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  And that was not good.

  Not good to realize what he was feeling. It winded Robert. He could not afford to think things like that. He could not afford to feel any of this. He could not—but all the same, he stepped toward Jamie, reached out, like someone was using remote control on him, to grab Jamie’s shoulders. “You’re bleeding. You sure you’re okay?”

  Jamie’s gold-brown eyes lit up like apricot brandy, and he grinned—the very look that terrified Robert, the look that had convinced him eight months ago he had to put some distance between them.

  “Swell! Some of the windshield glass hit me when he fired at us. It’s nothing. He can’t be that far ahead, Rob, but we’ve got to move fast.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.” Robert let go of him so abruptly, Jamie stumbled forward—or maybe he’d been moving forward on his own. “Emmett and Sullivan are just a couple of minutes behind me. They’ll get help for you and the Whitehall kid.”

  Jamie’s expression hardened. The cold pinked his nose and ears, and there were snowflakes in his eyelashes. “You’re not leaving me here. This is my story.”

  “Your—! Listen, you’ll get your story when we’ve got Braun.”

  Rob had no time for this nonsense. The lives of two women were at stake. Not to mention the life of anyone else Braun ran into.

  Jamie was shaking his head. “You’re not keeping me out of this. I’m not a kid anymore. I have a job to do too. I’ll follow on foot if I have to.”

  That was just a redhead’s temper talking, though there was no question Jamie did not give up easily. Or ever. But even he was no match for a Montana snowstorm, and he was smart enough to know it.

  “Sure you can. Go right ahead and try.” Rob was already turning to climb back in his Ford, angling his leg because this much time in a car was hell on it.

  Jamie snapped, “You’re damned right I will. There’s a gas station back at the Five Mile, where I know for a fact I can borrow a car. And by the way, you don’t even know which road Braun took after the turnoff up there!”

  That halted Rob. He turned back, tamping down his exasperation. “Look, I’m not— This isn’t about— I’m not trying to interfere with your job. Don’t you see? Somebody needs to stay with the Whitehall kid till help gets here. That leaves you.”

  Jamie looked momentarily stricken. He’d always been conscientious. And softhearted. In fact, he was the only kid Robert knew who could shoot like a marksman but didn’t want to hunt.

  “The hell it does!”

  Jamie’s reinforcements arrived in the shape of what had nearly been the ghost of Christmas Present, Whitey Whitehall, the bloodied but unbowed cub photographer for the Montana Standard.

  “Nobody needs to hold my goddamned hand.” Whitehall cradled his right arm against his chest while still clutching the battered box of a press camera.

  “For Christ’s sake—”

  “You just said help is right behind you,” Jamie interrupted.

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “This is our scoop,” Whitehall said. “This our big break.”

  “You don’t even work for the same paper!”

  He might as well have been talking to himself.

  “Not yet we don’t. Take my camera, pal.” Whitey handed the Speed Graphic to Jamie, who took it with a grim, defiant look at Robert. “Make sure you get a good shot for me.”

  “I will.”

  “And don’t forget to focus!”

  “I won’t.”

  Robert half groaned, half swore. “Christ. Get in the goddamned car. I don’t have time to argue about this.”

  Jamie didn’t wait for him to change his mind, sprinting around to the other side of the Ford. Robert got in behind the wheel, slammed shut the door, and released the brake.

  “How far ahead is Braun?” Robert asked.

  “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” Jamie admitted, “I lost track when we crashed.”

  The Whitehall kid moved to the side of the road, giving a jaunty little wave belied by his colorless, hollow-eyed face as they rolled past, tires crunching snow.

  Jamie watched him in the side mirror.

  Robert growled, “He’ll be fine. Emmett and Sullivan aren’t more than ten minutes behind. And the sheriffs should be all over this valley by now.”

  “Yes. True.”

  “I didn’t realize you two were pals.”

  “We’re not.” Jamie seemed to think that over. “At least, we weren’t.” He smiled a little at some private thought.

