by Dani Pettrey
Glancing over, she found Kirk’s basset-hound-brown eyes staring at her. “Is everything copacetic?”
“Actually, no.” Beginning with his use of the word copacetic. Was that the fourth or fifth time he’d used it tonight? She gripped her clutch. “Work emergency. I’m afraid I have to go.”
Griffin tapped his booted foot. How long was this going to take? She lived an hour away, and it had already been an hour and a half.
He rested against the two-hundred-year-old oak, garnering a little shelter from the downpour.
Ralph and Angus Reed were now in the custody of Gettysburg police under charges of trespassing, vandalism, and grave desecration. Once Ms. Scott found time to arrive and determine the general age and possible identification of the remains, they’d know if further charges would apply. Feeling a storm in the air and in his knee, he’d quickly tarped the site as the first drops of rain fell, but the sooner she arrived, the sooner the proper processing could begin.
Twenty minutes later the storm subsided and he bent to examine the condition of the remains, praying the tarp had done its duty.
Shining a flashlight on the exposed bone, he froze.
Was that . . . ?
He leaned closer, examining the ring still hanging around the metacarpal and what appeared to be soft tissue holding it there.
He swallowed.
If what he was looking at was in fact soft tissue, this was not a Civil War–era grave—it was a modern one.
2
Finley hastened up the steep incline, her three-inch heels sinking into the mud. A damp chill hovered thick in the air, a lingering effect of the crisp fall rain, which thankfully had ceased.
Vandals. That’s what she’d assumed Ranger McCray’s call had been about—some bored local teens deciding desecrating an archaeological dig would make a fun Saturday night outing—it’d happened before. But her dig was smack in the middle of the peach orchard, not up on Little Round Top, where the stalwart ranger was “awaiting her presence” according to Ranger Tim, who was now manning the office. Her curiosity was most certainly piqued.
Light emanated from the ridge as she neared, the beams mingling with the dancing fog in swirling fairylike motion. If she focused on it too long, it’d be dizzying.
“Does this sort of thing happen often in your line of work?” Kirk’s leather loafers slipped on the slick earth and, in a move evocative of a Charlie Chaplin routine, he nearly did the splits before windmilling his arms and managing to rather quickly, albeit awkwardly, regain his stride.
It had been polite of him to offer to accompany her, but his overbearing insistence rubbed her wrong. Though without a vehicle of her own, since Kirk had picked her up for their date, she hadn’t been left with much choice.
Heat radiated up her neck at the sight of Ranger McCray’s physique—broad shoulders, taut muscles, and rugged features—illuminated by a combination of the shadowy moon breaking back through the wispy cloud cover and a series of flash and floodlights he’d set up in an oblong pattern over and around a large blue tarp.
The breathtakingly handsome man had been both the bane of her existence and source of tingly excitement for the past five months. It was an irksome and unwanted combination. The last thing she needed was a man in her life.
“Finley,” Kirk said, his voice distant, despite his proximity.
“Glad you could finally make it, Ms. Scott.” Griffin turned, his steel-blue eyes slowly taking in her attire. His lips quirked in a way that sent goose bumps rippling up her arm. “Nice dress.”
Nice dress? She gaped down at her latest Anthropologie purchase—soft cream with strands of silver filigree. Had Ranger Grumpy really just complimented her? How did he always manage to throw her off her guard?
Before she could respond his gaze shifted over her right shoulder, his chiseled jaw lifting a notch. “Who’s the stiff?”
“Stiff?” She followed his penetrating gaze to Kirk, standing uncomfortably still, the hem of his overcoat splattered with mud.
“Kirk Bellahue,” he said, his flattened palm fastening his silk tie in place as he swooped forward to shake Griffin’s hand.
His gaze shifted back to her. “You make a habit out of bringing dates to crime scenes?”
“You caught us in the middle of . . .” Her first date in over a year.
“A date. Yeah, I got that.”
“Wait a second . . .” Did he just say . . . ? “I’m sorry—did you say crime scene?”
