Part 1
The phone’s harsh buzz tore through Harry Kane’s sleep like a chainsaw through wet timber. For a few seconds, he did not know where he was, only that the room was dark, the house was silent, and something about the sound felt wrong before he even reached for it. His calloused fingers fumbled across the nightstand and knocked over an empty coffee mug, sending it rolling against the wooden floor with a hollow clatter.
The digital clock glowed 12:47 a.m. in angry red numbers.
Harry squinted at the screen, still half inside a dream, then saw Cassidy’s house number and sat up so fast the blanket slid off his shoulders. No one called after midnight from his daughter’s house unless something had gone wrong. Cassidy knew he slept lightly, but she also knew he was seventy miles from town and that he would answer no matter what hour it was.
“Kane,” he growled, voice rough with interrupted sleep.
For half a breath, there was only static and crying.
Then his granddaughter’s voice came through, high, thin, and terrified in a way that made every trace of sleep vanish from his body.
“Papa?”
Harry’s feet hit the cold wooden floor before his mind finished catching up. “Lydia? Baby girl, what’s wrong?”
“Papa, you gotta come,” she sobbed. “Mommy says the baby is coming.”
The room seemed to shrink around him.
Cassidy was not due for another six weeks. Harry knew the date because he had circled it on the calendar beside the fridge, the same way he had circled Lydia’s first day of kindergarten and Cassidy’s birthday every year since she was born. Six weeks early was not something a child should be whispering about into a phone at midnight.
“Where’s your daddy, sweetheart?” Harry asked, keeping his voice steady while his free hand was already reaching for the jeans thrown over the chair.
Lydia made a broken sound, the kind children make when they are trying to answer and cry at the same time. “He kicked Mommy’s tummy real hard. Then he got his truck and drove away fast. Mommy’s bleeding. Papa, there’s blood on the kitchen floor.”
The phone creaked in Harry’s grip.
Twenty-eight years working oil rigs had taught him to keep his temper locked down when danger was present. A man lost control on a rig, men died. Anger could wait. Panic could wait. You checked the line, shut off the pressure, counted bodies, and did not let emotion touch your hands until everyone breathing had been pulled clear.
But this was not a broken valve or a collapsed platform.
This was his daughter.
His pregnant daughter.
And his six-year-old granddaughter was standing somewhere near blood on the kitchen floor because Trent Huxley had done exactly what Harry had feared a coward like him might one day do.
“Listen to me, baby girl,” Harry said, forcing calm into every word. “You call 911 right now. Tell them your mommy needs an ambulance. Can you do that?”
“I already did,” Lydia cried. “They’re coming with the loud sirens.”
“Good girl,” Harry said, his throat tightening despite himself. “Papa’s coming too. You stay with Mommy, okay? Don’t leave her side unless the ambulance people tell you to.”
“Please hurry.”
“I am.”
He ended the call and dressed with mechanical precision. Jeans. Thermal shirt. Heavy coat. Boots. Wallet. Keys. His hands did not shake. They never shook when there was work to do, but something cold and deadly spread through his chest as he moved through the dark house.
He had suspected Trent Huxley was trouble from the first day Cassidy brought him home three years earlier. The man had soft hands, shifty eyes, and a smile that came too fast, like he had learned to imitate charm without ever understanding decency. Harry had wanted to say no then. He had wanted to tell Cassidy that some men did not look dangerous because they had learned how to hide it until the door closed.
But Cassidy had been happy, or at least she had looked happy enough that Harry swallowed his warning and told himself grown daughters got to make their own choices.
Not anymore.
The drive to Cassidy’s house took twenty-two minutes through empty Montana back roads. Harry made it in less. His truck tore through the darkness, headlights cutting across fences, frozen ditches, and open fields silvered under a hard moon. The heater roared, but he barely felt it. His mind cataloged every piece of information he had ever gathered about Trent Huxley.
The gambling. The drinking. The cash that appeared without honest work attached to it. The friends in the sheriff’s department who always seemed to make complaints disappear before they turned into paperwork. The way Cassidy’s laughter had changed over the past year, becoming quieter around the edges. The way Lydia had started watching adults before answering simple questions.
Most importantly, Trent was the kind of man who could kick a pregnant woman and run.
