Every inch I put between me and Lorna Peale’s tantalizing snare rattled me more. It was that kind of forbidden opportunity, rooted in adolescent fantasy, and fueled by tenacious images from the girlie magazines of puberty, that fired my belly with irrational schemes to take advantage of her invitation. Not capitalizing on this serendipity seemed countercultural.

But her erotic summons raised questions of motive. What did Lorna hope to gain with the sexual temptations? 

Since my arrival, she’d been detached, distant and at times cold. Her rebuff and refusal to pay me the balance of my fee made her advances ludicrous. Or manipulative. A ploy to take my mind off the money? A way to pay me in trade like she had reportedly done with Derek? 

The timing of the whole seductive moment offset its power. Pieces were coming together. Trafficking, payments for land, and Lorna’s warden style behavior with Kayla pointed close to home. Then kaboom! Mamacita was dripping her insatiable self all over yours truly like honey on fresh bread.

Coincidence? Unlikely.

More like strategy.

Then again, might be she just had the libido of a wildcat in heat. 

That thought made me want to race back and jump her. Swath hay while the sun shone. Scratch the eternal itch of masculine desire that drove many men mad with rage. Had done as much for Aidan Peale. What chance did a man have against the persuasions of a fair lady? As with the first Adam, so with all Adams to come.

Each unrestrained craving added considerable weight to my conscience. Every past indiscretion scrambled onto the heap with a finger aimed at my gaping maw. Mental flashes of Nansi’s tortured expression, contorted in disappointment, abandonment, rage, as I stammered out shameful betrayals, bombarded me. 

Another stumble of like kind would kill her. Or inspire her to kill me. 

I ran after the haunting questions of Lorna Peale’s character, an analysis meant to distract me and squelch my sexual fervor. 

Desperate for love, or nymphomaniacal? The way her piercing blue eyes had played over my physique as she toyed with the dangling towel. The calculated measure of words, meted out like trinkets of gold meant to draw me into her. Swells of carnal desire prevented a clear thought at the time. 

In the aftermath, I couldn’t help but wonder about the underlying motives behind her sexual hunger and if they were rooted in a deeper emotional need or a twisted psychological deformity. She’d watched me pulling the case together. Noticed me witnessing her interactions with Kayla. She knew I saw things others missed. Was she willing to do whatever it took to gain advantage, as a way to manipulate my investigation?  

One truth stood out, her mastery of seduction far exceeded my skill set. A game of distraction. Get the investigator thinking with the wrong head. Identify as a victim of loneliness and desperation, not an agent of evil. The only thing that saved me was the presence of her young, traumatized child somewhere in the house. 

Children interrupt. 

They also remind you of your personal responsibility to their needs. Which brought to the surface anger toward my mother for failing in that. A flitter of an idea bounced at the edge of consciousness—how Mother was at fault for my lustful abandon, her neglect and anger over being stuck in a wheelchair by our father’s foolishness, transferred onto me, longing for the love, the impossible love, from archetypal Mother. 

It was such a selfish thought that I immediately shook it off with a whole-body shudder. I gagged, coughing violently against the impulse to blame anyone else for my bad choices. Time to get on with my search for truth in the here and now.

My heart galloped over a stomach so empty it could hide a horse. A stop by the diner to think things through, that was the ticket.

The morning’s sun cast long shadows on the road. Shafts of light painted erratic lines and rectangles across the pavement. A kid on a bicycle waved from the sunny side of the street.

My thoughts jumped to Kayla. Her plight brought tears I could not control. The trauma of living with a psychotic father whose reality fluctuated like the shadows, had just been punctuated with the witness of his murder. Her mother barely missed a beat in the song of sexual fulfillment. I didn’t want to imagine the things Kayla saw and heard in that household. Trapped and wandering the woods, by circumstance or intent did not matter, a tiny prisoner of war who was treated like a wild animal. All, very probably, in an attempt to sell her to the highest bidder.

What kind of people were these? How could any human traffic a child? All the money in the world wouldn’t help you sleep at night after you sold a child into slavery.

It was a moot point. Aidan was dead. The child was found. I had to focus on the immediate problem. Aidan Peale’s murder was my game. Get my sister out of jail before news of this fiasco found its way to Miles City, and certain castigation from my judgmental mother.

My mind stumbled over the options, endless possibilities chasing each other around the gray matter of my head. Bits of evidence and recent interactions flickered like the frames of a black and white film from the 40s. Each one revealed a hint of the overarching truth. It felt like I was on the verge of a solution, yet unable to complete the picture.

I recalled each encounter with Lorna, and how they differed so dramatically in character. I’d watched her lose emotional control at least once in grief. Could I visualize her losing control in anger? The resulting mental image seemed plausible. 

