his chest hurt. Dried fallen leaves crunched beneath Gus’s freshly shod hooves as they passed through a thick stand of poplar, their passage startling a huge raven off the trail ahead. It was the kind of day where a man should be able to fill his lungs and savor being alive. But for some reason, the brightness of the day left Finn feeling even more empty than usual. For more years than he cared to remember, he’d been making this trip. And over the years, it had turned into a kind of spiritual pilgrimage—a time to think, a time to assess and evaluate, a time to try and locate some small kernel of peace within himself. But finding even a trace of that inner contentment was becoming harder and harder to do. He wasn’t even sure what he hoped to find in himself anymore.
Guiding Gus around a shale face, Finn hardened his jaw and studied the jagged gray barrier rising up in his path. Maybe he was just like those mountains. So damned hardened and dead inside, there was nothing left.
It was a long, empty ride. By the third day out, the skies had turned dark and somber, and the wind kept changing direction. A sure sign that something ugly was building in the mountains. Finn had spent the first night and the entire second day at the first line shack, making repairs to the roof, stocking the shelves with nonperishables and chopping a supply of wood. It was a little after noon when he headed out, and by the time he reached the old tree shattered by lightning, a weather front had moved in. The sky had gotten heavier and more ominous, and the dense, heavy clouds huddled low, with the wind beginning to shift and moan.
It was midafternoon when the first snowflakes started to spiral down, and Finn shifted in the saddle, the thick flakes catching in his eyelashes and graying the landscape. Squinting against the falling snow, he flipped up the collar of his fleece-lined coat, then turned to check on Trouper. The packhorse followed without a lead, and the piebald was plodding along behind, his gait slightly off from a crooked shoulder. The corner of Finn’s mouth lifted just a little. Trouper was probably the most miserable piece of horse-flesh he’d ever laid eyes on—thick neck, huge head with mulelike ears, hooves the size of dinner plates, and a thin, stubby tail.
But in spite of all his bad conformation, Finn wouldn’t have traded him for a sack of gold. Trouper was the best packhorse, bar none, that he had in his stable. He