Harry’s headlights swept across the ambulance parked crooked in Cassidy’s driveway. Red and white lights flashed over the porch, the windows, the gravel, turning the house into something unreal and urgent. EMTs were wheeling a stretcher toward the open front door when Harry parked half on the lawn and jogged across the yard.
“Sir, you can’t—” one EMT started.
“That’s my daughter,” Harry said.
The man stepped aside.
Cassidy lay on the stretcher, conscious but gray-faced, her dark hair stuck damply to her forehead, an oxygen mask covering half her face. Her nightgown was stained dark around the middle. When she saw Harry, her eyes filled with tears so quickly it nearly broke the control he had left.
“Dad,” she whispered through the mask.
“I’m here.” Harry caught her hand, and her fingers felt like ice. “Lydia called me.”
The EMT working near her feet looked up. “Are you the father?”
“I am.”
“We need to get her to Bozeman General immediately. Severe blunt force trauma to the abdomen, possible placental abruption. The baby’s in distress.”
Harry understood trauma. He had seen enough of it on rigs when men got careless and steel stopped forgiving mistakes. He knew what bodies looked like when they were trying to survive something they should never have had to endure.
The difference was that those had been accidents.
This was not.
“Lydia,” Cassidy whispered.
Harry turned and saw his granddaughter huddled on the couch in princess pajamas, clutching a stuffed elephant against her chest. Her face was streaked with tears. Her small hands were stained with her mother’s blood. For a moment, Harry could not move, because seeing blood on a child’s hands did something to a man’s soul that no years, no scars, and no hard living could prepare him for.
“Come here, baby girl.”
Lydia ran to him, and he scooped her up with one arm. She buried her face against his neck and clung to him with all the strength in her tiny body.
“Is Mommy going to die?” she whispered.
“No,” Harry said, and he made it sound like a law of nature. “Mommy’s tough. She’s going to be fine.”
The EMTs loaded Cassidy into the ambulance, and Harry strapped Lydia into his truck before following the flashing lights through the dark countryside. His speedometer hovered near eighty the whole way, the red glow of the ambulance ahead of him pulling him through the road like a lifeline. Every few seconds, Lydia sniffled in the back seat, and every few seconds Harry forced himself not to think about what he would do if Cassidy or that baby did not make it.
Bozeman General’s emergency entrance was a chaos of fluorescent light, sliding doors, rolling wheels, and urgent voices. Harry carried Lydia inside just as they wheeled Cassidy toward surgery. A nurse in blue scrubs intercepted him with the practiced firmness of someone used to frightened families.
“Sir, you’ll need to wait here. We’ll update you as soon as we can.”
“I want to see the doctor,” Harry said.
“Dr. Martinez is prepping for surgery. She’ll speak with you after.”
“Now.”
The word did not come out loud, but it carried the weight of decades spent giving orders that kept men alive. The nurse looked at his face, then at Lydia clinging to him, then nodded once.
“Follow me.”
Dr. Martinez was a small woman with tired eyes and surgical gloves already on her hands. She looked Harry up and down, taking in the work boots, faded jeans, weathered face, and child in his arms. Her expression softened only slightly.
“You’re the father?”
“I am. How bad is it?”
“Severe blunt force trauma to the abdomen,” she said. “The placenta is partially detached, which means the baby isn’t getting enough oxygen. We need to deliver immediately.”
Harry felt Lydia’s fingers tighten around his coat collar.
Dr. Martinez paused, and when she spoke again, her voice became more careful. “The injuries are consistent with being kicked or punched repeatedly.”
Harry’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“The baby?” he asked.
“We’ll know more after surgery. Right now, I need to focus on saving both of them.”
Then she was gone through the surgical doors.
Harry found two chairs in the waiting area and settled Lydia on his lap. The room smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee. A television played silently in the corner, showing some late-night talk show where people laughed with exaggerated faces, and Harry had the irrational urge to rip it off the wall.
Lydia had stopped crying, but she had not said a word since they arrived.
“Tell me what happened tonight,” Harry said gently.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Daddy came home mad. He was yelling about money and throwing things. Mommy told him to stop because it was scaring me and the baby.”
Harry kept his face still.
“Then he got even madder,” Lydia continued. “He pushed her real hard. She fell down, and he started kicking her tummy. She was screaming for him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”
Harry’s hands trembled.
This time, he could not stop them.
“What happened next?”
“Mommy curled up in a ball, and he kicked her some more. Then he said bad words and left. Mommy was crying, and there was blood, so I called you like she told me to.”