“I’m afraid so. Two knuckleheads thought they’d do a little relic hunting. Ended up uncovering a body—or what’s left of one.”
Yes, it was a crime to uncover a grave, to exhume human remains without permission, but Griffin’s demeanor seemed to indicate something more heinous.
“Come take a look.” He strode toward the tarp. “I covered it as quickly as possible. The rain came on fast.”
It’d been a gorgeous, clear night when they’d entered the concert hall.
“Didn’t want the water compromising the remains.”
Smart.
She moved in step with Griffin, and Kirk walked behind her. Pausing, she turned. “Kirk, I appreciate you driving me here. It was very thoughtful of you, but you should go.”
His blond brows furrowed. “How will you get home?”
“I can take her,” Griffin offered, nearly knocking her off her feet.
Had he just offered to . . . ? Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?”
“He doesn’t belong here,” Griffin said, lifting his chin at Kirk. “We need to secure the scene.”
Of course. It was all business with Ranger McCray, though for some odd reason she felt more comfortable with Ranger Grumpy taking her home than Kirk, whose appraising gaze flickered between the two of them.
“I’ll call you,” she finally said, hoping that would help move him along. Loath as she was to admit Ranger McCray was ever right, in this case he was. Kirk didn’t belong there, and the quicker he left the more at ease she’d feel. “Thank you for tonight and for your understanding.” She said it as matter-of-factly as she could manage without sounding rude, hoping to cut off any further protest on his part.
She had a job to do, and she wanted him gone.
It worked, and after an extremely awkward hug, Kirk left her and Ranger McCray alone on the hilltop. She took in Griffin’s pensive expression, his tight brow, and wondered at the source of his discomfort. Apparently she wasn’t the only one on edge.
Griffin pulled back the tarp, droplets of rainwater drizzling to the ground at their feet, the loamy scent of soil filling the air. The skeleton was only very partially uncovered—just a fraction of the deceased’s lower right arm—hand to ulna.
“Here.” Griffin angled the flashlight beam on the finger bones.
She squatted beside him, her heels slipping into the earth. “Is that . . . ?” Was she looking at soft tissue draped between the metacarpals and phalanges?
No way would a Civil War soldier’s remains still possess any degree of soft tissue. Now Griffin’s grim use of the term crime scene made sense. If this was in fact soft tissue—she’d have to examine it back at the lab before pronouncing it as a certainty—what they were looking at was a modern victim.
Her gaze swung to Griffin beside her, his breath coming out in white puffs in the cool, damp air. It was an extremely keen observation from a park ranger, even if he was official law enforcement.
He cocked his head at her staring. “Yes?”
“Sorry.” She blinked. “I was just thinking what a great observation you had.”
He shrugged off the compliment. Of course he would.
She pulled her work gloves from her clutch and set the silver sequined purse aside.
Griffin’s brows arched. “You always carry work gloves in your purse on date night?”
She slipped them on. “Unfortunately . . .” The rubber snapped against her skin as she released the edge. “You never know when remains might be discovered, and I like to be prepared.”
“Minus the killer dress and heels.”
Killer dress? What was up with Ranger Grumpy tonight? Two compliments in a row. She smirked, her playfulness returning in the most surprising of circumstances with the most unanticipated person. “You’d be surprised what I can do in a dress.”
He nearly choked on a cough. “Is that right?” A smidge of actual amusement lilted in his baritone voice.
She allowed the pleasure that filled her to simmer for a moment—it’d been far too long—but then she got on with business. “I need to call in a crime scene investigator to help me process the scene.” She knew exactly whom to call. The one CSI she could truly rely on.
Griffin nodded. “If there’s any chance we’re dealing with a more recent body we’ll need to alert the Bureau, as we’re on federal land. I have a friend I can request. He’s one of the best.”
“Fine with me. Though I can’t confirm the date of the remains until after a thorough exam at my lab.”
“I understand.”