  The smile pricked Robert’s curiosity, but on the whole he was glad to see it. For all his outward friendliness and good cheer, Jamie didn’t have many close friends. Joey had been about it. This was a move in the right direction. Because as hard as it had been to shut Jamie out, Robert could not be his friend.

  That would not be wise for either of them.

  Jamie asked, “How is O’Hara? How’s Finney?”

  His breath was visible. Rob realized he’d never turned the heater on. He leaned forward, turned the knob, and moist, hot air blasted out.

  “Finney should pull through.” He said flatly, “O’Hara’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Rob.”

  Robert hardened his jaw. He did not want sympathy, and he couldn’t think about O’Hara now. Not until this was all over. Funny how you got so used to death and dying in war, you started believing you didn’t really feel it anymore. But back home, murder still felt like a tragedy. Every single time.

  “What do you think drove Braun to it?” Jamie asked.

  “Am I being interviewed?”

  Jamie’s head went back as though Rob had slapped him. He turned and stared straight ahead.

  The dignified, slightly hurt silence stretched for about half a mile before Robert felt himself relenting. As much as he did not want Jamie there, it was no use denying he suddenly felt better with that living, warm presence next to him. Jamie smelled like snow and wet wool and Rob’s own brand of aftershave. He’d taught both of them—Joey and Jamie—to shave. Joey had inherited their late father’s unused Kings Men After Shave Lotion. Jamie had taken to wearing Cross Country like Robert. The memory of that softened him still further.

  He said, “I think the McDuffy girl could tell us more, but there wasn’t time to interview her properly because two fool kids took off after a cop killer—”

  “I’m not a kid,” Jamie said tightly. “I’m twenty-three. I’ve been earning my own living for the past four years. And I’m old enough to serve my country—even if my country doesn’t want me.”

  Christ. That again.

  Growing up, Jamie had missed more school than any kid Robert knew. His winters were always plagued with colds and chills, and then two years ago, he’d nearly died of pneumonia. So it was no surprise to anyone but Jamie that he’d flunked his physical.

  “All right”—Robert was equally terse—“but it was a damn fool thing to do anyway.”

  “I’m a newspaperman. It’s my job to go where the story leads me.”

  Rob made an unappeased sound, but what was the use in fighting about it now? And in fairness, Jamie wasn’t a kid. He was a man with a man’s right to make his own choices—and to live with the consequences of those choices.

  That was part of the problem.

  Jamie wiped at his forehead. His fingers came away red and sticky. He blinked in surprise at the sight of his own blood. Robert shifted in his seat, pulled out a clean handkerchief.

  “Here. Use this.”

  Jamie muttered thanks and dabbed at his hairline. “He turned up here,” he said, nodding at the unmarked turnoff. “We thought for a while he might be making for Ennis, but it doesn’t look like it.”

  “Where the hell is that sonofabitch headed?”

  It wasn’t a real question, and Jamie didn’t offer a theory. Robert sank back into his bleak thoughts. When all this was over, he still had to face O’Hara’s wife.

  O’Hara should have retired four years ago, but the manpow
er shortage resulting from the war meant men of O’Hara’s age were still working long past their prime. And what was the reward for being a good citizen?

  A bullet in the face.

  “What is it about Christmas that brings out the worst in some people?”

  He wasn’t aware he’d grumbled that aloud until Jamie said, “It brings out the best too. Look at all these men willing to leave their warm homes and Christmas dinners to chase Braun down.”

  Robert spared him a quick look, his mouth tugging into a not-quite-smile. “Maybe.”

  No denying that something about Jamie beside him made him happy. It had been a long eight months.

  His radio crackled to life.

  Bart said, “Chief, we’ve got some news. The boys found that chicken thief’s jalopy.”

  “Good work. Get any idea where he might be headed?”

  “No, but it turns out our boy was a real professional. Had his sedan tricked out like a tourist’s car, only he removed the rear seats and cushions and put in coops. With a tarpaulin thrown over ’em, they’d look like luggage.”