Harry leaned his forehead briefly against Lydia’s hair. “You did exactly right, baby girl.”
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Harry looked up and saw Deputy Brock Timmons approaching, uniform wrinkled, badge catching the hospital lights. Harry knew him by reputation, and reputation in small towns meant more than a résumé. Lazy. Crooked. Too friendly with men who needed law enforcement to look the other way. One of Trent Huxley’s drinking buddies.
“Mr. Kane,” Timmons said with a nod. “Heard there was some kind of domestic incident tonight.”
Harry went very still.
Part 2….
“Domestic incident?” Harry’s voice dropped so quiet that Lydia lifted her head from his chest. “My son-in-law beat my pregnant daughter so badly she’s in surgery right now. That’s what you call an incident?”
Timmons held up both hands in a tired gesture. “Now hold on. I haven’t heard Trent’s side of the story yet. Could’ve been an argument that got out of hand. These things happen.”
Harry stood slowly, setting Lydia in the chair beside him. He was six-two, broad from a lifetime of hauling steel pipe in Wyoming winters, and though age had silvered his hair, it had not softened what years of hard work had built into him. Timmons took half a step back before he seemed to realize he had moved.
“These things happen,” Harry repeated. “You think a man kicking his pregnant wife is just something that happens?”
“Look, Kane, I know you’re upset—”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Trent,” Harry said. “Where’s the piece of garbage who did this?”
Timmons shrugged. “Haven’t been able to locate him yet. Probably sleeping it off somewhere. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, get his version of events.”
“His version.”
“That’s how investigations work. We talk to both parties, get statements.”
“The only statement you need is from a six-year-old girl who watched her father try to <kill> her mother and baby brother,” Harry said, his voice carrying down the empty hallway. “But you’re not interested in that statement, are you, Timmons? Because Trent’s one of your drinking buddies.”
Timmons’s face flushed red. “You better watch your mouth, Kane.”
“You’re right,” Harry said calmly. “You don’t have to take that kind of talk from me. You can get in your patrol car, crawl back into whatever hole you came from, and pretend this conversation never happened.”
Timmons opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He turned and walked away, boots squeaking against the polished floor. Harry watched him go, memorizing the set of his shoulders, the way he favored his left leg, and the fact that guilt had made him leave faster than pride wanted him to.
A few minutes later, voices drifted from the nurse’s station.
Harry moved closer, keeping one eye on Lydia.
“Never seen injuries like that from a fall,” one nurse murmured. “Looked like she got kicked by a horse.”
“Third time this year,” another replied. “Remember that Peterson girl? Same pattern of bruising.”
“And the Freeman woman,” the first said. “I heard she fell down the stairs too.”
“All the same guy. Trent Huxley. He’s got connections, though. Nothing ever sticks.”
Harry filed every word away.
So this was not Trent’s first time. That made it worse, but it also made it clearer. Patterns left trails. Victims left stories. Cowards with protection always believed silence meant safety.
The surgery took four hours. Dr. Martinez emerged just after sunrise, still in scrubs, exhaustion weighing down her shoulders.
“How are they?” Harry asked, standing immediately.
“Your daughter is stable. She lost a lot of blood, but she’s young and strong. She’ll recover with time.”
“And the baby?”
“A boy. Born premature at thirty-four weeks. His vitals are good, but he’ll need to stay in NICU for a while. I’m cautiously optimistic.”
Cassidy looked small against the white hospital sheets when Harry entered her room with Lydia’s hand in his. Machines beeped softly around her bed. Her eyes opened slowly.
“Dad.”
“Right here, sweetheart.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve listened to you about Trent.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I want him gone,” Cassidy said, her voice quiet but different now. Not scared. Not pleading. “Gone.”
Harry studied his daughter’s face and saw something in her had hardened overnight.
“You won’t have to ask me twice,” he said.
Later, after leaving Lydia with Martha Kellerman, Harry started making calls. He went first to Delmar Pike’s auto shop, where men knew how to keep secrets. Then to June Callaway at the Copper Mine Inn, where Trent liked to drink and brag. Then to Marshall Irwin, an old army medic who owed Harry nothing but loyalty anyway.
By nightfall, Harry stood hidden in the pines outside Trent’s lake cabin, watching through the window as Trent sat at a poker table with Rafe Gunner, Councilman Garrett, and another man in an expensive suit.
