My Kind of Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #1)(68)

Flanked by a deputy, Stanley Featherstone walked up to the bars. His narrow rat face wore a self-satisfied smirk. “The sheriff wants you brought to the interrogation room. I’m guessing it’s time for you to be charged and booked. Good luck, Morgan.”

“Shut up, Featherstone,” Travis growled as the deputy unlocked the cell door. “I may have to be here, but I sure as hell don’t have to listen to you.”

The deputy escorted Travis and the constable down the hall to the interrogation room and opened the door. Travis stepped inside, looked across the table, and gasped as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Sitting next to the sheriff was Hank—his father—in handcuffs.

“Come in and sit down, Morgan,” the sheriff said. “You, too, Constable. You’re part of this. Deputy, please take the constable’s weapon. Then you may go and close the door.”

Hank kept his gaze lowered. He didn’t look up as Travis sat down across from him, still stunned by the sight of his handcuffed father. Featherstone, who’d surrendered his pistol without protest, sat at the foot of the table, looking uncomfortable.

The sheriff cleared his throat and spoke. “Hank Miller has confessed to setting the fire that burned his own tree lot and damaged his store. He’s been arrested and charged with arson, with intent to commit insurance fraud.”

“I’ll be damned!” The constable chuckled out loud. Travis caught his breath, reeling as the implications struck him. His father’s confession would clear him of all charges. But this wasn’t making sense. If Hank had started the fire, why would Featherstone bother to lie about it? And Hank? Had he actually done this crazy thing, or was he lying, too?

Why would he lie about committing such a serious crime?

The only possible answer to that question sent a dagger through Travis’s heart.

He couldn’t let this stand. The only way to resolve the situation was to find the truth. “Sheriff, something’s wrong here,” he said. “My father wouldn’t do this.”

“Hold your horses. I’m not finished,” the sheriff said. “There’s just one problem with Hank’s so-called confession. The evidence I found when I went through the crime scene tells me he’s lying. The fire was started using an accelerant—most likely gasoline. It was splashed through the front of the locked fence, from the outside and trailed on the ground, where it was lit. Hank claimed he was inside the fence when he started the fire, and that he used charcoal to get the blaze going.”

The sheriff took his key and unlocked Hank’s handcuffs. “Good story, Hank. Now let’s get to the truth.”

Hank was shaking, still unable to raise his eyes. Travis stared at his father, a lump rising in his throat. There was only one reason Hank would make a false confession about starting the fire—to save his son from a second prison term. The gesture was so rich in love that Travis felt a rush of tears. The sheriff didn’t stop him when he reached across the table and clasped his father’s hand.

“We’re not finished here,” the sheriff said. “There are two versions of our story left, and only one of them is true. Travis Morgan here claims he drove past the store before the fire started and didn’t notice anything except that somebody was following him.

“The constable claims to have seen Morgan start the fire. But what I’m wondering is, why would Morgan get out of his vehicle and start a fire if he knew that somebody was watching—especially if that somebody was close enough to see him lighting matches, as Featherstone claimed? And why wouldn’t the constable, as an officer of the law, have honked or yelled—tried to stop him in some way—instead of waiting till the fire was blazing to call nine one one?”

He turned toward Featherstone where he sat at the end of the table. “Maybe you can answer those questions, Constable. And maybe you can tell us what my deputy will find when he gets a warrant to search your car.”

Stanley Featherstone’s cocky expression crumpled. He made a move as if to jump out of his chair and flee, but he had no place to go. He had been trapped by his own ill-thought-out lies.

The sheriff summoned his deputy in to cuff Featherstone and take him out. In a way, it was hard not to feel sorry for the little man, who had so many strikes against him. But Travis figured he’d manage.

“You two are free to go, with all charges dismissed,” the sheriff told Travis and Hank. “You can pick up your personal effects at the front counter.”

Travis and his father faced each other in the hallway. Their handshake dissolved into an awkward but heartfelt hug. They had some distance to go on their way to a comfortable father and son relationship. But they’d taken the first step.

They came out through the sliding glass doors into the parking lot—and into the joyous arms of Maggie and Francine, who’d gotten word of what was happening. With everybody talking at once, the story slowly came out.

“This is a real Christmas miracle!” Francine exclaimed. “You’ve got a helper to run the store for now, Hank, so you won’t need to get right back. I say we all go celebrate with a meal at that great steak house on the way to Cottonwood Springs. My treat!”

“Great, but I’ll be a minute or two,” Travis said. “I need to make a phone call.”

“And I want to talk to the sheriff,” Maggie said. “It won’t take long.”