Rawhide Ranger

by Rita Herron

  His evil smile confirmed she’d hit the nail on the head.

  She huffed in disgust. “For your information, I have a master’s in business administration,” she continued, squaring her shoulders. “I started the quarter horse training operation, and now we supply working horses to other ranchers. And I not only run the books, but work the ranch myself. I’m a damn good horse trainer, if I do say so myself.”

  “I bet you are,” he said with a sultry smile that made her belly clench.

  For a moment the air changed between them, their eyes locked, and she sensed she’d won his admiration.

  Then his frown returned, and he gestured toward the spot where they’d found the bones. “Then you oversaw the purchase of this land?”

  She stiffened, knowing he was backing her into a corner and yanked away from his grip. In spite of his razor-sharp voice, his touch had been protective and almost…tender.

  She couldn’t let him confuse her with those touches, or seduce her into incriminating her family. She was not her mother, a woman who fell into bed with every man who looked at her.

  “No,” she said cautiously, back in control. “Dad made the deal when I was away at school finishing my degree.”

  “How about your brother, Trace?”

  She bit her lip. Things had been tense between her and Trace since she’d moved back. Because of Trace’s animosity, she was staying in one of the small cabins on the property instead of the main house. “He put the deal together,” she admitted.

  “And your father’s lawyer, Jerry Collier, handled the sale?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll need to question your father, brother and Collier.”

  That knot of worry in her stomach grew exponentially. She only prayed her father handled the interview without looking incompetent—or guilty. Between his ruthless business tactics, and his recent memory lapses, he might just hang himself.

  “You’re going to talk to them now?” she asked.

  He regarded her with suspicion in his eyes. “No, but soon. First I have to take care of business, obtain that injunction against this land being used until the land issue is resolved and transport the evidence I collected to trace.” He heaved a breath. “Did you see anyone else here after I rode off?”

  “No.”

  “No one could have touched my crime kit?”

  She narrowed her eyes as if she realized the direction of his thoughts. “No, there was no one else here. And I didn’t touch your kit or the evidence.”

  “How do I know I can trust you? You and I don’t exactly have the same agenda.”

  His husky voice skated over her with distrust…and sexual innuendo. Damn, the man was so seductive that for a moment, her chest pounded, and she wanted to win his trust. But she would not allow him to turn her into a pile of feminine mush.

  “Yes, I want to clear my family’s name,” she said, “but I also know that the best way to do that is for you to find the truth.”

  Another long, intense look, and she barely resisted the urge to fidget—or turn tail and run. Normally his size and stare probably intimidated men and women, but she refused to allow him to rattle her. She lived in a man’s world, did jobs men did on the ranch.

  “You can take my prints if you want,” she said with a saccharine smile.

  A deep chuckle rumbled from within him. “If the lab turns up prints, I will.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “So, what now, Sergeant?”

  She intentionally made his title sound like a four-letter word, and was rewarded when a muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “I’m going to look for the bullets and casings from the shooter, then make sure this crime scene and those burial sites are guarded around the clock.”

  She frowned, half wanting to stick around to see what else he discovered—and to watch him work. But she needed to check on her father and warn him about the Ranger. Hopefully her dad and Trace both had alibis for this morning. Her father had still been in bed when she’d stopped by for coffee, but Trace had already left the house. He was somewhere on the ranch.

  He’d been adamant about getting rid of the Rangers. Would he have shot at this one to try to run him off?

  Irritated, she turned and headed toward Firebird, but the Ranger called her name, his voice taunting.

  “Where are you going, Jessie? Running to warn Daddy that I found more damning evidence against him? That I intend to take a sample of his blood to see if it matches the red paint used in the ritualistic burials so I can nail him for murder?”

  She schooled her reaction, then offered him a sardonic look. “No, Sergeant. My father is innocent. Get a warrant and take your blood sample, and you’ll prove it.” She swung up into the saddle and glared down at him again. “And in spite of the fact that you’re trying to take away our land and destroy our reputation, I have a ranch to run.”

  The challenge in his dark eyes sent her stomach fluttering again, then his look softened, turned almost concerned. “Be careful, Jessie,” he finally said in a gruff voice. “Remember there’s a shooter out there, and he may still be on your property.”

  She patted her saddlebag where she kept her pistol. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” Settling her hat more firmly on her head, she clicked her heels against the mare’s flanks, yanked the reins and sent Firebird galloping toward the main ranch house.

  But his warning reverberated in her head, and she kept her eyes peeled as she crossed the distance in case the shooter was still lurking around. Not only were the Native Americans incensed about the land deal, but other locals were jealous of her father’s success.

  One of them had shot at the Ranger and her today.

  She didn’t intend to end up dead like the others.

  A TIGHTNESS GRIPPED CABE’S chest as he watched Jessie disappear into the distance.

  She was undeniably the most stubborn, independent, infuriating, spunky, sexy woman he’d ever met.

  Even when she’d been hissing at him like a rattlesnake, his body had hummed to life with arousal. Unfortunately, the fact that she was so devoted to her family and defended her father to no end only stirred his admiration.

