Page 22 of Deacon (Men of Clifton, Montana #52)

Deke exhaled heavily as he drove back toward Maple Ridge, the rhythmic hum of the tires a soothing backdrop to his thoughts.

The Autumn Falls office had handed the men over to the Sheriff’s department for holding, which was his destination.

He hoped Smith would open up, though he knew any deal-making was off the table.

As he pulled into the parking lot, he shut off the truck’s engine, the sudden silence enveloping him.

Deke stepped out, the crunch of the gravel underfoot a familiar sound.

He nodded to a few deputies exiting, exchanging brief, acknowledging glances, before striding toward the sheriff’s office.

The building loomed ahead; its brick facade weathered by time.

Upon entering, the cool air was a welcome relief, and he approached the counter where a different receptionist greeted him with a warm smile, her eyes curious yet professional.

“Could I help you with something?” she inquired, her voice polite.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Agent Anderson with MDOL. I’d like to speak with Sheriff Jones,” he replied, his tone courteous but firm.

“Is he expecting you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Deke grinned. “Probably, but he didn’t know what time I’d be arriving.”

“Let me call him,” she offered, reaching for the phone.

Deke nodded and leaned against the counter, taking a moment to glance around the room, noting the well-worn chairs and the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air. He straightened up when he spotted the sheriff approaching, his stride determined, hand extended in greeting.

“Agent Anderson, good to see you again,” the sheriff said, his handshake firm and welcoming.

“You too,” Deke responded, returning the handshake with equal strength.

“Come with me. I’ll take you to the interrogation room, then we’ll get Smith for you.”

“Thank you,” Deke replied, appreciating the directness.

He followed the sheriff into a room dominated by a large metal table with two chairs on one side and one on the other, the surface cold and unyielding. A two-way mirror occupied the back walls, its reflective surface adding an air of mystery to the room.

“I’ll be right back with him,” the sheriff assured.

“Yes, sir.” Deke leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest, his gaze drifting to the mirror as he settled in to wait, his mind already turning over the possibilities of the upcoming conversation.

The heavy door creaked open a few minutes later, and the sheriff strode in, Smith’s wrists rattling in cold steel handcuffs. He motioned toward a scratched metal chair by the narrow table, hooked Smith’s cuffs to the iron bar welded on top of it, then straightened and nodded.

Deke’s eyes shifted to Smith, who glared back, his jaw clenched so tight that Deke was surprised he didn’t crack his teeth.

“He’s all yours, Agent.” The sheriff walked out; the door thudding shut behind him.

Deke took a slow step forward, the harsh fluorescent light overhead casting sharp shadows across the interrogation room’s stained walls.

Smith shifted in the chair, the vinyl seat squeaking under him.

Deke pulled a chair out with a scrape, spun it around, straddled it, placed a small recorder on the table’s metal surface, then folded his arms over the top of the chair.

“Well?”

Smith exhaled, the air smelling faintly of sweat and regret. “Can I get a deal?”

Deke’s gaze never wavered. “Like what?”

“A few years off my sentence.”

“I told you that wasn’t up to me. That’s up to your attorney. You’ve been here before, so you know how it goes.”

Smith’s shoulders slumped. “I needed the money.”

“And?”

“The Winchester boys came to me after their father hired me as a ranch hand. I’d worked for Rudy Hollister before. I knew the back roads, the barns… the best times to move cattle without notice.” He shrugged as if conceding defeat.

“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” Deke said, voice low. “Is Chet Winchester involved?” Smith went silent. Deke slammed his palm on the table; Smith jerked, eyes widening. “Is he?”

Smith released a ragged breath. “Yes. I never talked with him personally, just through his kids.”

“Why did Winchester do this?”

“He hates Rudy. Hollister’s beef blows his stock off the market. The man can’t stand it.” Smith sighed.

“Where were you taking the cattle?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. Where?”

Smith’s gaze dropped to his bound hands. “Chet’s got a guy dealing on the black market with the beef and the hides.”

Deke’s fingers drummed the table. “That’s not what I asked.”

Smith swallowed. “Johnny was driving them to Autumn Falls. They’d off-load at this warehouse—” He shook his head.

“And then?”

“They’d butcher them. Sell the meat off the books, cure the hides, then ship those too.”

Deke leaned back, the chair creaking. “Who’s the man in Autumn Falls?”

“Anthony Dyer.”

Deke raised an eyebrow. “Anthony Dyer?”

