Chapter Seventeen

Before I drove up to Whitlash and looked around, I needed to see a few people. I was hoping to get information about what the Martins were doing there on that wasteland of a farm. I knew Annie had been there, but I didn’t trust her insight for some reason. Because of the lady sheriff’s inexplicable visit with my father several months earlier, I figured she probably had some information. It was time to visit law and order.

“Sheriff Terabian is on the phone right now. So could you wait? Just go ahead and sit over there and… Hey, ain’t you Jill O’Hara?”

“I am.” I knew the face but the name had long ago been dumped into the delete file. “But you have to remind me of your name. It’s been ages…” A polite but wounded frown looked back at me.

“Roberta Tate! Remember me now?”

Of course, I did finally, but, as usual, not before I had hurt her feelings.

“Damn, Roberta, wow, you look great.” She looked like she’d been in a knock-down, drag-out with Father Time. “How’s your family?” A surefire question for pulling out information to help me remember more about her.

“Well, you remember I married Jake Thomas, so we have three—”

A door to the right swung open, interrupting Roberta and revealing Taft County Sheriff Terabian. Thankfully, she had stopped the Roberta show.

Terabian didn’t say anything at first, just stood in the doorway like a justice system goddess and inspected me. Had we been in the city, I would have assumed she was checking me out, but in Prairie View that was unthinkable. Her uniform was impeccably pressed, just like the other times I had seen her. Gorgeous women are the one and only species that render me speechless. I was embarrassed by the newness of my hiking boots.

“Oh, Ms. O’Hara, are you here to discuss your traffic ticket? You could do that at the courthouse where you pay the fine.” She had her dark hair in a French braid. I’m a pushover for French braids, the sexiest hairdo on the planet.

“The fine? Oh! No, no, not the fine. I’m here to talk about some property questions.” I knew better than to discuss anything around Roberta. No doubt she went home at night and discussed her work in detail with whomever was drinking Bud Light with her.

“Well, come in, then. Roberta, I’ll be unavailable for the next fifteen minutes.” She stepped to the side, allowing me to enter her large, comfortless, office. There were two stiff gray government-issue chairs with forest green plastic seats facing her metal desk, so I took one of them. I noted her black leather office chair was the only cushy thing in the room. To the left was a bookshelf holding dozens of spiral notebooks, procedure manuals, and Montana law books. There was one framed picture of a German shepherd, the only personal thing in the room. She did, however, have a great view of the wind-swept prairie from her window.

When working with law enforcement officials, it was usually my tactic to start the conversation, thereby controlling it. Sheriff Terabian, with her precisely tweezed eyebrows and pressed pleats, was well acquainted with the rules of my game.

“Okay, Ms. O’Hara, tell me what sort of land issues you want to address. Your father has lots of property, which piece are you concerned about?” She eased herself into the good chair and leaned back, resting her elbows on the chair’s arms.

“It’s the Martin farm, Sheriff. I understand you visited my father last fall regarding the farm—”

She shook her head. “I don’t recall speaking to your father last fall about the Martin farm. And I’m sure you understand that a large portion of my work must, for both legal and ethical reasons, remain confidential.” Her eyes were impassive, indifferently interested.

“Okay then, what about when my father and Billy Stover visited you about a month ago and asked your help with getting the Martin boys off our…my…property. You refused to help because your jurisdictional area does not cover the farm buildings. I understand your, let’s call it ‘hesitation’ at not wanting to inflame what could be a violent situation, but you didn’t even offer to speak to the Liberty County Sheriff. It seems to me that it’s your obligation to—”

“Excuse me, Ms. O’Hara, I doubt you understand exactly what my obligations are.” Her eyes and mouth were steely.

“Maybe you’ve confused your obligations to the citizens of Taft County and to your boyfriend Josh Martin—”

“You’ve crossed a line now. I’m not a subject for one of your investigations.” Her voice was getting edgy with a waver of anger underlying it. “At this point, we cannot do anything about removing the Martins from the property until you’ve directed your attorney to start legal proceedings. Those proceedings will have to be initiated in Liberty County, not my county. The law is a process, Ms. O’Hara, and I strongly suggest that you show it some respect and patience.”

Her nostrils actually flared a little. God, I love that on a woman. But I wasn’t there to ogle Josh Martin’s girlfriend.

“Okay. It’s clear that your office doesn’t want to get involved…for whatever reason. So, yeah, I’ll get my attorney involved, but there’s more to this Martin deal than you want to tell me. I’m really good at finding out things, Sheriff, and sometimes what I learn gets particularly sticky for the authorities.” I stood, pushing the demeaning chair away with the backs of my legs. She stood, too, and pressed one set of long fingers into the desktop.

“Ms. O’Hara, I have one more suggestion. Take your ‘skills’ elsewhere. To a third-world banana republic or a corporate board riddled with inside trading. Don’t insinuate yourself in my jurisdiction…ever. Or you will find yourself in trouble beyond your wildest dreams.”

“Is that a promise? A warning? A threat? I am by nature a curious woman, Sheriff. I have every legal right to protect my property. Montana law is damn serious about property owner rights, and I intend to exercise my rights. Thanks for your time, Sheriff. Have a lovely afternoon.”

She was still pressing one hand into the desk when I walked out. She looked like carved and polished granite.