Rawhide Ranger

by Rita Herron

  Voices and laughter from the inside dragged him back to reality, and he scanned the room. Judging from the packed booths and tables, half the town had joined here to eat and rehash the meeting. But he shook his head in disgust as he noticed the division in the room.

  It was almost as if a visible line had been drawn down the center with the right side filled with the Caucasian faction, the left filled with the Natives.

  Both groups glared at him as if they’d like to tar and feather him.

  “Want to rethink eating with me?” he mumbled.

  She jutted up her dainty chin. “No. As you recall, I’m part of this task force, too.”

  “Only because of your land,” Cabe said stiffly. “So don’t lie to me or keep anything from me, Jessie.”

  Any lightness between them evaporated like water on hot pavement. “And don’t railroad my father for something he didn’t do.”

  A tense silence stretched between them as they claimed bar stools at the counter. One of the waitresses, Sally Rainer, approached with a nervous smile, glancing between them curiously.

  A hefty man wearing jeans, battered boots and black leather gloves took the bar seat on the other side of him. Behind him, voices of disgust rumbled, the discontent palpable.

  “Hey there, Sergeant Navarro,” Sally said. “Glad to have you back in town.”

  He grunted. “Not everybody feels that way.”

  She slid two glasses of sweet tea in front of them, then handed them menus. “Some of us know better,” she said. “And I, for one, am relieved you’re here. We need a neutral party who understands both sides, don’t we, Jessie?”

  “Yes, we do,” Jessie said pointedly.

  Cabe flattened his hands on the counter. “Why can’t everyone see that it’s not about sides? Comanche Creek should be working as one united community, especially right now.”

  Sally patted his hand. “Honey, you’re right. It’s about right and wrong. And I have faith you’ll see that justice is served, and help piece this town back together. Now what will you two have for supper?”

  Cabe ordered the cubed steak and gravy and Jessie surprised him by doing the same. So she didn’t eat rabbit food like some women these days.

  He swallowed a big swig of tea then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell me what you know about Charla Whitley.”

  Jessie traced a water droplet on her glass with her finger. “Charla is like a chameleon. She changes color and personality to suit the mood.”

  “You don’t trust her?”

  “Not as far as I could throw her.”

  He liked the way she spoke her mind. “Did she and Billy get along?”

  Jessie toyed with her napkin. “As far as I know, why?”

  He shrugged. “If Billy didn’t commit suicide, then someone killed him.”

  Her mouth opened in surprise. “You think Charla killed Billy?”

  “I don’t know,” Cabe said. “I’m just asking the obvious questions.”

  Jessie took a sip of tea and seemed to consider his comment as Sally slid the steaming plates of food in front of them. He dug in, still waiting on Jessie’s response.

  Finally, she set down her tea. “They seemed well suited,” she said. “I know she worked for him and denied knowing the artifacts were stolen.”

  “She could be lying. Maybe she killed that antiquities broker, Phillips, and Marcie. Billy could have found out, and threatened to turn her in.”

  She scooped up a bite of mashed potatoes. “I guess it’s possible.”

  Voices stirred around them, the man wearing the gloves got up and left, and Cabe followed his gaze as he disappeared outside. He would have to question most of the locals in town, and he wouldn’t be making friends. He’d be adding more enemies to his list.

  And God knew, he had enough of those that the shooter today could have been someone from Comanche Creek, or someone else he’d crossed in the past.

  Another reason he couldn’t get involved with a woman or let one distract him. He had to stay on his toes.

  Suddenly a disturbance sounded from outside. Loud voices, arguing, other voices cheering them on.

  “Fight, fight, fight!” male voices shouted.

  Several patrons in the restaurant jumped up and dove outside to watch.

  Sally shot him a panicked look, and he threw down some cash, and rushed to the door. Jessie raced outside on his tail. “What’s happening?”

  “Stay back,” he warned.

  The moment he stepped onto the sidewalk, he knew the situation was volatile.

  A mixture of older teens, Caucasian, Hispanic and Native, were squared off in the street, circling each other like bloodhounds out for fresh meat.

  “You people are trying to cheat us just like you did hundreds of years ago!” a dark-skinned Native boy shouted.

  “The land belongs to us now,” a tall kid with pale skin snarled.

  “Fight, fight, fight!” a group of onlookers shouted.

  Cabe stalked to the middle of the group and threw up his hands. “Stop it now!”

  “Get out of the way!” another boy shouted.

  “Let them settle this,” someone yelled.

  “No.” Cabe raised his gun to fire a warning shot in the air to stop the madness when suddenly a gunshot rang out. The bullet whizzed by Cabe, then Jessie screamed, and he turned to see if she’d been hit.

  Chapter Five

  Another bullet flew by Cabe’s head, and he ran toward Jessie and pushed her behind one of storefront posts. “Are you all right?”

  Her breathing sounded choppy, but she nodded. “Where are the shots coming from?”

