Sign Off (Caught Dead In Wyoming, Book 1)

Chapter Eleven

"What did Tamantha ask you to do?" he demanded before my eyes had fully adjusted to the dimmer light inside. The house was like his truck. Organized, neat, but with enough dust to show he wasn't obsessive.

In addition to a couch, a recliner covered by a quilt, and an open cabinet that held books, DVDs and a TV, there were several distinctly Western touches. A wrought iron tree just inside the door held hats; I counted eight cowboy hats and three baseball caps. A ceiling fan descended from an old wagon wheel. A coiled rope and old spurs were mounted over the fireplace.

What I saw of the room was around his shoulder because he stood in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. But a good reporter knows getting in the door's the toughest part. After that, it's a matter of degrees. "Ask? You don't know your daughter if you think she asked anything. She ordered."

"She's always known her own mind."

"I don't mind that. It's the effort to take over mine that I find irksome."

His eyes lightened, as if he'd stepped out of a cave. "What's she ordering you to do, besides pester me?" That almost sounded human.

"Prove you're innocent."

Back to the cave. "Of what?"

"Killing Sheriff's Deputy Foster Redus." My diplomacy in saying "killing" instead of "murdering" was lost on Burrell.

"How do you know he's dead?"

"I don't know. I made that assumption for the sake of-"

"You know what happens when you assume-makes an ass of you and me."

It was journalism teachers' favorite saying, along with the three most important rules of reporting being accuracy, accuracy, accuracy. Having it drawled back at me by him was downright irritating.

"It would be redundant in your case."

For a moment I thought what my mother called my Irish tongue-fast and sharp-had gotten me in real trouble. It caught me off guard, because I thought I'd put a permanent curb on it years ago when Wes and I moved into TV news. Now a lurid image popped into my head of Burrell's strong arms swinging the ax toward the block.

"Be careful, E.M. Danniher." His soft words sent atavistic shivers along the fine hairs on my arms and up the back of my neck.

He then turned away. I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"What does E.M. stand for?" He moved into the L of a kitchen off to the left, probably figuring he had me cowed enough to ease up on guard duty.

"Elizabeth Margaret."

"Elizabeth Margaret Danniher. That's a mouthful. What do they call you at the television station?"

"Mostly her."

A sound came from him that might have been a chuckle. "What will they be calling you after you've been here a while?"

I pushed back my uncertainties about whether I would-or should-be here a while, and said, "Some will stick with Elizabeth. Mostly it'll be Danny. That's what it's been other places."

"You've been a lot of other places?" he asked as he poured a cup of coffee the color of sin. With his back to me, his voice sounded almost casual. Maybe it was the eyes that gave him such intensity.

"A few."

"I haven't been any other places. Only here." He imbued it with neither pleasure nor regret, simply recognition of a fact. "You think you'll get accepted by doing this story? A scoop?"