  And she could tame a wild horse. Damn he was sure of that. In fact, he’d like to climb in the saddle with her and tangle a time or two.

  He almost hated to take down her father and destroy her image of him. Or cause her any grief.

  But the wind whispered with the scent of death, the murder victims’ faces swam in his mind, the Native spirits screaming for justice.

  He’d do whatever was necessary to ferret out the truth.

  Jonah Becker and his son, Trace, had no scruples—that was the key to their success. Was it the key to Jessie’s rise in the ranching business as well? Was she really going back to work, or running to help her father cover his crimes?

  Remembering the hairs he’d found, the clay sample and the leather pouch, he punched in Lt. Wyatt Colter’s number. Wyatt had been the first Ranger working the case and the lead. “Navarro.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

  Cabe explained about the evidence he’d collected and the attack.

  “If someone forged Billy’s suicide note or forced him to write it, then killed him,” Wyatt said, “they obviously don’t want us still poking around.”

  “Which means that Billy may not have killed the antiquities dealer, the activist, Marcie or Daniel Taabe. So the real killer is still at large and definitely wanted to scare me off.”

  “Maybe it was Jonah Becker or his son,” Wyatt suggested. “We still believe he obtained that land illegally.”

  “Could have been one of them, I guess, but Jessie Becker was with me. She could have been hit as well.”

  “Dammit, this case has been nothing but trouble. Someone’s been tampering with the evidence every step of the way.” A long, tense moment passed. “Keep the scene secure and make sure you follow the chain of custody. When we catch this bastard, we don’t want him t
o walk.”

  Cabe bit back a sarcastic remark. “I know how to do my job, Lieutenant. I’ll take the evidence to the sheriff’s office and have a Ranger courier pick it up to transport to the lab. But first, I’m going to search for the bullets and casings from the shooter.” A noise in the brush drew his eyes, and he turned to study the woods again, wondering if the killer had returned.

  “I also found a leather pouch with the initials LL on it. Jessie said it belonged to a horse groom named Linda Lantz who worked for her two years ago. Apparently Linda left the ranch about the same time Marcie faked her kidnapping and death.”

  “So she might have been involved?” Wyatt asked.

  “Or she could be a witness. We need to find out if she’s still alive. And if so, where she is now.”

  Wyatt mumbled agreement. “I’ll see what I can dig up on her.”

  Cabe cleared his throat. “One more thing. I discovered another burial spot. I’m sure this one is an old grave, a Native American female, but I’ll need the ME and Dr. Jacobsen for verification.”

  “We should excavate the entire area,” Wyatt suggested.

  “No,” Cabe said emphatically. “These last two bodies suggest that this is definitely a sacred burial ground. We can’t remove bodies or disturb the dead.”

  “But—”

  “I’m telling you we can’t,” Cabe said sharply. “Besides the legal problems, it’s too dangerous, Wyatt. The dead are already incensed over what’s been done to them here. If we start digging up the bodies and moving them, the spirits will be even more angry and dangerous.”

  “You really believe in all this superstition?”

  Cabe chewed the inside of his cheek. He’d hated the traditions, the way some of the Natives on the reservation refused to acclimate with the rest of the modern world. The animosity between the two sects in town and the old prejudices that refused to die.

  But he couldn’t deny some of the things he’d seen and experienced growing up. And again today.

  “Yes,” Cabe said. “And if you think the Native American faction in Comanche Creek is up in arms now, just try to dig up a sacred burial ground.”

  Wyatt sighed. “So what do you suggest we do?”

  “Inform the forensic anthropologist that we have to do everything we can to preserve the burial grounds, any artifacts here, and identify the bones.”

  “Don’t worry. Nina would do that anyway. She’s very protective of her finds.”

  “Good.” Cabe scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m going to call a meeting of the Town Council and the leaders of the Native American faction. A court injunction should stop any more use of the land by the Beckers until the matter is resolved. Hopefully that will soothe ruffled feathers long enough for us to sort things out and find our murderer.”

  “I’ll arrange for Deputy Spears and some floating deputies to guard the land twenty-four seven,” Wyatt said. “Even though Deputy Shane Tolbert was cleared, I don’t want him near our crime scene. His past relationship with Marcie still poses a conflict of interest.”

  “He strikes me as a hothead,” Cabe said.

  “He is,” Wyatt agreed. “What about the Becker family?”

  Cabe shifted and scrubbed dirt from his boots. “I’ll question Jonah and his son and get a warrant for blood samples from both of them. If one of their blood matches the paint from Daniel Taabe’s body, we’ll know who’s to blame.”

  “What about the daughter? Do you think she’s covering for her father?”

  Cabe hesitated. He wanted to believe that Jessie was innocent. But he’d hold off judgment until he fished around some more. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  For some reason, the thought of spying on her disturbed him.

  And she’d felt downright sinful when he’d covered her body with his. Of course, she’d shoved at him to get off her. She’d obviously hated him touching her.

  Yep. Jessie Becker was a hands-off case.

  He absolutely couldn’t get involved with her. She and her family were his prime suspects.

  And if she was covering for her father, he’d have to throw the book at her as an accessory.