Rafe mentioned Cassidy. Trent’s face darkened.
“My wife isn’t your concern.”
“It is when it brings heat on the operation,” Rafe said. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you kicked her in the stomach.”
“She had it coming,” Trent snapped. “Mouthy was telling me how to run my business, threatening to leave and take Lydia with her.”
SAY “OK” IF YOU WANT TO READ THE FULL STORY — sending you lots of love 
The phone’s harsh buzz cut through Harry Kane’s sleep like a chainsaw. His callous fingers fumbled for the device on the nightstand, knocking over an empty coffee mug in the process. The digital clock glowed 12:47 a.m. in angry red numbers.
“Cain,” he growled, his voice thick with interrupted sleep. Papa. Lydia’s voice came through the speaker high and panicked. 6 years old and crying like her world was ending. Papa, you got to come. Mommy says, “The baby’s coming.” Harry’s feet hit the cold wooden floor before his brain fully processed the words. Something was wrong.
Cassidy wasn’t due for another 6 weeks. “Where’s your daddy, sweetheart?” Harry kept his voice steady, but his free hand was already reaching for his jeans. He He kicked Mommy’s tummy real hard, Lydia sobbed. Then he got his truck and drove away fast. Mommy’s bleeding. Papa, there’s blood on the kitchen floor. The phone creaked in Harry’s grip.
28 years of working oil rigs had taught him to keep his temper locked down when lies were on the line. But right now, that control felt tissue thin. Listen to me, baby girl. You call 911 right now. Tell them your mommy needs an ambulance. Can you do that? I already did. They’re coming with the loud sirens. Good girl.
Papa’s coming, too. You stay with mommy. Okay, don’t leave her side. Harry ended the call and pulled on his boots with mechanical precision. His hands didn’t shake. They never shook. But something cold and deadly was spreading through his chest. He’d suspected Trent Huxley was trouble from the day Cassidy brought him home three years ago.
The man had shifty eyes and soft hands, the kind that had never done honest work. But Harry had kept his mouth shut because his daughter was happy. Not anymore. The drive to Cassid’s house took 22 minutes through empty Montana back roads. Harry’s truck ate up the miles while his mind cataloged everything he knew about Trent Huxley.
The man ran some kind of side business that kept him flushed with cash, but never seemed to require actual work. He drank too much, gambled more than he could afford, and had friends in the sheriff’s department who looked the other way when complaints came in. Most importantly, Trent was the kind of man who’d hit a pregnant woman and run at Harry’s headlights, swept across the ambulance parked in Cassid’s driveway.
EMTs were wheeling a stretcher toward the open front door. Harry parked sideways across the lawn, and joged toward the house. “Sir, you can’t.” One of the EMTs started. “That’s my daughter.” Harry cut him off. The man stepped aside. Cassidy lay on a stretcher, conscious but gray-faced. Her night gown was stained dark around the middle.
An oxygen mask covered half her face. When she saw Harry, her eyes filled with tears. Dad, she whispered through the mask. I’m here. Harry grabbed her hand. Her fingers felt like ice. Lydia called me. The EMT working on her four looked up. Are you the father? I am. We need to get her to Boseman General immediately. Severe abdominal trauma, possible placental abruption.
The baby’s in distress. Harry nodded. He understood trauma. He’d seen enough of it on the rigs when safety protocols failed and men got careless. The difference was those were accidents. This was something else entirely. Lydia, Cassidy whispered. Harry looked around and found his granddaughter huddled on the couch, still in her princess pajamas, clutching a stuffed elephant.
Her face was stre with tears and her small hands were stained with her mother’s blood. “Come here, baby girl!” Harry scooped her up. She buried her face in his neck and held on tight. “Is mommy going to die?” she whispered. “No,” Harry said and meant it. “Mommy’s tough. She’s going to be fine.” The EMTs loaded Cassidy into the ambulance.
Harry strapped Lydia into his truck and followed the flashing lights through the dark Montana countryside. His speedometer hovering near 80 the entire way. Boseman General’s emergency entrance was a chaos of fluorescent lights and urgent voices. Harry carried Lydia through the automatic doors just as they wheeled Cassidy towards surgery.
