Montana Midwife (13 page)

He slapped his hat back onto his head and turned his attention to the road. “What if David was killed because he knew too much? He might have figured out the identity of the serial killer and was threatening to tell the sheriff.”

She nodded. “That doesn’t tell us who the killer is.”

“But it limits the field.”

For the first time, she acknowledged to herself that there might be danger. If David knew the killer, so did Misty. And it was likely that Tab had met him. She didn’t know his identity, but he knew hers.

Chapter Twelve

The birthing had gone well. A little before eight o’clock, Tab parked her van outside the Gabriel Ranch, hopped out and strode toward the house. When she saw Aiden occupying the rocking chair on the porch where her grandma had been sitting this morning, she couldn’t help grinning. He’d been waiting for her.
Sweet.

As she approached, he stood and sauntered down the stairs. The porch lights shone behind him, silhouetting his long, lean body, wide shoulders and cowboy hat. She had the sense that she was coming home to him, to her perfect man.

“You look happy,” he said.

“I love my job. There’s nothing as exciting as bringing new life into the world. When I hold the wiggly baby for the first time and hear the first cries, I feel privileged to be part of a miracle. Seven pounds and two ounces, the baby’s name is Rosalie.”

“Pretty name.”

“Pretty little girl.” She wanted to hug him and share the thrill but held herself back. The Gabriel Ranch wasn’t really her home. Aiden didn’t belong to her, and she didn’t have the right to grab him whenever she had the urge. “You’ll see. When Misty has her baby, you’ll see what it feels like.”

“I’ve been around babies before.”

“Trust me. A newborn is different.”

“Are you tired?”

“I should be after six hours of labor. Not that I did any of the heavy-duty exertion, but the process is a strain.”

“How so?”

She tried to think of a metaphor that he’d understand. “You played football, didn’t you?”

“Henley High,” he said. “Go, Bobcats. And in college.”

“Think of a football game, and think of me as the coach. I don’t actually run down the field with the ball, but I call the plays and I strategize.”

“I don’t reckon you choose to punt too often.”

“Very funny.” The football comparison might have been a bad idea.

“Go on. Tell me what happens after the huddle.”

“Mostly, it’s about making the mom comfortable, giving her water or tea or sometimes a snack. Some women have pressure on their lower spine, and that means a lot of back rubs. Sometimes, I’ll get the mom out of bed and walk around. The last phase of labor, which is called transition, can be intense. That’s the dramatic part that you always see in movies.”

“When the baby comes out, that’s your touchdown.”

“But I never spike the baby in the end zone.”

“Because that would be a penalty,” he said. “Well, Coach, I’m thinking you might need some rest.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.” After a birthing, she was energized. “My endorphins are rushing. I feel good all over.”

He reached toward her and placed his hand on her shoulder, setting off a whole different kind of pleasurable reaction. His touch soothed her and aroused her at the same time.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said.

She really wanted to say yes, not to the sleeping part but to going to bed with him. Instead, she shook her head.

“I’d rather hop in the chopper and go to Grandma’s house.” She’d called earlier to let him know that she still needed to pick up a few things from home. “I won’t ride Shua back tonight, but I’d really like to have a change of clothes, my own nightshirt and toothbrush.”

“You’re sure?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Could it be that you’re the one who’s too tired?”

“Not me. My day hasn’t been action packed.” He slid his hand down her arm and linked his hand with hers. “Let’s go.”

Holding hands, they walked together through the moonlight toward the barn. She rubbed her thumb across the calluses on his palm. Rough hands were an occupational hazard for cowboys who worked with horses and cattle in all kinds of weather. When he squeezed her fingers, electricity jolted up her arm and raced through her entire body. Were they really holding hands?

A pine-scented breeze cooled her cheeks and ruffled the strands of hair that had slipped out of her ponytail. With her free hand, she pushed her hair back. “I must look a mess.”

“Not with that beautiful smile lighting up your face. You look great.”