“It’ll be best if we wait until daylight for excavation. It’s too easy to miss something in the dark, even with the lighting you’ve brought in. In the meantime, I’ll call my guy and you call yours. And then I can get started setting up a primary grid and mapping it.”
“Just let me know how I can help.”
“Any chance you have a change of clothes in the ranger station?” Not that she couldn’t perform her duties in the dress, but it was such a pretty one, she hated to ruin it.
“I’m sure we can find you something more . . . functional. In the meantime . . .” He shrugged off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders. “This should help.”
Warmth enveloped her. It smelled of evergreen and him, and for the first time in a long time she felt safe. What was up with that?
3
Griffin put a call in to Declan Grey. If he was going to have to put up with federal agents traipsing through his park, he wanted Declan and, fortunately, the jurisdiction fit. Griffin preferred to avoid reminders of the past, but he couldn’t manage to cut ties completely—cutting his “brothers” from his life would almost be like cutting off his own arm—so he and Declan had remained in pretty regular contact since college.
He shrugged into his secondary fleece, a surprising amount of pleasure filling him at seeing Finley’s petite frame drowning in his ranger jacket. He’d been drawn to the woman ever since she’d arrived at his park, but as history had painfully proven, his instincts sucked, hence his boorish behavior. Anything to keep a wall of indifference between them. But tonight . . . in that dress . . . it was going to require massive amounts of restraint on his part to behave. The woman was mesmerizing.
Grabbing the thermos he’d filled with coffee and tucking two plastic mugs in his oversized hand-warming pocket, he headed out of the station and up the well-worn path to Little Round Top.
He crested the ridge and found her sketching the initial scene. Her precision was impeccable.
She jumped at his approach.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
She brushed her auburn hair back. “It’s fine. I was just . . . concentrating.”
He lifted the caffeine-filled thermos. “I brought fuel.” It was going to be a loooonnnng night—at least she was going to change out of the killer dress. “And”—he lifted the pile of clothes—“a change of attire.” He’d tried to talk her into waiting inside the warm ranger station until the CSI and Declan arrived, but she refused to leave the scene.
“Thanks.” She took the sweatpants and sweatshirt and moved behind the giant oak that had been holding him up earlier.
Was she . . . ? Heat rushed his cheeks, and he quickly turned his back, though the twenty-hand span of the trunk fully shielded her. “Don’t you want to use the restroom or ranger station?” The woman never ceased to surprise him. Talk about unnerving and captivating. Good thing she’d be gone in a day.
“I can put the new outfit on before taking my dress off.”
How on earth . . . ?
“I swam growing up. You had to learn to change at all sorts of meets with all sorts of accommodations—or lack thereof.” She stepped from behind the tree and draped her dress over a low-lying tree limb—now clad fully in his clothes. They dwarfed her petite frame, but she looked no less striking. Something about her in his clothes . . . Attraction pulsed through him. Great.
She kicked off her heels, took the coffee mug he offered, and sank to the ground, pulling her knees to her chest and perching the sketchbook against her thighs. “Thanks.” She glanced around, her big blue eyes a bit wider than usual. “Lots of strange sounds out here at night.”
“A lot of critters call the park home.” He yanked a couple packets of his homemade trail mix from his pocket and offered her one as he sank to the ground beside her—having laid out a second tarp to keep them dry. “Wasn’t sure how much of your date I interrupted.”
“We had dinner, but I’m still famished.” She opened the trail mix with one hand while cupping the mug in her other. “I hate places that serve miniscule food and call it gourmet. I mean, who actually eats like that?” She tilted her head back and tapped some trail mix into her mouth. “Wow,” she said after swallowing. “This is good. Where’d you get it?” She jiggled some more out of the bag.
“I made it.” He popped a handful into his own mouth.
“Really. Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“Oh. Just didn’t picture you as the cooking sort, but I suppose trail mix isn’t cooking exactly, and it does fit well with the whole outdoorsy thing you’ve got going on.”
He arched a brow. “Outdoorsy thing?”