  “I don’t know.” He quickly conducted a visual of the boys who’d been fighting, but didn’t spot a weapon in their hands. In fact, they’d scattered in different directions, rushing to take cover, the fight forgotten. Locals rushed into the diner and raced to their cars in terror. He glanced around for the mayor, but he had disappeared.

  Jerry Collier, Jonah Becker’s lawyer, was ducking around back to the parking lot behind the sheriff’s office.

  Where was Trace Becker?

  Sheriff Hardin stepped from the city hall, assessing the situation, his gun drawn. A quick glance at Cabe, and Cabe shook his head indicating he hadn’t spotted the shooter.

  Squinting through the glare of the streetlight, Cabe scanned the storefronts, the nearby alley, then checked the rooftops. A movement above the hardware store caught his attention, and he gestured toward Hardin with a crook of his finger.

  Hardin gave a slow nod, and Cabe grabbed Jessie’s arm. “Stay put and stay down. I’m going after him.”

  Jessie clutched the column. “Be careful.”

  He ducked and raced along the storefronts toward the hardware store while Hardin covered him. The shadow moved again, running toward the back of the building, and Cabe fired a shot. Hardin darted across the street, running toward him.

  “He’s going around the back.” Cabe gestured to the right. “Let’s split up and maybe we can corner him. I’ll take that side.”

  Hardin waved his gun. “I’ll go left.”

  They quickly split. Cabe saw a couple of teens huddled in the alley, as he circled to the right, and motioned for them to run toward the front of the building. A white pickup truck darted from the parking lot and raced away from town, tires screeching. The sound of a garbage can being knocked over echoed a few feet away, and he spotted someone dashing through the alley in the back.

  Hardin met him behind the hardware store. “Someone just ran into the alley,” Cabe said.

  Hardin gave a clipped nod. “I called Deputy Tolbert to search inside the store. I’ll check the roof.”

  Holding his gun beside him, Cabe jogged down the alley until it opened up to a side street that led to a cluster of dilapidated apartments. Sweat slid down his brow as he searched the dark shadows, the nooks and crannies between the apartment buildings.

  Then he spotted the figure, and his pulse pounded.<
br />
  Trace Becker.

  Had Trace been shooting at him?

  Becker paused and leaned against the staircase railing of one of the units, panting and checking over his shoulder.

  Inching toward the first building, Cabe held his gun at the ready, then closed the distance, making certain to keep his footfalls light to avoid detection. A dog appeared from the patio next door, and Cabe put out his hand, speaking softly to soothe the animal so it wouldn’t bark or attack.

  Becker started to move again, but Cabe vaulted from behind the apartment and pointed his gun at the man’s chest.

  Trace’s eyes went wild with panic, and he threw up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Don’t shoot,” Trace screeched.

  Cabe clenched his jaw. “Spread your legs and keep your hands above your head.”

  “Look, Ranger—”

  “Do it,” Cabe ordered.

  Becker’s brown eyes flicked with a nasty snarl, but he complied. Cabe quickly patted him down, searching for a weapon.

  “I didn’t do anything. I’m not armed,” Becker growled.

  Cabe removed handcuffs from his belt, jerked Becker’s arms behind him and snapped the cuffs around his wrists.

  “Dammit, take it easy, you son—”

  “Shut up,” Cabe said, practically daring him to mouth off, “or I will slap a resisting arrest charge on you and throw your butt in a cell.”

  Trace stiffened. “You can’t arrest me. I haven’t done anything.”

  “I can and I will,” Cabe said through gritted teeth. The guy needed to spend a night in jail just for being a smartass bastard. “What did you do with the gun, Becker?”

  Trace grunted as Cabe spun him around and took him by the arm. “I told you I’m not armed,” Trace shouted, “and I didn’t fire those shots.”

  “Then why were you running?”

  Becker hissed out a breath. “Because I figured you’d try to pin the shooting on me after what happened in the city hall.”

  Cabe narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Trace’s every movement. Funny how Trace and Jessie were siblings, but were nothing alike. She was strong and tough and attractive, where he just looked smarmy.

  And dammit, if Becker hadn’t fired at him, then Trace’s dash to escape had sidetracked him from chasing after the real shooter.

  Cabe shoved Becker in front of him, his gun still trained on the man’s back. “Then you won’t mind coming me with me and letting me process your hands for gunshot residue.”

  JESSIE’S HEART POUNDED when she spotted Ranger Navarro shoving her brother in front of him as they emerged from behind the hardware store.

  The shooting had ceased, the streets had grown quiet as people dispersed, and Sheriff Hardin appeared from the opposite direction. Deputy Shane Tolbert exited the front of the hardware store, a pinched look on his face.

  Dear God. Trace was handcuffed. Was her brother the shooter?

  The men met in front of the courthouse, and she rushed to join them, frantic to hear what was going on.

  “Did you see anyone?” Ranger Navarro asked the sheriff.