  Chicken and eggs were not rationed, not yet anyway, but pretty much all other meat was, which meant people were possessive about their poultry. Even so, the idea that Braun had been willing to kill his girlfriend to protect his chicken-thieving business was pretty ruthless.

  “How many chickens would those coops hold?” Jamie asked, dabbing his forehead again.

  Robert repeated his question, and Bart replied, “Probably two hundred chickens.”

  Robert whistled. That was a lot of chickens, and maybe Braun’s actions were easier to understand in that context.

  Robert again told Bart good work and hung up his radio.

  There was still no sign of Braun ahead of them, though Robert was pushing the Ford as fast as he dared on the icy road.

  Winter in Big Sky country meant wide empty spaces filled with nothing but blue silence and snowy solitude.

  Jamie started to speak, but fell silent as a bull elk burst out of the woods and charged along the road, an arm’s length from the car. They stared, wordless, awed as the elk bounded beside them, snow kicking up beneath sharp hooves, breath steaming in the cold air, wild-eyed and fierce, before veering sharply off again and vaulting toward the shadowy woods.

  “By God…” Jamie smiled at Robert—he had a beautiful smile, like a sunny Sunday morning—and Robert couldn’t help smiling back.

  That shared moment—recalling other times, happier times, showing Jamie and Joey how to read a map, how to track spoor, how to shoot—reminded Robert that he needed to have a serious talk with Jamie.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I heard you tried joining up again?”

  Jamie’s smile faded.

  “So?”

  That cool tone did not sound like the Jamie he knew.

  Robert plowed on. “So there are other ways you can serve your country.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  The note of bitterness did not sound like Jamie either. It bothered Robert. Not that the war wasn’t knocking the stuffing out of idealists everywhere.

  There was a lot that Robert wanted to tell him, but figuring how to put it all into words…it was beyond him. Not least because he knew he shouldn’t even be feeling some of it. That knowing Jamie would not be sacrificed too helped a little with the loss of Joey. That part of the point of war was to keep the world safe for the James Jamesons. The thinkers, the dreamers, the artists—the people who helped transform the mining camps and cattle towns into civilization. Or at least “the Pittsburgh of the West.”

  Instead he said, “There’s a reason the government put a cap on enlistments. The home front needs good men too.”

  “Sure.”

  Once more Robert’s radio crackled to life, ending the awkward conversation. Walt Riddle, Butte’s brand-new sheriff, filled him in on the combined efforts of law enforcement in Silver Bow County to bring Officer O’Hara’s killer to justice and rescue two abducted women.

  Not just the lawmen of Silver Bow. The police, sheriffs, and highway patrol of all adjacent counties were joining in the hunt for Harold Braun—a job made more difficult by the inclement weather and the fast-approaching night.

  By the time Robert finished speaking to Riddle, stopping to put snow chains on the tires had become a necessity.

  It was chilly, dirty work, and he was very grateful for Jamie’s help though chagrined he needed it. Most of the time his leg was not too much of a handicap, but the cold weather made it throb like the devil, and running up and down stairs had not been therapeutic. Now, after sitting for long hours in a car, uncomfortable was quickly becoming excruciating.

  The truth was, he did not have to personally chase down Braun. Every cop in five counties was combing the same back roads and roundabouts.

  But he had never liked sitting at a desk or waiting by the sidelines.

  And he felt—though he had no logical reason for thinking so—that they were closing in on Braun.

  By the time they had the snow chains on, he and Jamie were both half-frozen and it was sunset. The snow had stopped, and the underbelly of clouds was flushed an ominous red.

  It seemed likely that Braun would try to find somewhere to put up for the night. In Robert’s experience, criminals always ran up to the point they believed they had outdistanced their pursuers, and then, inevitably, they stopped to rest. Adrenaline only took you so far. It had been the same in the war. No matter how scared you were, how great the danger, sooner or later you convinced yourself you could stop and catch your breath for a little bit.

