Rebecca Lawson arrived in Pine Creek the following evening.
Wyatt did not want her flying into Missoula under her own name, but there had been little choice. She rented a car, drove east through worsening weather, and followed his directions to Double K without stopping in town.
When Clara saw her sister enter the bedroom, neither woman spoke.
Rebecca dropped her purse.
Clara began crying.
Rebecca crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her.
For nearly a minute, the only sound was both sisters sobbing.
“I buried you,” Rebecca whispered.
“I know.”
“I hated myself because I didn’t come sooner.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should’ve opened the envelope.”
Clara pulled back.
“No. You did exactly what I asked.”
Rebecca held her face between both hands.
“You’re so thin.”
Clara laughed through tears.
“You always did know how to compliment a woman.”
Rebecca laughed too.
It was the first real laughter Wyatt had heard since bringing Clara home.
For several minutes he stood quietly by the door.
Then Rebecca remembered why she had come.
She opened her purse and removed a thick yellow envelope.
Clara’s handwriting was visible across the front.
REBECCA — KEEP SAFE. DO NOT OPEN UNLESS I CALL OR SOMETHING HAPPENS.
The postmark was September second.
The day before Clara disappeared.
Inside were photocopies.
The first was a loan agreement for $310,000 secured against Hayes Meadow.
Clara stared.
“I knew there was a loan. I didn’t know the amount.”
Rebecca handed the page to Wyatt.
The lender was Bitterroot Agricultural Trust.
The signature at the bottom read Clara Marie Hayes.
Clara pointed at it.
“That isn’t mine.”
The second document was worse.
A transfer agreement stated that Clara had voluntarily assigned controlling interest in the property to Hayes Development Holdings.
“Tom’s company,” Rebecca said.
Clara nodded.
The third document concerned mineral exploration rights.
Wyatt read it twice.
“This says a company has the right to survey Hayes Meadow.”
Clara frowned.
“For what?”
“Lithium-bearing clay.”
Rebecca looked confused.
Wyatt was not a mining expert, but he had followed enough Montana land disputes to understand the importance.
“If somebody thinks there’s something valuable underground, your two hundred eighty acres might be worth a lot more than grazing money.”
“How much?”
“I couldn’t guess.”
Rebecca removed one final paper.
A handwritten note from Clara.
Rebecca read aloud.
“Tom has been signing my name. He says everything will work out after the land sale. I never agreed to sell. If he tells anyone otherwise, he’s lying.”
Clara closed her eyes.
There it was.
Evidence.
Not enough to prove attempted murder.
But enough to establish motive.
Wyatt looked at Rebecca.
“Did Tom know Clara mailed this?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did anyone ask you about documents after she disappeared?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Yes.”
Clara opened her eyes.
“Who?”
“Sheriff Danner.”
The room became quiet.
Rebecca continued.
“He called me during the search. Asked whether you had mailed me anything unusual.”
Clara stared.
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
“Why?”
“Because I remembered your note.”
Wyatt slowly nodded.
“Good instinct.”
Rebecca swallowed.
“He called again after the memorial.”
“What did he want then?”
“He said they were closing out some paperwork and asked whether Clara had ever mentioned financial trouble.”
Clara’s eyes met Wyatt’s.
That was not proof.
But it was another thread.
The following morning, Wyatt drove to town alone.
Pine Creek looked exactly as it always had.
That unsettled him.
Children threw snowballs near the school. Earl Murphy swept ice from the feed-store steps. Two old men argued outside the diner.
Three months earlier, all of these people had mourned Clara.
Now she was alive eight miles away and none of them knew.
Wyatt parked beside the county records office.
His plan was simple.
Learn everything he could about Hayes Meadow.
The clerk, Janet Fuller, had known Wyatt for twenty years.
He asked for public property filings.
Janet raised an eyebrow.
“You buying land?”
“Thinking about options.”
She shrugged and brought him records.
The documents confirmed Clara’s property had been used as collateral.
They also revealed something she had not known.
Six weeks after Clara disappeared, Hayes Development Holdings had filed a petition to clear title based on presumed death.
Wyatt’s jaw tightened.
Tom had waited barely a month.
A hearing was scheduled for December fifteenth.
If granted, Tom could potentially take full legal control.
There was more.
A preliminary mineral evaluation had been filed by North Crest Resources.
Wyatt copied the corporate name into his notebook.
Then he noticed a signature on an attached county access approval.
Sheriff Raymond Danner — Witness.
Wyatt felt heat rise behind his eyes.
He closed the folder.
“Janet?”
“Yes?”
“Who requested these records recently?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“Public records are public.”
“I know.”
“That also means request logs are public.”
She gave him another folder.
Three names had requested Hayes Meadow documents during the previous two months.
Tom Hayes.
Attorney Douglas Pike.
And Raymond Danner.
Wyatt thanked her.
On his way out, he nearly collided with Sheriff Danner.
The sheriff stood in the hallway wearing his brown winter uniform.
“Wyatt.”
“Ray.”
“Heard you were asking about property records.”
“That was fast.”
Danner smiled.
“Small town.”
He was sixty-one, heavyset, gray-haired, with the easy manner of a man who had won four elections by remembering everyone’s first name.
“What interests you about Hayes Meadow?”
Wyatt put on his hat.
“Thinking about buying land.”
“From Tom?”
“Maybe.”
Danner studied him.
“Bad time.”
“How come?”
“Legal matters after Clara’s death.”
Wyatt watched him carefully.
“You sure she’s dead?”
The sheriff’s face barely changed.
“Excuse me?”
“No body.”
Danner exhaled.
“You were on the search, Wyatt.”
“I was.”
