Page 27 of Deacon (Men of Clifton, Montana #52)

Two days later, Deke’s legs felt like lead as he climbed out of his truck, the last rays of the sun glinting off his badge clipped to his belt.

He’d gotten a late start today, not leaving Clifton until after one in the afternoon.

It was going to be a long, damn day. He entered the sheriff’s department in Maple Ridge.

Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a harsh glare on chipped linoleum floors.

The receptionist, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, tapped at her computer with practiced indifference.

Deke offered her a tired smile; she acknowledged it with a curt nod and motioned toward the door marked ‘Sheriff’s Office’.

He followed the narrow hallway to the sheriff’s door.

Deke lifted a knuckle and rapped sharply against the jamb.

Inside, Sheriff Jones looked up from a cluttered desk strewn with paperwork and a half-eaten sandwich.

The sheriff rose, the leather of his holster creaking.

He cracked a grin and strode forward, calloused hand outstretched.

“Damn, Agent. You should just move to Maple Ridge,” Jones said, his voice rough but warm.

“It would be a lot easier,” Deke agreed, returning the grin. The weight of his exhaustion was fighting to show, but he kept his shoulders squared.

Sheriff Jones cocked an eyebrow. “Who do you want to see?”

“Both Winchester boys, please,” Deke replied.

“In their cells or interrogation room?” the sheriff asked, folding his arms.

“I think the cells would be best,” Deke said, leaning back against the doorframe.

“Alright. You know where they are. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Yes, sir.” Deke nodded and headed back into the corridor, the dull clack of his boots echoing off the walls.

He reached the heavy steel door of the jail block, its small, barred window flashing the dull glow of a single overhead lamp. Deke opened it and stepped into the room, where the two Winchesters lay on their cots with threadbare gray blankets.

“You guys have it rough,” Deke said, his tone half-joking but edged with sympathy.

On one cot, Teddy Winchester lay curled under the blanket, his blond hair mussed and his face pale. At the sound of Deke’s voice, he lifted his head and groaned, propping himself up on one elbow.

Teddy rubbed his eyes and sneered. “I was hoping we’d never see you again.”

“I found the ear tags for the cattle you stole,” Deke replied, stepping closer so the weak light fell across the boy’s face.

Teddy’s lip curled. “I don’t know anything about ear tags.”

“Is that right?” Deke asked, his voice soft but laced with disbelief.

“Yes, now leave me alone.” Teddy shrugged, as if the question were ridiculous.

“I have a job to do, and I will do it,” Deke shot back, folding his arms.

“Whatever, dude,” Teddy muttered, dropping his gaze.

Deke turned to the other cell, where Johnny Winchester sat hunched forward, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked tired and frightened, eyes darting from Deke to the bars.

“How are you doing?” Deke asked quietly.

“I want out of here,” Johnny said, voice raw.

“Then talk to me,” Deke urged, leaning against the wall.

“Will that get me out of here?” Johnny’s gaze flicked to the locked door.

“Here? Yes. Prison? Probably not.” Deke’s tone was firm but not unkind.

“Then why should I talk?”

“Possibly a lighter sentence, but in all likelihood, you will serve time. I told you, rustling is a felony.” Deke cleared his throat and launched into the details.

“In Montana, rustling can carry up to ten years in prison and fines between five thousand and fifty thousand dollars, even if the livestock value is under fifteen hundred dollars. Theft over fifteen hundred can mean one to ten years. Rebranding or altering brands on stolen cattle, like you both did, can also earn ten years and a fifty-thousand-dollar fine. Not to mention the penalty of removing ear tags.” He paused, watching as both boys turned pale, their shoulders sagging.

Deke sighed; his fatigue momentarily forgotten. “If you talk, I’ll let your attorney know you cooperated. If not, I’ll make sure you get the maximum sentence, which could be up to twenty years.” The silence that followed was heavy with fear and possibility.

“I’ll talk,” Johnny declared, his voice steady yet tinged with resignation .

“No! Don’t you say a word, Johnny. You know Dad is getting us out of here,” Teddy implored, his eyes wide with desperation as he turned to his brother.

“Don’t you believe that, Johnny. Your father won’t get you out of anything this time. We have a ton of evidence, plus Smith’s confession,” Deke interjected, his tone firm and unyielding.

Johnny stood up; the weight of his decision evident in his deliberate movements. He walked over to the cell door, the clinking of his footsteps echoing through the silent room, and looked Deke squarely in the eye. “I’ll talk.”

