“Nothing like that,” Jeff told him. “As far as I know, Jake and the family are all fine. I’m just a little worried about something, and I thought maybe you could advise me whether I should wire Jake. I hate like hell to worry him or Randy. I think they’re finally happy and at peace, but a man like Jake will probably never be able to completely rid himself of the past.”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in, Helen.”
A heavy-set serving maid came inside, carrying a silver tray with a crystal bottle of liquor and two small glasses. “Your wife said to bring this for you, Mr. Brown,” she told Peter.
“Thanks, Helen. I’ll pour the drinks.”
The maid nodded and left, closing the door behind her. Peter uncorked the liquor and poured some into each glass, then handed one to Jeff. He walked behind his desk and sat down in the leather chair, taking his glass of brandy and holding it up as though in a toast. “I take it we both need a drink before you tell me why you are here.”
Jeff held up his own glass. “It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Well then, here’s to your new baby to come, and to Jake and Randy’s new life in Colorado.”
Both men sipped their brandy, and Peter leaned back in his chair. “So, what is the news?”
Jeff sighed, taking another sip and then leaning forward to set the glass on the edge of Peter’s desk. He unrolled the paper still in his hand. “This came across my desk yesterday. Since I’m the one who became close to Jake and was at that shoot-out when he rescued his daughter from those bastards who’d abducted her, my boss gave me the assignment to write the article about this.” He handed the paper to Peter.
Frowning, Peter unrolled the paper and read it.
Lansing, Michigan. Mike Holt, a survivor of the infamous eighteen and ninety-two gun battle with Marshals Jake and Lloyd Harkner at Dune Hollow in Oklahoma, was freed from federal prison April first, eighteen and ninety-six, after winning an appeal. A judge has ruled that there is no real proof that Holt himself brought any physical harm to Harkner’s daughter, Evita Stewart. His conviction was changed to aiding and abetting an abduction, and it was determined that Holt’s three years in prison constituted enough time served.
Peter closed his eyes. “Jesus,” he muttered.
“Yeah.” Jeff reached out and grasped the glass of brandy, leaning back and taking another sip. “Of course, being Jewish, I wouldn’t use that term. For me, it’s more like Holy Moses.” He smiled sadly, staring at the glass of brandy in his hand. “I was there, Peter. I can’t say Holt ever raped Jake’s daughter, but he sure as hell didn’t try to stop the others from doing so. What bothers me is that I remember the man threatening Lloyd. The day of the incident, Lloyd shot down his brother, because he was trying to run. Lloyd shot him in the back. None of the men there that day will testify to it. They were all so furious over what happened to Jake’s daughter that they didn’t care, but Holt isn’t going to forget. I remember the look in his eyes when he said he’d get Lloyd for what happened. He meant every word of it.” He shook his head. “I can’t blame Lloyd for it. He saw what they did to his sister, and he was crazy with a need for revenge. And as a deputy marshal, he had a right to shoot down a culprit trying to run from the law.”
Peter nodded. “And now you’re afraid Holt will head for Colorado.”
Jeff rested his elbows on his knees. “Jake is pretty famous now because of my book—not that he wasn’t already pretty well known all over the country. The man is a legend, and everybody in Guthrie knows he moved back to Colorado. That kind of notoriety will make it easy for Mike Holt to find him…and father and son are stuck together like glue. All Holt has to do is find Jake, and he’ll find Lloyd. I really, really hate the thought of the past rearing its ugly head again for either one of them.”
Peter rubbed at his eyes. “Or for Randy.”
“Yeah. Not many women would put up with or survive what that woman has.”
Peter took another swallow of brandy himself. “Jake thinks Holt went to prison for a good twenty years. He probably figured he wouldn’t live long enough to see the man get out.”
“Well, even at twenty years, Lloyd would likely still be alive, but maybe after that long, Holt wouldn’t care anymore. The fact remains it’s been only four years since everything that happened, and it’s all still pretty fresh. I just wanted to know if you think I should warn Jake.”
Peter closed his eyes. He could see her as though she were standing right in front of him: Randy Harkner, small, beautiful, elegant, gentle, totally devoted to one man. He could see Jake: tall, broad, rugged, dark, dangerous—a total contrast to his wife. And he could see Lloyd: built just like his father, sometimes getting that same look of danger in his eyes, his hair long like an Indian’s, his smile handsome and bright, just like Jake’s.