  Chapter Three

  Jessie frowned as she rode back to the main house. If Billy Whitley hadn’t killed Marcie and the others, then who had?

  Deputy Shane Tolbert’s father, Ben? He’d confessed to shooting at Sergeant Hutton and the sheriff, but he denied killing Billy, Marcie, Daniel Taabe, the antiquities broker and the Native American activist who first accused Jonah of the illegal land deal.

  Instead of the investigation coming to an end, the situation was growing worse. The Rangers had only allowed her on their task force because she knew the lay of the land, and they trusted her more than they did her father or brother.

  Then again, they had probably asked her to join them so they could watch her as a suspect.

  Jessie tied the palomino to the hitching post, the sight of the Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes swaying in the breeze.

  Spring was usually her favorite time of year, a time where life was renewed, the land blossomed with an array of colors, green leaves and flowers, and the beautiful blue of the Texas sky turned glorious shades as winter’s gray faded and the sun glinted off the rugged land.

  She paused to inhale the scent of fresh grass filling the air, but the memory of the brittle skeleton bones she’d seen haunted her—instead of life thriving now, there was too much death on their land. Violence and suspicion had invaded her home like a dark cloud.

  She stomped up the steps to the porch, determined to protect her own. The ranch and her father were her life. And now that life and her family’s future and good name were in jeopardy.

  Her head ached from anxiety, and her shoulders were knotted and sore. She shoved open the door to the scent of freshly baked cinnamon bread, coffee and bacon, but her stomach churned. She couldn’t eat a bite.

  Lolita, the cook who had been with her father for years, loped in with a smile. “You hungry, Miss Jessie?”

  She shook her head. “No, thanks. Is Dad downstairs yet?”

  Lolita gave a short nod, but concern darkened her brown eyes. “In his private study. I took him coffee, and he’s resting in his easy chair.”

  Good, at least he had an alibi. Not that Lolita wouldn’t lie for him, but Jessie hoped to clear the family with the truth. “Did he have a hard night?”

  Lolita nodded. “I heard him pacing the floor until near dawn.”

  “I’ll check on him now.” She swung around to the right, then knocked on her father’s study door. He had insisted on maintaining a small private space for himself, so she and Trace shared a connecting office next door.

  Expensive, dark leather furniture and a bulky credenza gave the room a masculine feel. An ornately carved wooden box sat on his desk where he kept his pipe tobacco, and built-in paneled bookcases held his collection of leather-bound historical journals and books.

  A portrait of his father, William Becker, hung above the brick mantel, a testament to the man who’d bought the small parcel of land that had been the beginnings of the Becker ranch. He’d named it the Big B because of his drive to make it one of the biggest spreads in Texas, and first brought in the Santa Gertrudis which they still raised.

  Her father didn’t answer, so she knocked again, then cracked the door open. “Dad?”

  He glanced up from his newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, his brows furrowed. “Jessie?”

  She breathed a sigh of relief that he recognized her. Twice lately, he’d called her by her mother’s name. She’d think he was still grieving for her, but they’d divorced years ago. “Yes. We need to talk.”

  He twisted the left side of his handlebar mustache, a familiar habit. “Come on in.”

  She moved into the room and settled on the leather love seat across from him. “Dad, another Ranger was here today, a Native American named Sergeant Cabe Navarro.”

  Worry knitted his brows
together, and he tapped his pipe and lit it. “They brought in an Indian.”

  Jessie worked her mouth from side to side. “Yes, he’s a Comanche, and you should show him some respect. Besides, this one is a Texas Ranger. He’s sworn to uphold the law.” And he’d probably had to overcome severe obstacles and prejudices to achieve his goals.

  That realization roused admiration in her chest.

  “Those Rangers need to leave us alone,” her father spat.

  “I know it upsets you, Dad, but they’re not leaving until these murders have been solved and the issue of the land is resolved.”

  “Hell, I thought Billy Whitley admitted to the murders before he killed himself.”

  “The Rangers think the suicide/confession note might have been bogus, that someone might have forced Billy to write it, or that it was forged.”

  “Good God Almighty.” Her father coughed and leaned back in his chair, looking pale and weak. “So what does that mean?”

  “That Billy may have possessed evidence proving he doctored that paperwork on the land deal.” Which meant the Native Americans were right. They deserved the land, and her father had made an illegal deal.

  Protective instincts swelled inside her, and she clenched her teeth. He was a ruthless businessman, but he wouldn’t have knowingly agreed to an illegal deal, would he?

  No…He’d been acting oddly lately, not himself, his memory slipping. He’d undergone every test imaginable since her return, and the doctors could prove nothing. So why was her father’s health deteriorating?

  She might suspect guilt or grief was eating at him, but she didn’t believe him capable of murder. And grief for strangers was not something he would feel. He’d hardened himself against loving anyone, had shut himself off from friendships and close relationships after her mother had run off with a ranch hand. Instead, he’d focused all his attention on building his business empire.

  “Dad, there’s more,” Jessie said softly. “Ranger Navarro discovered another body today, a Native American he believes was buried years ago.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Be honest with me, Dad. Did you know the property was a sacred burial ground when you bought it?”