His words warmed her but didn’t erase her self-consciousness. As her body heated up, she remembered that she hadn’t used deodorant after her shower this morning. A change of clothing was definitely needed. Though she’d slipped into comfortable scrubs for the labor and birthing, the shirt she’d worn for the past two days was getting a little ripe.

“After a big game,” he said, “I always liked to talk about the plays that worked and the slipups. Give me the rundown on what happened today with—what are their names? Connie and Carlos?”

“I will if you promise not to mention football again. Having a baby isn’t really the Wide World of Sports.”

“Promise.” He ducked his head to look into her eyes. “But I would like to hear about it. If I’m going to understand what you do, you’ve got to give me some details.”

“When I got to the house, Connie greeted me with a paintbrush in her hand. Apparently, the nursery needed another coat, and she wanted it done before the baby arrived.”

“Is that typical?” he asked.

“Different women handle the stress and hormones in different ways. Connie obsessed on cleaning. Even though Carlos promised to take care of the painting, she refused to get into bed. On the internet, she’d read that just because her water broke it didn’t mean she was in labor.”

“Was she right?”

“Obviously not,” Tab said. “I just delivered the baby. I encourage new moms to seek out prenatal information. The more they know, the less scared they are. The downside to that approach is that they think they’re experts. Connie felt a little twinge and announced that it was a Braxton Hicks contraction, false labor.”

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for Carlos.”

“He’s a really nice guy, but Connie was driving him crazy. When I finally convinced her to surrender the paintbrush and let me give her an exam, he whispered that I must be an angel sent from Heaven to keep his wife from killing him.”

“I’ve heard that women get mean during labor.”

“With good cause,” she said. “Having a baby isn’t easy.”

“What did you do next?”

She decided to skip the clinical description of how she assessed Connie’s dilation and effacement. Aiden’s interest in her work probably didn’t extend to all the gory details. “After I checked her out, I knew she was starting labor. Her pain started getting more intense, and we were off to the races. Six hours later, Rosalie came into the world.”

“Giving birth is easier with cows,” he said. “They give a couple of bellows and shoot the baby right out. If the calf is stuck, you just reach inside, grab and pull.”

“You might not want to share that comparison with your sister.”

They circled the barn, and the helicopter came into view. Last night when she’d been running hard, she hadn’t really appreciated the beauty of the machine. With moonlight reflecting off the rotors and long tail, the chopper looked like a giant mechanical dragonfly.

He gave her hand another squeeze before releasing it and digging into his pocket. He took out a sheet of notebook paper that was covered with tight scribbling. Handing it to her, he said, “Your grandma made a list of things she needs.”

Tab held the paper close so she could read it in the moonlight. “Half of this is kitchen equipment. Pots and skillets and spices. Why does she need this stuff?”

He opened the cockpit door. “Hop aboard. You know the drill.”

She strapped herself into the copilot seat, put on her headphones and prepared for the incredible sensation of swooping into the night sky. Their ascent tonight wasn’t as incredible as when she was a chopper virgin, but the thrill was undiminished. She didn’t think she’d ever become jaded about flying.

As they soared over the rugged landscape and approached the lights of Henley, she asked, “Did you do any more investigating today?”

“I spent most of the day with the sheriff. He’s leaning toward our theory of David being shot by an unknown companion who rode off on a mountain bike. But he still won’t dismiss Misty as a suspect.”

“What does he think of Aspen Jim?”

“It’s a shame Aspen Jim has an alibi. Nobody trusts him except for his teenage buddies, including Woody and Chuck, who think he’s a lot of fun. Remember how the Buffalo Man talked about loud parties in the deserted parts of the rez? According to Woody and Chuck, who were both feeling real bad after a night in jail, Aspen Jim provided the booze.”

“At least, it wasn’t drugs.”

“As far as we know.” He adjusted the steering to swoop toward the left. “The sheriff agreed with me. Aspen Jim has all the girlfriends he wants. He’s a sleazy guy, but he doesn’t fit the profile for a serial killer.”

Though she respected the psychology that went into profiling, she didn’t consider it proof. Serial killers came in all sizes and shapes; they didn’t have to look like depraved, drooling monsters. The infamous Ted Bundy had been a handsome, educated, socially adept man who brutally murdered more than twenty women.