Lorna goes to confront the lunatic husband, slamming the car door, marching toward the greenhouse, confronting him. “You’ve gone too far this time! Took Kayla without a word! Refused to answer the phone! What kind of crazy nonsense are you about?” Knowledge of his schizophrenia makes him unpredictable, dangerous even, but this was unacceptable. 

He glares at her intrusion, wild eyes full of anger, and begins spouting bizarre theories about their daughter being an angel, untouchable by human interference. Lorna’s anger intermingles with terror at what he might do to their little darling. She challenges him. But he mocks her worries, tells her what a wicked adulterous slut she’s become. Enflamed with rage, she grabs the pitchfork away from him. He is stunned, but it makes him laugh. So she lunges forward, piercing him through the chest while he looks on in shock, eventually tumbling to the ground, where he bleeds out. 

As Lorna stands there panting, the reality of what she’s done settles in, a primary, maternal thought arises. What about Kayla? She searches frantically, the house, the shed, the greenhouse. But the child is nowhere. Why won’t Kayla call out to her for comfort? 

Because she’s seen them fight a thousand times, but nothing like this. So she stays hidden. Or maybe Lorna’s shock at her murderous action causes her to forget everything else, and she just runs away. 

It made sense in a lot of ways. Lorna permanently ending her relationship with Aidan. He had a habit of taking the child and hiding her away for periods of time. And she was basically left to raise the child on her own anyway, since his unstable mental health prevented consistency. Plus, he was apparently getting worse. She would have little difficulty finding a man to fill in, if necessary. 

Then there was the land deal. Perhaps Jenkins tried to close the trade agreement for Kayla, Aidan had a change of heart, refused to give her up, and got stuck in the chest for growing a pair, and protecting his child from a bad decision.

Better. Still a stretch. But crazier things have happened in the world.

Both guesses held more water than an angry bulimic with trust issues. Lots of young women had heartbreaks with daddy. Very few of chose to kill because of them.

I was more convinced than ever that it had to be the Jenkins land deal angle. The only problem was that my reasoning required convincing de Lude that Aidan made a deal to sell his child to Jenkins and then changed his mind, making Jenkins so angry that he killed the ambivalent father. How would I wrangle evidence of that?

The Tacoma made the decision for me. Like the automatic writing of a psychic medium, the steering wheel did its mystical business. A wrong turn had put me onto the serpentine road back to Jenkins inner sanctum. Breakfast would have to wait.

I rolled into the yard cautiously, teasing out a cover story about looking for Officer Ollie Gerulis. It was my thought that Jenkins would be keeping a low profile in case the financial connection between him and Aidan Peale came to light. He might be running for the hills if he believed Sheriff de Lude had found the secret deed. Even so, Hugh held ownership of his compound in high regard and it was possible he left a lookout behind to keep tabs.

My pickup truck wound its way down the serpentine drive, past the bared teeth of the LeTourneau log stacker that looked only a smidge less ravenous in the morning light. No sign of human life in the main area of the property.

I crept up the front stairs expecting a wild guard dog to pounce. The creak of dry wood amped my jitters. When no attack came, I tried the door.

Unlocked. Probably left open in his haste to escape the long hand of Johnny Law.

One foot was all the way inside when the wooden door swung open suddenly, hitting me in the face with a force that caused my eyes to water. Sharp pain flooded my nose and between the eyes as I stumbled backwards. An indistinguishable hand gave me a shove. My feet clambered backwards to the stair edge, where I tipped head over heels, shoulder bouncing off a step before I landed on the dirt. 

“Ow!” I hollered, scanning for the target of my fury. “You bastard!”

A blurry leg and boot heel were all I glimpsed as the figure disappeared back inside the house. 

The metallic taste of blood cast a tang over my tongue, before the door slapped shut with a bang. 

I scrambled for footing and had made the doorway when I heard a dirt bike fire up. No way I’d get through a strange house in time to catch them.

The bat-a-bat-bat of their escape banged against my aching head. I touched my nose and lips. My fingers came away bloody.

After rinsing off the blood in the bathroom, I scrounged every cranny of the small room for bandages. It took until I lost hope for looking when my fingers grazed against a familiar object. Wedged within the overstuffed drawer under the sink, I discovered a small first aid kit. 

“Hot dog,” I uttered. 

As I tugged it free, a small journal dropped to the floor. A piece of surgical tape clung to its cover, suggesting it had been secured to the bottom of the drawer above.

With a pinch between thumb and forefinger, using a square of TP, I flopped it open on the floor. A rush of excitement surged through me as I skimmed  its pages. 

“Well how do you do, howdy doody,” I exclaimed in disbelief.

The little tome was chockablock full of entries starting ten years ago. Dates, initials, locations and dollar amounts— if Jenkins was meticulous, he was also a fool. The transactions ranged from $800 in the beginning of the book up to a $10,000 amount for one “KP” due on December 1, 2000.

This had to be the thing my assailant was after. And I couldn’t just leave it where I found it, unguarded.