  Given the lousy weather and bad driving conditions, it seemed likely that Braun would be trying to find a rock to crawl under.

  Robert got his Browning Automatic-5 shotgun from the trunk of his car and handed it to Jamie, who took it without comment.

  “Just in case.”

  Jamie said calmly, “Sure, Chief.”

  For the first time Robert recognized that Jamie probably would have made a pretty good soldier, but it just made him all the gladder that Uncle Sam had seen fit to keep him home. Joey had made a good soldier too—and Robert still couldn’t bear to think about it.

  They got back in the car and resumed their exploration of endless snowy backroads, keeping a sharp eye out for the gray Chevy. There was no sign of it. Braun would know the main highways were being patrolled, but without chains, he would have run into the same problems they had.

  Yet there was no sign of the stolen car. If it had passed this way, the snow had already covered its tracks.

  When they did finally find the Chevrolet, night had fallen. The stolen vehicle had slid off the road into a snowdrift. Its headlights were off, the engine silent.

  The white glare of the Ford’s headlights illuminated the silhouettes of two figures slumped against each other inside the car. The human mound did not move even at the approach of the Ford, tire chains clanking as they rolled up behind.

  “Oh hell,” Jamie whispered.

  Robert echoed the thought. What he said was, “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Yep.” Jamie reached for the Browning.

  Robert drew his Colt and shoved open the car door, using it as a bulwark, aware of Jamie doing the same on the other side of the car. Again, he acknowledged Jamie’s coolheaded competency—and remembered how it felt to be able to rely on someone. He had gotten out of the habit, working with men old enough to be his father or rejected by Uncle Sam for one reason or another. Jamie was not only dependable; he’d always been a better shot than Joey or even Robert himself.

  The winter night was bitter and tasted of distant woodsmoke. Robert used his bullhorn. “Get out of the car with your hands up!”

  The silhouettes inside the four-door came back to life. Pale faces turned, blinking stupidly in the glare of the police car’s headlights. One of the figures leaned over, inching open the car door and showing both empty hands.

  “Don’t shoot,” a woman’s voice called
. “It’s only Mary and me. He’s gone.”

  The relief at finding them alive was enormous, but Robert had never been careless, and the war had drummed greater caution into him. He glanced at Jamie. His profile was resolute, calm as he watched the Chevrolet. He rested the Browning on the top of the car door, muzzle aimed at the rear window.

  “Get out slowly,” Robert spoke through the bullhorn again. “Same side of the car. Keep your hands up where I can see ’em.”

  The women obeyed, scrambling out of the car, shivering and blinking in the spotlight provided by the Ford.

  Robert didn’t recognize either of them. Both looked to be in their twenties, slim and dark-haired with a sisterly resemblance around the nose and eyes. They wore soft tweed suits with wide belts and contrasting scarves—and no shoes.

  Robert lowered his weapon. “There are blankets in the trunk,” he told Jamie, and Jamie nodded, lowered the rifle, and went to retrieve them.

  Robert helped the half-frozen women hobble to his car. They identified themselves as Mary and Grace Roby of Anaconda. The Robys had planned on having Christmas dinner in Bolt with their grandmother but had unfortunately timed their arrival to coincide with Harold Braun’s escape from the Knight’s Arms. As they huddled beneath the blankets, they described their hours-long ordeal.

  “Who was driving?” Jamie asked. He had produced a little notepad and pencil and was jotting down notes, though how he could see in the gloom was a mystery.

  “Grace,” Mary said. She smiled at her sister. “She deliberately drove us into that snowbank.”

  Grace shrugged. “I thought he’d shoot me then for sure, but I figured that was coming anyway.”

  “He swore to high heaven,” Mary said. “A filthy mouth and a filthy temper. He tried everything to get us unstuck. Even had us out there pushing. He tried using branches and the blankets in the car to try and get traction. To no avail.”

  “How long ago? What direction was he headed?” Robert demanded.

  Grace said, “Maybe an hour ago. Maybe longer. We fell asleep for a bit.”