A nurse in scrubs intercepted them. Sir, you’ll need to wait here. We’ll update you as soon as we can. I want to see the doctor, Harry said. Dr. Martinez is prepping for surgery. She’ll speak with you after. Now, Harry’s voice carried the authority of a man who’d spent decades giving orders that kept people alive.
I want to know exactly what that bastard did to my daughter. The nurse glanced around, then nodded. Follow me. Dr. Martinez was a small woman with tired eyes and surgical gloves already on her hands. She looked hairy up and down, taking in his work boots, faded jeans, and the child in his arms. You’re the father. I am.
How bad is it? Severe blunt force trauma to the abdomen. The placenta is partially detached, which means the baby isn’t getting enough oxygen. We need to deliver immediately. She paused. The injuries are consistent with being kicked or punched repeatedly. Harry’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth achd. the baby.
We’ll know more after surgery. Right now, I need to focus on saving both of them. Dr. Martinez disappeared through the surgical doors. Harry found two chairs in the waiting area and settled Lydia on his lap. She’d stopped crying, but hadn’t said a word since they arrived. Tell me what happened tonight. Harry said softly that Lydia’s voice was barely a whisper.
Daddy came home mad. He was yelling about money and throwing things. Mommy told him to stop because it was scaring me and the baby. Then he got even madder and pushed her real hard. She fell down and he started kicking her tummy. She was screaming for him to stop, but he wouldn’t.
Harry’s hands trembled and this time he couldn’t stop them. What happened next? Mommy curled up in a ball and he kicked her some more. Then he said bad words and left. Mommy was crying and there was blood so I called you like she told me to. You did exactly right, baby girl. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Harry looked up to see Deputy Brock Timonss approaching, his uniform wrinkled and his badge catching the harsh hospital lights.
Harry knew Timonss by reputation. He was lazy, corrupt, and owed favors to half the low lives in the county, including Trent Huxley. Mr. Kain, Timmons nodded. Heard there was some kind of domestic incident tonight. Domestic incident? Harry’s voice was dangerously quiet. My son-in-law beat my pregnant daughter so badly she’s in surgery right now.
That’s what you call an incident. Now hold on. I haven’t heard Trent’s side of the story yet. Could have been an argument that got out of hand. These things happen. Harry stood slowly settling Lydia in the chair. He was 6’2 and had the kind of build that came from hauling steelpipe in Wyoming winters. Timonss took a half step back.
These things happen. Harry repeated. You think a man kicking his pregnant wife is just something that happens? Look, Kane, I know you’re upset, but where is he? Who? Trent, where’s the piece of garbage who did this? Timon shrugged. Haven’t been able to locate him yet. Probably sleeping it off somewhere. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Get his version of events.
His version. Harry moved closer. You want to hear his version of why he kicked a pregnant woman in the stomach? That’s how investigations work. We talked to both parties, get statements. The only statement you need is from a six-year-old girl who watched her father try to kill her mother and baby brother. Harry’s voice carried down the empty hallway.
But you’re not interested in that statement. Are you Tims? Because Trent’s one of your drinking buddies. Timonss’s face flushed red. You better watch a mouth, Cain. I don’t have to take that kind of talk from you. You’re right. Harry said calmly. You don’t because you can get in your patrol car, drive back to whatever hole you crawled out of, and pretend this conversation never happened.
But if I find out you’ve been helping Trent cover this up, we’re going to have a different kind of conversation. Timmons opened his mouth to respond, then seem to think better of it. He turned and walked away, his boots squeaking on the polished floor. Harry watched him go, memorizing the set of his shoulders and the way he favored his left leg.
information was ammunition, and Harry had a feeling he’d need plenty of both before this was over a few minutes after Timmons left. Voices drifted down the hallway from the nurse’s station. Harry moved closer, keeping one eye on Lydia. “Never seen injuries like that from a fall,” one nurse was saying. Looked like she got kicked by a horse.
Third time this year, another replied, “Remember that Peterson girl? Same pattern of bruising.” And the Freeman woman, I heard she fell down the stairs, too. All the same guy, Trent Huxley. He’s got connections, though. Nothing ever sticks. Harry filed the information away. So, this wasn’t Trent’s first time.
That made it worse, but it also made it easier. Pattern of behavior meant there would be other victims, other witnesses, other people with scores to settle. The surgery took 4 hours. Dr. Martinez emerged just after sunrise, still in scrubs, but with exhaustion weighing down her shoulders. How are they? Harry asked standing immediately. Your daughter is stable.