When she met Aspen Jim, she’d thought he was mean spirited. The way he looked at her made her skin crawl. His whitened teeth and sun-bleached hair didn’t mean he was innocent.

“Anything else?” she asked. “How about the autopsies?”

“The coroner’s office in Billings won’t get around to a full autopsy for a couple more days, and they’re going to start with Ellen Jessop. All the branches of law enforcement—state, local and tribal—are worried about the possibility of a serial killer. There’s been talk of calling in the FBI.”

She understood why the murder of David Welling wasn’t as high priority, but the lack of investigation didn’t relieve the stress on Misty. She really wished that she and Aiden could find evidence that would take his sister off the list of suspects. “If David’s murder was somehow connected to the others, it would be more important. The sheriff seemed pretty sure that Misty’s watch was some kind of evidence.”

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “In a small town, everybody knows everybody else’s business. There’s just not much population, and it’s hard to believe that there’s more than one homicidal individual on the loose.”

“That points to one killer.”

“But David’s murder was nothing like the others. He was shot, not strangled. He wasn’t held prisoner, wasn’t tied up and—most of all—he wasn’t a young, blonde woman.”

Earlier, Aiden had referred to a murder of opportunity. “What if David knew something about the serial murders? The killer would want him dead.”

He turned toward her and gave her a long, hard stare. This scrutiny wasn’t like his earlier friendly glances. He seemed to be looking deeper and with more concern. “You’re a little too smart for your own good.”

“I’m on to something, aren’t I?”

“We found evidence of a connection,” he said. “One of the deputies and I did a flyover in the Spring Creek area where Ellen Jessop’s body was found. We spotted tire tracks not far from the crime scene. The tread matched David’s van.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, she swallowed hard. Playing at investigation was fun. The idea of finding the truth about these terrible crimes was like turning over a rock and seeing a rattlesnake. “Do you think David was the serial killer?”

“There’s a good chance his van was used by the killer. The sheriff took the vehicle to check it out, over the objections of Bert Welling who said the van belonged to him. There were blood traces inside. They’ll be checking for a DNA match to Ellen.”

As she stared through the windshield at the star-lit skies, a horrible thought occurred. “David might have been following Misty because she was next on his list. But if David was the serial killer, who shot him?”

“Other people used that van,” he said. “It was a kind of party bus.”

The chopper hovered over her grandma’s house, and Aiden turned on the spotlight in order to locate the best landing spot. She looked toward the lights of the nearby homes of the Martin and Tall Grass families, and Tab regretted the whirring noise of the rotors that would surely waken everybody inside and disturb their livestock.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the tire tracks?” she demanded.

“I just told you everything I know.”

“But I had to pry it out of you.” He couldn’t honestly claim that he’d been immediately forthcoming. “Were you trying to protect me again?”

“It didn’t seem important.” He eased the chopper into a smooth descent, constantly checking the ground below. “We can’t pinpoint who used the van. The evidence isn’t conclusive.”

“And that comment about me being too smart. What did you mean by that?”

“Would you feel better if I said you were dumb?”

It wasn’t like she was asking for a badge and a gun with a license to kill. She just wanted to be kept in the loop. He needed to trust her.

“Were you playing me?” she asked. “When you were asking questions about Connie, was that a ruse to keep from telling me about the investigation?”

The chopper touched down, and he turned off the engine before looking at her. “My interest in your work is genuine. I wasn’t trying to trick you or divert your attention. I don’t play games like that. I say what I mean.”

In the light from the instrument panel, she studied the lines of his face, not allowing her thoughts to be diverted by the pleasing symmetry of his features. She knew he was an honest, responsible man, but he was also clever like the coyote in the stories her grandma used to tell when she was growing up. The coyote behaved in all kinds of unexplainable ways, getting the other animals to do his bidding. But there was almost always a moral to the story that showed the coyote was actually helping. Aiden was coyote clever but also good. And she knew he would never intentionally hurt her.