“He’s got connections,” Smith mumbled.

“Never heard of him. And how’d you get mixed up in this?”

“I told you. The Winchesters offered me cash. They knew I had worked for Hollister.”

Deke smirked. “Was it well compensated?”

Smith’s face fell. “Not now.”

“Why not just find honest work?”

“Hollister blackballed me, fired me for almost burning down his barn.”

“How did you almost burn his barn down?”

“I was drunk,” Smith murmured.

“So, you thought stealing his cattle was fair payback?”

Smith shrugged; his eyes haunted. “Can we talk deal now?”

Deke clicked off the recorder, stood, spun the chair around and tucked it under the table. “Get an attorney. This isn’t your first rodeo, so don’t expect to walk free anytime soon.”

Smith’s lip trembled. “I don’t want to end up in the same prison as the Winchester boys. They’re dangerous.”

Deke shrugged. “Not my call. Good luck, Mr. Smith.” He slipped through the door without glancing back.

Outside, the sheriff leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded. “Sounds like you’re onto something.”

“I want Chet Winchester,” Deke said. “But I need the boys’ side of this.”

“I can ask them,” the sheriff offered, then shook his head. “Hell, come with me. You can ask them yourself.”

They threaded down a dim hallway into a block of steel-barred cells. The smell of disinfectant mingled with something sour in the air.

“They’re right there.” The sheriff nodded toward two of three adjacent cells.

Deke stared at the prisoners; Teddy Winchester, lean and scowling, and Johnny, younger, his eyes darting nervously.

“Want to talk yet?” Deke asked, voice echoing.

“No,” Teddy snarled, arms crossed.

“Smith named you both, along with your old man.”

Teddy laughed, a harsh bark. “Yeah, right.”

“He did.” Deke stepped back and leaned against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “Does Anthony Dyer ring a bell?”

Both boys paled. Deke allowed himself a small smile. “So, you know him.”

Johnny’s voice cracked. “I’ll talk.”

Teddy snapped, “Shut up, Johnny.”

Deke leaned close. “Tell me everything.”

“My dad will kill me,” Johnny whispered.

“He won’t get the chance. I’m charging him too.” Deke’s tone turned stern. “Montana law considers any theft of domesticated hoofed animals a felony. You face up to ten years per count. Those cattle were worth a lot of money. You’ll all be behind bars for a long time.”

“Even if we cooperate?” Johnny asked.

“That’s up to your lawyer. I’ll note your cooperation, but you tell me the whole story, including your father’s role, or I’ll lock the three of you in one cell and we’ll have a family reunion.

You talk to each other, then have the sheriff call me if you want to talk.

” He straightened, turned, and walked out.

****

Ava sat at the table; her laptop open to the sales report she’d studied all morning.

The late-afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the flecks of dust in the air.

Outside, a truck rumbled over gravel, and Ava’s chest fluttered with anticipation, was it Deacon?

She glanced down at her faded cotton T-shirt, noting spaghetti stains darkening the fabric from lunch with Ellie.

With a quick exhale, she pushed back her chair and hurried toward the hallway, then froze as a hard knock echoed behind her.

“Damn it,” she whispered, smoothing her hair. She inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and opened the door to reveal Deacon in his worn boots and his cowboy hat shading his face.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi… come inside,” she managed, stepping aside. She watched him wipe his boots on the mat, remove his hat, then step over the threshold. He paused just inside, hat in hand.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She gestured toward the kitchen. “Are you staying a while?”

He shook his head. “I have to head home later. I’m off tomorrow and Wednesday.”

“Oh, right. Ellie’s delivery arrives then.”

“Yeah. Where is she?”

“Taking a nap. She should wake soon.”

“Mind if I wait for her?”

“Of course not. Please, have a seat.” She turned to lead him toward the couch, but he reached out, gently grasped her arm, and pivoted her to face him.

His eyes held hers, warm and steady. Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.

Ava’s breath caught as she melted into the kiss, her arms winding around his waist. His hands settled on her back, pulling her close, and for a moment the world narrowed to the press of lips and the beat of her heart.

Then he pulled back, brushing his lips against hers one last time.

“Now, I’ll sit,” he said with a grin.

Ava laughed softly. “Would you like something to drink?”

“A glass of ice water would be perfect.”

“Be right back.”

She hurried to the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with a sweating glass, beads of condensation sliding down the side. Deacon stood by the couch, watching her.

“I thought you were going to sit?”

“I will, after you,” he teased.