Page 26 of Head Room (Caught Dead in Wyoming #15)

“Let’s hold up a second,” Tom said after he’d turned off his truck in Hiram Poppinger’s ranch yard.

I’d had no intention of getting out until seeing Hiram’s approach to the world today — gun-toting or not gun-toting.

Yvette came out first.

“Oh, how lovely,” she called to us.

She was a tall, buxom woman of a certain age.

She might have coordinated greetings better with her honey, who emerged with a shotgun. He was significantly shorter than her, taller than the shotgun . . . but not by much.

Big improvement over the first time when he’d pointed the shotgun at us. This time it was down, beside his leg.

I’d be happier if he’d left it inside.

“Hiram,” Tom called out neutrally.

He put a sun-blocking hand above his eyes. “Tom Burrell?”

“Yup. With Elizabeth — Elizabeth Margaret Danniher from the TV station. Break the shotgun, Hiram. Or put it away.”

The short, blocky man reached back and seemed to lean the gun against the doorjamb. His hands were empty as he came forward with Yvette, whose smile never faltered during this.

Her demeanor would fit if we were all getting ready to go on a double date.

Hiram’s fit if we were combatants stepping into neutral ground to discuss a ceasefire, though he didn’t entirely trust our white flag.

As agreed while we drove here, Tom took the lead.

“Elizabeth and some folks from the station are looking deeper into Frank and Irene’s cabin burning down. An officer he knew from the Army asked them to.”

A sound rumbled from deep in Hiram’s chest. Not quite a growl, but not approval, either.

Yvette, however, said, “Oh, that nice Colonel Crawford? Frank and Irene sure do think highly of him. Well, she did. Poor soul. Such a lovely person. Such a loss. Even when you know it’s coming, it knocks you sideways.”

This time, Hiram’s chest rumble held a note of agreement.

Tom’s slight nod to me expressed his opinion that I wasn’t going to get a better opportunity to start my questions.

“Hiram, when did you meet Frank Jardos?”

“When he moved here. Woulda been hard to meet ’im before that, wouldn’t it,” he growled.

So much for easing in.

“When did you last see Frank?”

“How would I know? Ain’t like I wrote it down on my calendar or—”

“Day before the fire,” Yvette said.

I left a beat to see if he’d confirm, deny, or get huffy. None of the above. He did look at her, possibly with admiration. Certainly with acceptance.

“How did he seem?”

He screwed his face up. “I dunno. We don’t get into all that touchy-feely rigamarole or—”

“You said he said he was real busy,” she inserted.

“That’s right. Busy. He said he was busy.”

“Doing what?”

He looked at her. She dipped her head forward slightly in an encouraging gesture and primed him with, “For the guys . . .”

“Going into town for the guys,” he picked up. “Some vets. Post office, groceries, and such.”

This sounded like the same guys Hannah and Connie mentioned.

“Are these the vets who live—” In the forest sounded Hansel and Gretel-ish. Despite its modernity, which was sure to rankle Hiram, I went with “—off the grid?”

He growled.

Yvette said brightly, “That’s them.”

I smiled at her then turned to Hiram. “Was that his regular day to help them out?”

“How would I know? Don’t keep a copy of his calendar, neither.”

She said calmly, “No, it’s not. He usually goes end of the week.”

“Well, that’s true,” he instantly agreed. Then, unprompted, he added, “Said he was also cleaning up around his place.”

The clear-cut? Or something else?

Somehow I didn’t see anyone discussing dusting and vacuuming with Hiram.

“Cutting down brush?” I asked.

“Didn’t see it, did I?”

“Did you ever go with Jardos to meet up with these guys, find out what they needed, take things to them?”

“Nah.”

“But you saw him talking to that one,” Yvette said. “Remember? You told me about it.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Talking real fast at each other. Even match, though the other one’s younger a good bit. But Frank can hold his ground.”

“Angry?”

“Maybe.”

“You said you weren’t sure if they were mad at each other or not,” Yvette reminded him.

I sure wished she’d been the witness instead of him.

“Do you know the name of this vet?”

If she chose to answer my question and just skip Hiram, I’d be good with that.

No such luck.

“Nah,” he said.

“When was this?”

“Dunno.”

“Same day you saw him last,” Yvette said. “Day before the fire.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you describe him? Color—”

“Nah.”

“—of hair or eyes.”

“Nah.”

“Anything?”

“Nah.”

“Wearing camouflage, you said,” Yvette prompted.

“That’s right. And Frank said he was one of those guys.” He jerked his head in a westerly direction. “Up there.”

I barely prevented myself from rolling my eyes. “Do you know where to find them? The vets. Where they stay.”

“Why would I want to find them?”

“She means could you tell her where to find them,” Yvette said. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want them for?” he demanded of me, then didn’t give me a chance to respond. “There are men deep in those woods, other woods, who’ve been off the grid as you fancy types say—”

I’d been right about that phrase rankling.

“—longer’n you’ve been alive. Came back from this war or that one and didn’t want another thing to do with what liars call civilization. They know all there is to know about staying hidden.”

Ignoring the rest, I reverted to his question at the start of that speech. “I’d like to talk to them.”

“Won’t get nothing out of them and that’s if you even see them.”

Tom spoke before I had a chance to. “She’ll do fine.”

Some covet the Nobel Peace Prize — with the emphasis on prize over peace — but that endorsement by Tom topped any other accolade in my book.

“They don’t like strangers.”

Yvette’s nod backed up Hiram’s assessment.

“They’ll be fine, too.” Tom added to me, “You’ll take Shadow.”

My first instinct was to argue that I didn’t need a four-legged protector. Second thought was that Tom had his reasons and I trusted they were good.

“Who the hell is Shadow?”

“Her dog,” Yvette said.

It still amazed me the things people in this county knew about each other. Except Hiram Poppinger, apparently.

“What do you think happened to Frank Jardos?” I asked.

His face darkened. “I told him and told him not to use that Denver airport. If he had to use them airplanes, go to Billings. Not saying it’s safe for sure, but leastwise don’t know for sure it’s dangerous like Denver.”

Refusing to let the non sequitur throw me off, I searched my memory for data about Denver International having a poor safety record.

What came to mind, instead, were airports where the flat-land-to-danger ratio didn’t favor the traveler, especially a couple in the Alps and a couple more that were dots in the ocean.

“Dangerous from crashes?”

“Not in the air. Under the ground,” he said ominously.