“Alright. Let me get someone to escort you to the interrogation room.” Deke’s voice softened slightly, a hint of empathy threading through his otherwise firm tone.

He nodded and exited the cell area, his footsteps echoing down the dimly lit corridor.

The walls seemed to close in with shadows, the sparse light casting long, eerie shapes that danced across the floor as he made his way toward the sheriff’s office.

Finding it empty, he continued on to the reception desk, where the soft, inconsistent glow from a flickering bulb bathed the scene in a warm, golden hue.

“Ma’am? Is there a deputy around? I need one of the prisoners taken to the interrogation room, please.”

“Sure. Let me call one of them.” The receptionist picked up the desk phone.

Her fingers moved fluidly, each button press a testament to her years of experience, and she spoke softly into the receiver, her voice a soothing murmur.

After hanging up, she offered Deke a reassuring smile, her expression radiating calm. “Deputy Miller will be right out.”

“Thank you.” Deke nodded appreciatively, his own smile a mirror of gratitude.

“Deke?” came a familiar voice from behind. He turned to see Jeff Miller approaching, his hand extended in a gesture of friendship. Deke clasped it firmly, the handshake solid.

“Jeff, it’s good to see you again. Could you take Johnny Winchester to the interrogation room? He says he’ll talk.”

“That’s good news.” Jeff’s eyes gleamed with a mix of relief and curiosity, a spark igniting in their depths. “I’ll bring him there. You can head back.”

“Thanks, Jeff.” Deke replied, feeling a growing sense of anticipation coil within him like a tightly wound spring.

Deputy Miller nodded, his expression resolute and determined. He walked off toward the cells. Deke took a deep breath, the air thick with the weight of impending revelations, and made his way back to the interrogation room.

Deke entered the room, leaning against the wall with a casual yet vigilant stance, folding his arms as if to contain the tension swirling around him. The room waited, silent and expectant, as he settled in to wait, the gravity of the situation pressing down like an unseen force.

A few minutes passed, each second stretching longer than the last, then the door opened with a soft creak. Jeff led Johnny Winchester to the table, securing his handcuffs around the iron bar with a firm clink .

“Is this necessary? Like I would try something with you,” Johnny said, his voice laced with a hint of defiance.

“You can take them off, Deputy.” Deke pulled a chair out, its legs scraping softly against the floor, and sat down, fixing Johnny with a steady gaze as the deputy removed the cuffs, then left the room. “Talk.”

Johnny huffed, a reluctant sigh escaping his lips. “We stole cattle because there was a lot of money in it. Especially for the black market.”

“Was your father behind this?” Deke’s question hung in the air, charged with unspoken implications.

Johnny gazed at the table, his fingers absentmindedly tracing invisible patterns on its worn and weathered surface, before finally lifting his eyes to meet Deke’s.

The truth teetered on the brink of confession.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice a quiet murmur.

“He met a man a few years ago who’s involved with selling through the black market.

” Johnny shrugged, a gesture that seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“Anthony Dyer?” Deke inquired, his tone tinged with curiosity and suspicion.

“That’s the name I was told,” Johnny confirmed. “We’ve never met him, but Dad was in constant contact with him. Anthony paid him a lot of money.”

“Why would your dad need money?” Deke asked, puzzled. “By the looks of that house, he has no need for money.”

A dry laugh escaped Johnny’s lips. “He was broke. It was all an act. ”

“So, he thought stealing cattle and dealing with the black market was the way to make money?” Deke pressed on, trying to piece together the puzzle.

“Smith contacted Dad about a job on the ranch,” Johnny explained.

“But once Dad found out that Smith had been arrested before for rustling, he propositioned him and offered him a lot of money. Smith was all for it and told Dad that he knew how to do it without being caught. He suggested Hollister’s cattle because he knew the lay of the property, how to get in and out with no problems.”

“Is it just you, your dad, Smith, Dyer, and your brother involved?” Deke asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“No,” Johnny replied. “Tommy went with us.”

“Which time?”

“This last time since there were so many cattle to take.”

“How many times have you stolen livestock?” Deke continued, his voice steady yet probing.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Johnny confessed, his tone resigned. “I didn’t count.”

“Did you help remove the ear tags from Hollister’s cattle?” Deke’s question hung in the air, tinged with both accusation and curiosity.

“No.”