“You saw that river.”
“I did.”
“No one survives that.”
Wyatt adjusted his gloves.
“Stranger things happen.”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed.
“Something you want to tell me?”
“No.”
Wyatt walked away.
Behind him Danner called, “Be careful driving home.”
Wyatt did not turn around.
He went next to Murphy’s Feed and Supply.
Earl Murphy was behind the counter.
When Wyatt entered, Earl smiled.
“Thought you froze up there.”
“Almost.”
Earl leaned forward.
“Tom came asking about you yesterday.”
Wyatt paused.
“What did he want?”
“Wanted to know whether you’d bought medical supplies.”
Wyatt’s expression remained neutral.
“What did you tell him?”
“That if you had, it wasn’t his business.”
Wyatt almost smiled.
“Appreciate it.”
Earl frowned.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look like a man who’s deciding whether murder is worth the paperwork.”
“That obvious?”
“Only because I’ve looked that way since my daughter started dating.”
Wyatt left with antibiotics Samuel had arranged under a ranch account and headed home.
Halfway there, a black pickup appeared behind him.
It stayed three car lengths back.
Wyatt slowed.
The truck slowed.
He accelerated.
It accelerated.
“Here we go,” he muttered.
The road curved along a steep ravine.
The black truck moved closer.
Then it hit him.
Not hard.
A deliberate tap to the rear bumper.
Wyatt gripped the wheel.
The second impact came stronger.
His truck fishtailed.
He corrected.
A third hit pushed his right tires toward the shoulder.
Wyatt slammed the brakes.
The black truck shot forward.
As it passed, Wyatt saw the driver.
Deputy Mark Ellison.
Sheriff Danner’s nephew.
Ellison’s eyes met Wyatt’s for half a second.
Then the deputy accelerated away.
Wyatt reached Double K furious.
Clara was waiting in the kitchen on crutches Samuel had brought.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Your truck is dented.”
Wyatt threw his gloves onto the table.
“Danner knows I’m looking.”
Rebecca came downstairs.
“Then we go to the state police.”
Wyatt nodded.
“That’s the plan.”
Clara looked uneasy.
“What if Danner has contacts there?”
“He might,” Wyatt said. “But we can’t hide forever.”
Rebecca placed the envelope on the table.
“We have documents.”
“Documents prove fraud,” Clara said. “Not attempted murder.”
“Then we prove the rest.”
“How?”
Wyatt looked toward the window.
Adrian stood in the corral.
Clara followed his gaze.
“The bridge,” she whispered.
“What about it?”
“My purse.”
“What?”
“The night Tom pushed the truck, my purse was behind the passenger seat.”
“They never found it.”
Clara shook her head.
“No. Because it wasn’t in the truck when it went into the river.”
Wyatt leaned forward.
“Where was it?”
“When I crawled out, I grabbed it.”
Rebecca frowned.
“You had your purse after the crash?”
“For maybe an hour.”
“What happened to it?”
Clara pressed her fingers against her temple.
“I hid.”
The memory came slowly.
“I was bleeding. I heard a truck. I thought someone had come to help.”
Her face changed.
“Then I heard Tom.”
Wyatt waited.
“He was talking to someone.”
“Who?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“What did they say?”
Clara shut her eyes.
“Tom said, ‘She couldn’t have gone far.’”
Her breathing quickened.
“I crawled into the brush. I had my purse. My leg wasn’t broken yet, but my shoulder hurt.”
“What did you do?”
“I took something out.”
Her eyes opened suddenly.
“My phone.”
Wyatt frowned.
“They found your phone in the river.”
“That wasn’t my regular phone.”
The room became silent.
Rebecca said, “What are you talking about?”
Clara stared at her.
“I had an old phone I used for music at work.”
Wyatt’s pulse quickened.
“Where is it?”
“I started recording.”
“What?”
“Tom and the other man.”
Wyatt stood.
“Clara, where is that phone?”
She was trembling now.
“I buried my purse beneath a fallen cedar near the old ranger access trail.”
“Before you went into the mountains?”
“Yes.”
“Could you find it?”
Clara looked uncertain.
“If the flood didn’t wash it away.”
Wyatt reached for his coat.
Rebecca stared at him.
“You’re going now?”
“Yes.”
“Wait for daylight.”
“It is daylight.”
“Wyatt, somebody just tried to run you off the road.”
“Which means they’re getting nervous.”
Clara pushed herself upright.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“It’s my purse.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I remember where I left it.”
Wyatt stared at her.
She stared back.
He knew that look.
The woman he had found beneath the tarp was disappearing.
In her place was the Clara Pine Creek remembered—the woman who argued with ranchers over invoices, rode horses too fast at county fairs, and once chased a thief out of Murphy’s with a shovel.
“Fine,” Wyatt said.
Rebecca protested.
Clara cut her off.
“I already lost three months.”
She pulled on her coat.
“I’m done hiding.”
They reached the river two hours later.
Snow covered most of the flood damage, but Clara recognized the bend.
Wyatt helped her through the trees.
“There,” she said.
A cedar lay on its side.
Wyatt dug beneath frozen branches.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Nothing.
Then his glove struck leather.
He pulled out a mud-stained purse.
Clara gasped.
Inside was a wallet.
Keys.
A broken compact.
And wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag, an old cellular phone.
Wyatt looked at her.
Clara began crying.
“We found it.”
Before Wyatt could answer, a rifle shot cracked through the trees.
Bark exploded from the cedar inches from his head.
“Down!”
He threw Clara behind the log.
A second shot struck the ground.
Somebody was shooting at them.
And this time, whoever had buried Clara Hayes did not intend to miss.