Odd Man Out. B.J. Daniels

they were kids, Denver McCallahan had been in some sort of trouble; blame it on her fiery spirit, but it was one of the things he’d always admired about her. “What kind of trouble?” The moment he said it, he could guess. “She’s heard the rumors you told me about Max being involved in something illegal and she’s determined to clear his good name, right?”

      “You know Denver. And while she’s at it, she intends to bring his killer to justice, as well.”

      That didn’t surprise him in the least. “And I suppose you want me to keep her out of trouble while she’s doing all that?” He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

      Maggie met his gaze and he glimpsed an expression in her eyes that startled him. Anger. Cold as the granite bluffs in the distance. “I’m asking a lot more than that, J.D. I want you to keep her away from Pete Williams.”

      “You can’t be serious.” The rain fell harder, dimpling the spring snow’s rough surface. He stared at her with a puzzled frown, and realized she was serious. “Why would I do that?”

      “I know things about Pete—” She looked away. “You just have to keep him away from Denver.”

      “You’re asking the impossible.” He’d been gone for nine years and he hadn’t left on the best of terms.

      Maggie pulled her jacket around her. “Denver knows I’ve never liked Pete. She won’t listen to me.”

      J.D. watched Denver lean into Pete Williams’s embrace as the two stood alone beside the grave. “Denny won’t—” he stumbled on the childhood name he’d always called her. “Denver wouldn’t appreciate any interference in her life from me.”

      “Oh, J.D., you know how she’s always felt about you.”

      “She had a crush on me when she was sixteen, Maggie! Believe me, it didn’t last.” He remembered only too well how angry Denver had been that afternoon at Horse Butte Fire Tower when he’d told her he was leaving town. And how hurt. She’d been like a kid sister to him. He’d never forgiven himself for hurting her.

      “If anyone can handle her, it’s you,” Maggie argued.

      “I’m not sure there’s a man alive who can handle Denver McCallahan.” The umbrellas suddenly dispersed like tiny dark seeds across the snow. The rain turned to snow as the mourners headed for their cars.

      “Just promise me you’ll do everything you can to keep Pete away from her,” Maggie said. “If you don’t—” She turned to leave.

      “Wait, what are you saying?” J.D. demanded. Surely she didn’t believe Denver had anything to fear from Pete. “Give me a reason, Maggie. A damned good reason.”

      To his surprise, her eyes filled not with their usual resolve but with tears. That anger he’d glimpsed earlier mixed with pain and burned red-hot. “Pete Williams killed Max.”

      Chapter One

      Denver ducked her head to the cold and the pain as she let Pete lead her away from the cemetery. The rain had turned to snow that now fell in huge, wet flakes. She walked feeling nothing, not the ground under her feet nor Pete’s steadying hand on her elbow.

      “You’re Denver McCallahan, right?” A woman in her fifties in a long purple coat and a floppy red wool hat stepped in front of her; the woman didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Sheila Walker with the Billings Register.” She flipped open her notebook, her pen ready. “I need to ask you some questions.”

      Pete put his arm around Denver’s shoulders. “Ms. McCallahan just buried her uncle. Now is not the time.” He tried to pass, but the reporter blocked his way, ignoring him as she turned her full attention on Denver.

      “This has to be the second worst day of your life. First your parents, now your uncle.” From a web of wrinkles, she searched Denver’s face with dark, eager eyes. “You think there’s a connection?”

      Denver stared at the woman. Her bright red lipstick was smeared and her hat drooped off one side of her head, exposing a head of wiry black-and-gray curls. A scent of perfume Denver couldn’t place hung over her like a black cloud. “My parents were killed more than twenty years ago.” The murders connected? Was the woman crazy? Pain pressed against her chest; she fought for breath. Pete pulled Denver closer and pushed on past the woman.

      “Who do you think killed your uncle?” the reporter asked, trotting alongside Denver. “Do you think it was that hitchhiker they’re looking for?”

      “Please, I can’t—” Denver fought the ever-present tears.

      “Leave her alone,” Pete interrupted in a menacing tone. They’d reached his black Chevy pickup. He opened the door for Denver and spun on the woman. “Back off, lady, or you’ll wish you had.” Climbing in beside Denver, he slammed the door in the reporter’s face.

      She tapped on the window. “The rumors about your uncle, is there any truth in them?”

      Pete started the pickup and peeled away, leaving Sheila Walker in a cloud of flying ice and snow.

      * * *

      “YOU DON’T BELIEVE IT.”

      J.D. watched Pete leave with Denver in a fancy black Chevy pickup, then turned his attention back to Maggie. “That Pete murdered Max? No, I don’t believe it.” He and Pete had been friends and as close to Denver and Max as family. Through the falling snow, he could see workers pushing cold earth over Max’s casket with a finality that made his heart ache.

      “I don’t want to believe it, either,” Maggie said. “Max loved Pete. He loved you both like the brother he lost.”

      “Then how can you suspect Pete of murder?”

      She took a long, ragged breath. “The morning after Max’s murder, Denver and Pete came over. I’d made coffee and sent them into the kitchen. You remember the photograph Max took of you, Pete and Denver at the lake on her sixteenth birthday?”

      J.D. nodded; it had been right before he’d left town. He could still see Denver in the dress Max had bought her. A pale aquamarine. The same color as her eyes. “You gave me a copy of the photo.” He still had it. It reminded him of those days at the lake with Denny and Pete. Sunlight and laughter. A long-lost happiness twisted at his insides.

      “It was Max’s favorite photograph. He always carried it in his wallet,” Maggie said. “I saw it the day before he died. It was dog-eared and faded and I wanted to put it away for safekeeping, but Max wouldn’t hear of it.” She stopped; he watched her fight the painful memories. “When I went to hang up Pete’s coat, I saw a piece of the photograph sticking out of his pocket.”

      “Didn’t Pete have a copy, too?”

      She nodded. “But I’d written on the back of the one I gave Max. I could still make out the writing. It was the photo from his wallet. Only...it had been torn.” She met his gaze. “Someone had ripped you out of the picture.”

      “That’s not enough evidence to convict a man of murder.”

      “I know, especially since Pete has an alibi for the day of the murder. Supposedly he was in Missoula with his band. But I called to check. The Montana Country Club band was there, but when I described Pete to one of the cocktail waitresses, she didn’t remember him. If Pete’s good looks didn’t make an impression on her, that blue-eyed charm of his would have.”

      “That’s pretty weak, Maggie.”

      “Pete wasn’t in Missoula. I’d stake my life on it.”

      “I hope you won’t have to do that.” J.D. tugged at his collar; he wasn’t used to this kind of weather anymore.

      “I have to go,” Maggie said.

      J.D. walked with her to