~ A Dark Wyoming Wind ~

 CHAPTER ONE

 Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Mid-July

Flat mid-morning light slanted into the open back door of Red Feather Frame, silhouetting a menacing male figure. The man listed forward. "You can't keep me outta the workroom. Thish’s my joab! Sheeutt! I'll walk right over yueh. Stomp yuh inta the floor like durt."

Jeremi Kruger called forth every measure of control she possessed to keep her voice unwavering. "Jesse, you’ll stay out because you’re fired. No more warnings. I'll write a check for your severance pay. You will turn in my keys. Now."

“Like durt, Missy! Stomp yuh like duuurt!”

Giving his bellowed threat her back, she strode to her office with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her slim denim skirt to keep from shaking. He’d follow her; she knew. Once behind the large oak desk, she removed the maroon payroll checkbook embossed with "Red Feather Frame & Kruger Gallery" from the center drawer. Had it been the proverbial turnip, the edge of the desk could have dripped blood on her feet so tightly did she grip it.

Buck up Jeremi, she told herself. Don't let this scum see you’re afraid of him. She blew stragglers of pale hair from in front of her eyes, smoothed the front placket of her white silk shirt, and straightened her spine. Ready.

"Don't try ta’ walk away from me, you scrawny blonde bitch," he snarled, half-swaggering, half-lurching into the office. "I'm not finished with yueh!"

"Yes, Jesse, you are. Would you prefer leaving quietly, or facing charges for threat of assault? Your choice." She picked up the telephone receiver and punched in a nine and a one, holding her finger suspended. "I don't have time for court, but I will take this as far as necessary." She kept her chin up, back straight. “You know Andrew is friends with several cops, and my other brother’s an attorney.”

His small, red-shot eyes narrowed, and his great huffing bulk threatened behind large, maul-like fists. Those fists moved up level to his waist. She punched the final "one" and put the receiver to her ear.

"Awright!" he bellowed as the dispatcher answered.

She cut off, but slid the phone to her edge of the wide desk, where she could easily grab it and he couldn't. Quickly she repunched the nine and one, and laid the receiver aside. Just in case. A sudden reserve of calm washed through her, settling into her fingertips like steel. She wrote a check, carefully laid down the pen, and stared him in the eyes.

"Yuh'll regret this." He hunched stocky shoulders up to his bull-neck and crossed his arms. "You kin mat and frame all night tryin' to stay ahead of orders without me. But freight? Phaww!" He snorted derisively, and spittle flew.

Jeremi imagined herself being cornered by a slavering bull.

Swiping a meaty hand across his nose and mouth, he shook his head. "Huh!" He sneered. "How's a skinny thing like you gonna handle freight? You need me more'n I need you." Plunging his forefingers into the front pockets of his grubby jeans, he listed forward, ending up with his thick thighs against her desk, his large belly and bulky male parts over-hanging.

Unable to keep from leaning back, Jeremi smoothed down the front of her skirt, sucked down revulsion, and strained for composure. True enough, what he'd said. After nearly four years she’d finally found one person adequately strong to handle freight, yet able to frame, and here she was, firing him. She couldn’t afford to regress. Paying two people for the same work could put her into the red again.

Even so, as Jesse hulked forward and his ninety-proof breath seared the air less than a foot from her face, she simply bent that pale green payroll check back and ran her thumbnail along the perforations. Tore it out.

"It's not your concern anymore," she said. "My keys?"

Instead of giving them to her, he stretched across and jangled the shop keys in front of her nose. Then he dropped them onto the checkbook, his malevolent gaze fixed on her. A spasm at each corner pulled his thin mouth in a tight grin, jerking his weedy black mustache like a caterpillar intent on escape.

"Suit yurself. Easiest money I never earned." He snorted at his own humor and snatched the check. "You're jus’ real stupid, and yuh'll be sorry. Ah’ll be around, watchin’ you go broke. Wait and see, Chickee. Yuh’ll be real sorry." With this parting invective, he lurched toward the back door.

Jeremi followed him at a cautious distance until he stepped over the threshold and outside. Leaping forth to close the door, she slammed the deadbolt home and pressed her back to the cool, green-painted steel. Her heart thumped double-time. How humiliating to imagine he'd heard that bolt thrown and enjoyed a good laugh. “You'll be real sorry,” danced through her brain like a malicious, tormenting goblin.

Head-to-toe shivers reduced her knees to pudding. She slid down the door to sit on her heels and hug herself. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, I despise anybody who can scare me like that." She rested her forehead on her knees.

He was right. To stay caught up she’d have to mat and frame into the nights. A shipment would be waiting for her at the freight dock tomorrow. Then what? Stress pulsed behind her eyes. She must handle it herself on Sunday, or call her brothers for help. After telling them to stay out of her ledgers and out of her business, it would feel like begging, like admitting that at age thirty she still couldn’t manage on her own. No win, no win.

Rawlins, Wyoming.

Mid-July

Using two fingers for support, Tricia Treager deftly wielded several pretzel sticks to gather an additional flat morsel of chocolate. Closing her lips around the creamy mouthful of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, she sucked the pretzels in, and licked off her nails. Waiting, waiting. What was Chase-Meyers doing, anyway? One gallon of ice cream and two boxes of slender pretzel sticks wouldn't last all morning.

A small spider inside the car caught her eye. On only a glimmer of silk, it dropped a tentative three inches down from the visor, then another cautious five. It zipped back up before she could blink. A tiny bump, visible only because she knew it was there, the tiny creature waited through another bite of ice cream, eventually daring an arrogant dive to the steering wheel. After a brief survey, it tied on and shot up.

She idly wondered why the luxury rental car hadn't been vacuumed of spiders. Then she saw him through the darkly-tinted privacy of the broad windshield. Daniel Chase-Meyers II came out of a small store with a package tucked high under his left arm. After a quick, guarded glance to each side, he crossed the street behind a passing crew-cab truck and ducked against a swirl of wind with visible grit. Lean and smooth-moving. Not at all what she’d expected.

Prison had changed him in a way that made her lip curl. Six years ago he'd been a rich, ivy-league Wunderkind with a narrow, aristocratic nose and soft brown curls falling over his forehead. She'd raged when the judge commuted his sentence to only six years for manslaughter. There was no pressure or power she could wield to change it. God knows she'd tried.

After reading what usually happens to pretty young men in prison, she'd relished at least that thought. He should have left the penitentiary cowering and emasculated, easy prey. The reverse had happened. He didn't even look the same with his head shaved and his face closed and hardened.

A convict. Feral.

She studied him. What extra precautions must she take from now on? Sucking ice-cream from her first two fingers, she knotted her eyebrows to watch him cross within ten feet of her front bumper. Since the prison shuttle dropped him off, he'd exchanged ill-fitting gray flannels and a navy blazer for blue denim. He must intend to stay in the Rocky Mountain states where his new clothing fit in. Certainly he'd leave Wyoming where he'd been convicted. Raised in a city, he’d likely go to a city. A good bet would be Denver or maybe Salt Lake.

She doubted he’d go back home to Seattle. No members of Chase-Meyer's family had picked him up from prison, nor met him in Rawlins. So she wouldn't worry about them closeting him away. Her informer seemed reliable and worth his price. As predicted, Chase-Meyers planned to quietly vanish. She’d help him disappear. Forever.

The annoying little spider again flung itself down through her concentration to the steering wheel. Without a second thought, she pinched it between the fleshy pads of her thumb and index finger. Like a ripe berry, it popped. She wiped it on a paper napkin, careful of nicking her immaculate nails, polished with Yves Saint Laurent's "Blood Lust."