She lost a lot of blood, but she’s young and strong. She’ll recover fully with time. And the baby, a boy, born premature at 34 weeks, but his vitals are good. He’ll need to stay in NICU for a while, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Harry felt something tight in his chest finally loosen. Can I see her? She’s asking for you.
Cassidy looked small and pale against the white hospital sheets. Machines beeped softly around her bed, monitoring heartbeat and oxygen levels. Her eyes open when Harry entered the room. Lydia’s hand held firmly in his. Dad. Her voice was barely above a whisper. Right here, sweetheart. Harry pulled a chair close to the bed. How do you feel? Like I got hit by a truck.
She managed a weak smile. The baby, he’s fighting. Doctor says he’s got a good chance. Cassidy closed her eyes for a moment, tears leaking from the corners. I’m sorry, Dad. I should have listened to you about Trent. I should have seen what he was. This isn’t your fault, Harry said firmly. None of it. I let him around Lydia. I let him.
Her voice broke. Mommy. Lydia climbed onto the chair to get closer to the bed. Don’t cry. Papa says you’re going to be okay. Cassidy reached out with shaking fingers to touch her daughter’s face. I am, baby. Mommy’s going to be just fine. They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the steady beep of the monitors.
Finally, Cassidy looked at Harry with eyes that had aged a decade overnight. I want him gone, she said quietly. Not scared, not sorry. Gone. Harry studied his daughter’s face. The young woman who’d married Trent three years ago had believed in second chances and the power of love to change people. That woman was gone, replaced by someone harder, someone who understood that some lines couldn’t be uncrossed.
“You won’t have to ask me twice,” Harry said. Something passed between them in that moment, an understanding that went beyond words. Harry had spent his adult life in places where problems got solved with direct action rather than paperwork and committees. He’d pulled men out of collapse mine shafts, fought fires on oil rigs, and once talked a suicidal rough neck down from a Derek platform.
He understood how to handle crisis. This was just another kind of crisis that a nurse appeared in the doorway. Visiting hours are almost over. The patient needs rest. Harry stood and leaned down to kiss Cassid’s forehead. Get some sleep. I’ll take care of Lydia and I’ll take care of everything else. Dad.
Cassidy caught his hand. Be careful. He’s not just some angry drunk. He’s got friends, connections, people who help him. I know, Harry said. So do I. He picked up Lydia and walked out of the hospital room with a measured pace of a man who’d made a decision. In the elevator, Lydia looked up at him with serious brown eyes that reminded him of Cassidy at that age.
Papa, what did mommy mean when she said she wants daddy gone? Harry considered his words carefully. Sometimes people do things so bad that they can’t be around the family anymore. Your daddy hurt your mommy and the baby, so he can’t live with you anymore. Good, Lydia said with six-year-old certainty. I don’t want him to hurt mommy again. He won’t. Harry promised.
I’m going to make sure of that. The Montana Sunrise painted the hospital parking lot in shades of gold and orange as Harry strapped Lydia into his truck. He had phone calls to make, people to see, and plans to set in motion. But first, he needed to get Lydia somewhere safe and figure out exactly how deep Trent Huxley’s connections ran because Harry Kane didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, and he just promised his granddaughter that her father would never hurt her mother again.
Harry dropped Lydia off at his neighbor’s house 3 hours after leaving the hospital. Martha Kellerman was 72, widowed, and had raised six children of her own. She took one look at Harry’s face and asked no questions, just wrapped Lydia in a fierce hug, and promised to spoil her with pancakes and cartoons until he got back.
“Take all the time you need,” Martha said quietly, her weathered hands gentle on Lydia’s shoulders. “And Harry, whatever you’re planning, be smart about it.” Harry’s first stop was Pike’s Auto Repair, a grease stained garage on the outskirts of town, where honest work got done by men who understood the value of keeping their mouths shut.
Delmare Pike was under the hood of a rusted Ford when Harry walked in. His wiry frame bent over the engine like a man performing surgery. Delmare. Delmare straightened, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. He was 53. All senu and scars with pale blue eyes that missed nothing. Harry heard about Cassidy on the scanner. How is she? She’ll live.
Baby, too. Harry leaned against the workbench, but Trent Huxley put them both in the hospital. Delmar’s expression didn’t change, but something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. That so beat her so bad she nearly bled out. Deputy Timonss thinks it was just a domestic dispute that got out of hand. Timonss is a bot man.
