Page 7 of Deacon (Men of Clifton, Montana #52)

The following morning, Deke eased his truck into the long, winding driveway leading up to the expansive Winchester ranch, finally parking beside the sprawling house that dominated the landscape.

As he stepped out of his vehicle, the hot morning air filled his lungs, and he took a moment to survey his surroundings.

The pastures stretched endlessly, dotted with cattle lazily grazing under the vast, cloudless sky, yet there was no sign of any human activity.

With a determined breath, he strode toward the front door, only to have it open before he could ring the doorbell. A woman appeared in the doorway, her gaze steady and inquisitive.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she inquired; her voice polite yet guarded.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Agent Deacon Anderson with the Montana department of livestock, out of Clifton. Is Mr. Chet Winchester available?” Deke replied, displaying his badge and ID .

“Is he expecting you?” she asked, her brow slightly furrowed.

“No, ma’am. I only need a few minutes of his time,” Deke assured her.

“I’ll have to check with him, but come inside,” she invited, stepping aside to let him enter.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you,” Deke responded, removing his hat.

He wiped his boots on the mat before stepping into the house.

The foyer enveloped him in an unexpected opulence; the gleam of polished surfaces caught the light from an ornate, somewhat flamboyant chandelier.

Everything sparkled with an almost excessive cleanliness, and the floor was polished to such a shine that he could nearly see his reflection.

“I’ll be right back,” the woman said, disappearing through a doorway with a soft click of her heels on the tiled floor.

Deke stood in the foyer, his hat held in his hands, when a young boy, around thirteen/fourteen, appeared at the top of the staircase. The boy paused, his expression a mix of curiosity and suspicion, before descending the steps to where Deke waited.

“Is someone helping you?” the boy asked, stopping a few feet away.

“Yes, they are,” Deke replied.

“Are you a cop?” the boy ventured, nodding toward the badge and gun clipped to Deke’s belt.

“Livestock agent,” Deke clarified, noting the boy’s eyes widen with intrigue.

“What’s a livestock agent doing here?” the boy pressed on, a note of youthful defiance in his voice.

“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Winchester after I do. I’m sure he’ll let you know,” Deke said, maintaining his professional calm.

The boy snorted, skepticism evident. “Yeah, like he’d tell me anything.”

Deke refrained from commenting, though it brought back memories of when his colleague, Eli Hawkins, dealt with a group of teenagers who were caught stealing horses.

“What’s your name, son?” Deke asked, shifting the conversation.

“Derrick Winchester,” the boy replied.

“Agent Deke Anderson,” Deke introduced himself, extending a hand. Derrick hesitated briefly before accepting the handshake.

“I bet it’s cool being a livestock agent,” Derrick commented, a hint of admiration sneaking into his tone.

“It can be very dangerous,” Deke admitted, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his voice.

“Do you get to arrest people?” Derrick asked, eyes alight with youthful curiosity.

“I’m in law enforcement, so yes, I do,” Deke affirmed, holding the boy’s gaze, though Derrick showed no signs of intimidation.

“Agent Anderson?” The woman’s voice was cool, clipped, as she swept back toward him down the polished corridor. The overhead sconces glinted off her tailored navy jacket and the single strand of pearls at her throat.

“Yes, ma’am?” Deke replied.

“Chet will see you, but he’s on a tight schedule. He has a meeting this afternoon.” She glanced at her sleek wristwatch.

“I won’t keep him long.”

“I appreciate it. Follow me, please.” She motioned down the hall, then looked over her shoulder at the boy standing by the doorway. “Your brothers are out back. Tell them lunch is ready.”

The boy’s scowl would have wilted corn; he turned and stalked away. Deke simply watched him go, then fell in step behind the woman.

They reached a pair of heavy mahogany doors, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen, and she rapped sharply with her knuckles.

The doors swung open silently at her touch.

Inside, rich piles of leather-bound ledgers lined walnut shelves, and a massive, green-shaded banker’s lamp glowed on a desk the size of a dining room table.

A low hum of conversation drifted from a radio tucked in the corner.

“Chet, this is Agent Deacon Anderson from MDOL,” the woman announced. “Agent, my husband, Chet Winchester. I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Thank you, dear,” said the older man, rising from behind the desk.

He was tall and solid, silvering hair neatly combed, salt-and-pepper mustache bristling above a straight, unsmiling mouth.