“You know . . . I can tell you enjoy spending time outside, and you’re built like someone who . . .” She swallowed hard.
“Someone who?” he pressed.
“Is . . . athletic . . .” She cleared her throat. “Fit.” She tried to shrug off the embarrassment flushing her face in the harsh glow of the floodlights.
He popped a handful of trail mix in his mouth, smothering a grin. So Finley Scott thought him attractive. The feeling was absolutely mutual, but it didn’t make any sense, which yet again proved his instincts were bunk. Such a shame. The woman was . . . enchanting.
She spent the next two hours making chitchat, clearly not a fan of the dark or the silence. Two things he loved.
“I’m guessing you’re not a fan of camping?” he said.
Her brows arched. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t seem to be enjoying the atmosphere—crime scene aside, of course.”
She picked at what remained of her trail mix. “Never camped growing up, but we did spent a lot of nights on our sailboat. I loved sleeping up on deck under the stars.” A soft smile curled on her lips at the remembrance.
Interesting. So why the palpable unease? With her profession she had to be used to crime scenes. Was it him that was making her so uncomfortable?
The distinct throaty wail of a Triumph’s exhaust rasped in the distance, coiling Griffin’s muscles. It couldn’t be. “The CSI guy you called . . .”
“Yeah?”
The motorcycle pulled into the lot on the back side of Little Round Top.
“His name wasn’t, by any chance, Parker Mitchell, was it?”
Her brows furrowed. “Yeah. . . . How’d you know?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the possible crime scene investigators . . .
4
Finley shifted to stand, and Griffin offered his hand. She took it, her fingers dainty in his hold.
She looked up at him, something shifting in her gaze, but he couldn’t read what.
How was that possible? He could read everyone. Well, everyone but . . .
Parker stepped over the rise.
Finley slipped her hand from Griffin’s and moved to greet him. “Ranger McCray, this is—”
“Hey, Griff.” Parker’s lilting Irish brogue tugged a million memories to the surface
.
He greeted Parker with a nod, ignoring the surge of adrenaline burning his limbs at the sight of his other “brother.”
Finley glanced between them, and he prayed somehow the tension remained hidden. He didn’t want to go there.
“You two know each other?” she asked.
That cocky smile he hated curled on Parker’s lips, above the ridiculous goatee the man had grown since they’d last seen each other. “Now that’s a loaded question.”
Griffin swallowed. Misdirect. Quick. “Declan’s on his way,” he said.
“Declan.” Parker’s smile widened. “A Pirates reunion, then. Minus one, of course.”
Minus the one who’d held them all together after . . . He choked that thought.
Finley’s blue eyes blinked up at him. “Pirates?”
He exhaled. So much for keeping memories in the past. “It was the name of our Little League baseball team.”
“Little League?” Her brows furrowed. “You two grew up together?”
Griffin sloughed his balled fist into his jacket pocket. “Afraid so.”
Parker stepped to Finley. “How you doing, whiz kid?” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and Griffin’s gut knotted.
“Whiz kid?” he asked, trying to ignore the irrational jealousy flaming inside.
Parker draped his arm around Finley’s shoulders, only stoking the fire. “Finley is amazingly brilliant.”
Coming from Parker, that was saying a lot. Not that he’d ever need to utter those words. Parker was cocky enough without any comments on his intelligence. If only he possessed common sense, responsibility, trustworthiness . . .
“She was the youngest doctoral graduate in her field at Penn State,” Parker said, finally releasing hold of Finley.
The grip on Griffin’s chest eased as Parker stepped away from her. “Really?”
Finley shrugged. “I went into my undergrad with a lot of AP credits. I’m what you’d call a knowledge nerd.”
She was the sexiest nerd he’d ever seen.
He’d known she was intelligent but hadn’t bothered looking into her past. He didn’t like people judging him by his, so he figured it only fair to extend others the same grace. He judged on what he saw—or tried his best to stick to that. Unfortunately his best had cost someone her life.