Delmare said flatly. Has been for years. Trent’s got him on a leash. Harry had been counting on Delmare having useful information. The mechanic serviced half the vehicles in the county and had a memory like a steel trap when it came to other people’s business. “Tell me about Trent’s operation,” Harry said. Delmare glanced toward the garage entrance, then moved to close the bay door.
When they were alone, he pulled two beers from a mini fridge and handed one to Harry. Runs an illegal bedding ring out of his lake cabin. Takes action on everything from college football to horse racing. Charges 20% juice on loans. Breaks legs when people don’t pay up. His main muscle is Rafe Gunner. Big son of a with no conscience and a short fuse.
Who’s he paying off besides Tims? City Councilman Dave Garrett takes a cut to keep the gaming ordinances loose. Judge Patricia Moss gets campaign contributions every election cycle. Sheriff’s Department looks the other way as long as the violence stays quiet. Harry nodded. Corruption was like rust once it started. It spread until the whole structure was compromised.
But that also made it predictable. Corrupt men were always vulnerable because they had to protect too many secrets. “You know all this, but you never did anything about it,” Harry observed. Delmare’s face hardened. “My sister Jenny was driving home from her night shift 2 years ago. Trent was coming back from the casino, drunk off his ass, and rammed her car headon.
She lived but barely. Spinal cord damage. Uses a wheelchair now. What happened to Trent?” Timonss rode it up as an accident. said Jenny must have swerved into oncoming traffic. Trent got a slap on the wrist for driving under the influence. Delmare took a long pull from his beer. Been waiting for the right time to settle that score.
Consider this the right time, Harry said. You in? Hell yes, I’m in. What do you need? Information mostly vehicle sabotage when the time comes. You know trucks better than anyone in three counties. I can make a truck disappear or break down exactly when you need it to. Delmare’s smile was thin and cold.
What else? I need someone inside Trent’s social circle. Someone who knows where he keeps his money, who he trusts, what makes him paranoid. Try June Callaway runs the bar at the copper mine in. She dated Trent a few years back before he married Cassidy. He still drinks there most nights. Shoots his mouth off when he’s had too many. Harry made a mental note.
Anyone else I should know about? Marshall Irwin lives in that trailer park east of town. Army medic in Afghanistan. Came back with PTSD and a drinking problem. Lost his house, wife, everything. You pulled him out of debt during the recession. Gave him work when nobody else would. Man’s got loyalty and he hates bullies.
Harry remembered Marshall. Quiet, competent, haunted by things he’d seen overseas. Good man to have in a corner. One more thing, Delmare continued. Word is there’s a new sheriff coming to town. Griffin Lasowl, decorated state trooper from Helena, supposed to clean up the department, root out the corruption, start officially in 2 weeks.
Timonss know about this. If he does, he’s not acting like it. Still struting around like he owns the place. Harry finished his beer and stood. Keep your ears open. If you hear anything about Trent’s movements, call me. What about the cops? When they come asking questions about what happened to Trent? What do I tell them? Tell them the truth, Harry said.
You haven’t seen him. Delmare grinned. I like the way you think. The copper mine and sat on the edge of town like a relic from the Wild West. All weathered wood and neon beer signs. The parking lot was mostly empty at 2:00 in the afternoon. Just a few pickup trucks and a motorcycle that had seen better years. Harry pushed through the heavy wooden door into a world of dim lighting and stale cigarette smoke.
June Callaway was behind the bar polishing glasses with mechanical precision. She was probably 45 with auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and sharp green eyes that evaluated Harry as he approached. Her movements had the efficiency of someone who’d spent years dealing with drunks, creeps, and troublemakers. You’re Harry Kane, she said before he could introduce himself.
Heard about your daughter. Sorry, news travels fast. Small town. Bad news travels faster. She said down the glass and leaned against the bar. What can I do for you? I understand you know Trent Huxley. Jun’s expression went carefully neutral. A lot of people know Trent. He’s what you might call a local personality.
I’m told you dated him. Ancient history. before he got married, before he got worse. She studied Harry’s face. You planning some kind of intervention? Because I already tried that once. Nearly got my teeth knocked out for the effort. No intervention, Harry said. I’m planning something else entirely. June was quiet for a long moment, sizing him up.