Mrs. Winchester, barely thirty, Deke guessed, offered him a warm smile, then slipped out and closed the door with a soft click.

Deke let his gaze roam over the office. Sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across a row of mounted deer heads on the far wall.

Chet sat down, leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Have a seat, Agent. What can I do for you?”

Deke slipped into a high-backed leather chair opposite Winchester, crossed one booted ankle over the other knee, and hooked his hat on the toe of his boot.

Deke’s voice was low, deliberate. “Someone rustled twelve head of cattle from the Hollister ranch recently.” He watched Winchester’s poker face for a flicker of reaction.

Winchester arched an eyebrow. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“We have reason to believe the theft isn’t random.” Deke let the words hang. “You and Mr. Hollister go way back.”

“So, you think I took his cattle?” Winchester’s lips curled in a bitter laugh. “I don’t need his damn cattle.”

Deke leaned forward, the chair creaking under him.

“Maybe not. But with your family’s record, your sons pouring poison into a neighbor’s well, shifting fence lines to claim more pasture, doesn’t look good.

Two of them were arrested for that well incident, yet charges vanished.

I found fresh tire tracks on Hollister land, truck-and-hauler treads, bought three months ago in Missoula.

The purchase receipt lists your name and this address. ”

Winchester rose, slamming his palms on the desk. Shadows from the lamp danced across his narrowed eyes. “You’re accusing me—”

“I’m not accusing anyone… yet,” Deke interrupted, standing as well. “I’m not saying it was you, but I will find out who bought those tires, who stole the cattle, and I will arrest them. I’d like to look at the tires on your trucks and haulers.”

“Show me a warrant, Agent,” Winchester growled.

Deke nodded gravely. “No problem. Have a good day, Mr. Winchester. You’ll see me again.”

He turned and walked out, the door thudding softly behind him.

Outside, the hallway seemed quieter somehow. Deke made his way back to his truck, kicking up dust under his boots in the driveway. He settled into the leather seat, started the engine and paused only long enough to dial his boss.

“Deke?” Dave’s voice came over the speaker.

“I met with Winchester. Family’s dirty, but I could use backup.”

“Understood. I’ll send Killian and Rawley.”

“Tell them I’ll book rooms at the same hotel, it’ll be easier.”

“On it. Good work.”

“Thanks.” Deke hung up, shifted the truck into gear, and headed back to town. He couldn’t shake the certainty that someone in the Winchester family had orchestrated the rustling. Just not exactly who yet.

****

Ava sat at her dimly lit desk, the soft glow of the computer screen casting a gentle light on her face as she munched absentmindedly on a sandwich.

Her fingers moved deftly over the keyboard, navigating through the labyrinth of payroll tasks she faced every week.

It was her weekly ritual, a solitary endeavor she engaged in once Ellie had drifted into the depths of sleep for the night.

As much as Ava adored her little girl, the quiet solitude of these moments was a cherished respite.

Setting the sandwich aside, she stretched her arms high above her head, her joints softly popping, and released a long, weary yawn.

Though the clock showed only eight o’clock, fatigue clung to her like a shadow, a consequence of a restless night.

Ever since Deacon had reappeared in her life, her mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, particularly concerning their daughter.

Ava was resolute in her determination to keep Ellie with her, yet she acknowledged the importance of Deacon knowing his child and Ellie having a relationship with her father.

With a deep, resigned sigh, Ava finished the payroll. She closed the laptop with a satisfying click and tidied up the kitchen, the clinking of dishes was a soothing accompaniment to her thoughts. Finally, she sank into the soft sofa, ready to lose herself in the comforting glow of the television.

Barely thirty minutes had passed when a sudden knock at the door shattered her tranquility.

Her eyes darted to the door, suspicion and curiosity mingling in her gaze.

Neither her father nor brother would appear this late without a prior call.

Cautiously, Ava rose and approached the door, turned on the porchlight, and peered out the window.

Through the blinds, she glimpsed Deacon standing on the porch, his silhouette familiar yet unexpected.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, steeling herself with a deep inhale before opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk, Ava,” Deacon replied, his voice steady.

“How did you know where I lived?” she asked, a hint of incredulity in her tone.

Deacon’s lips curled into a slight smirk. “I have ways. ”

“My dad told you, didn’t he?” she pressed, suspicion lingering.

“I’m not ratting on your dad. May I come in?” he asked, his expression softening.