  “No.” Sheriff Hardin arched a questioning brow at Trace but turned to Deputy Tolbert first.

  “Shane, what about inside the building?”

  Deputy Tolbert shook his head. “I checked the store, the offices, the storage room and the back staircase. “Nobody was inside but the owner, Henry. When he heard the gunfire, he locked himself in his office.”

  The sheriff cocked his head toward Trace. “What happened?”

  Jessie held her breath. She knew Trace would go to great lengths to protect their father, but would he actually resort to murder?

  “I caught him running away in the alley,” Ranger Navarro said.

  “Was he armed?” Sheriff Hardin asked.

  The Ranger shook his head. “No. But he could have stashed the gun someplace. Maybe the alley, a garbage can. Somewhere inside the hardware store.”

  Hardin nodded. “If he did, we’ll find it.”

  “Good,” Cabe mumbled. “I’m going to take him and process his hands for GSR.”

  “You’re wasting your time.” Trace glared at the Ranger, then at Jessie. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Why were you running then?” Sheriff Hardin asked.

  A belligerent look darkened Trace’s beady eyes as he flicked his hand toward Cabe. “Because I knew he would try to pin the blame on me.”

  “Stop whining,” Ranger Navarro said coldly. “You asked for it. And if you weren’t the shooter, then your running caused me to chase you and miss the real perp. I should lock you up for interfering with an investigation.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Trace growled.

  Jessie crossed her arms. “Where are you taking him?”

  “To the jail to process his hands.”

  “Call Jerry Collier and tell him to meet me at the sheriff’s office,” Trace said to Jessie. “This guy is not going to railroad me into a cell for something I didn’t do.”

  “Yes, Jessie, call Collier,” Cabe said. “I want to question him, too.” He turned to the sheriff. “Hardin, escort Becker to a holding cell while I retrieve my crime scene kit from the SUV. I want to search for those bullets before the scene gets any more contaminated than it already has been.”

  Hardin nodded. “I’ve decided to ask the mayor to issue a curfew for the residents until this whole mess is cleared up. A shooting in a public place, those boys nearly fighting—this situation is way out of hand.”

  “Good idea,” the Ranger agreed. “We don’t want any more casualties just because tempers are running high.”

  “Meanwhile Deputy Tolbert can start searching for a weapon,” Sheriff Hardin said.

  The fact that the deputy had been a suspect himself must have troubled Cabe because he cleared his throat and addressed Tolbert. “Do you mind if I see your hands and weapon?”

  Tolbert cursed, but extended his hands and flexed his fingers. The Ranger leaned over and examined them, then asked to see his gun. Tolbert removed his Smith and Wesson, checked the safety, then handed it to the Ranger.

  Jessie dug in her purse for her cell phone to call Jerry Collier while Navarro examined Tolbert’s weapon.

  Tolbert glared at Cabe. “See, it hasn’t been fired recently.”

  Cabe checked the magazine clip, then, reloaded it, and handed the weapon back to the deputy.

  Tolbert gave a smug grin as he stowed it back in his holster.

  “All right,” the Ranger said. “Go back to the hardware store and search for a weapon. Check everywhere, including the vents, and the Dumpster outside.”

  Tolbert scowled as if he disliked taking orders, but must have decided not to push the Ranger’s buttons by arguing. Jessie watched the power struggle between the men with trepidation.

  Shane Tolbert had always struck her as a hothead. He liked women. Had a quick temper. And he had been infatuated with Marcie. Jessie still wondered about his innocence.

  Trace grunted as the sheriff hauled him next door to his office. Even she had to admit that Trace looked suspicious.

  She had to protect her family. Not that Trace didn’t deserve to be taken down a notch, but it would kill her father if Trace went to jail for murder.

  CABE HALFWAY HOPED Trace did turn out to be the shooter, and he could lock the little SOB up. But the look of distress on Jessie’s face gnawed at him.

  She and Trace might not get along, but arresting Trace—or her father—would definitely upset her world.

  Too bad, he thought.

  A sliver of guilt wormed its way inside him. Jessie was…innocent.

  Either that or she was a damn good actress.

  Focus, Cabe. Lives depend on you keeping a clear head. You don’t want the body count rising on your watch.

  He kept his senses honed for trouble as he rushed to his SUV for his crime kit. The parking lot was near empty now, the town quiet as the shooting had driven most citizens home.

  A storm cl
oud rumbled, making him hurry his footsteps, and he grabbed the kit from his SUV and rushed back to the front of the diner. He pulled on gloves, retrieved a flashlight from the kit and began to scour the street, the sidewalk, the front wall of the diner and storefronts for the bullets and casings. But after half an hour, he came up with nothing.

  He closed his eyes, mentally reliving the moment when he’d stepped outside to stop the fight. Jessie had been right behind him, the boys arguing. He’d stepped into the middle of the circle of the boys, then the shot had rung out.

  He turned in a wide arc, analyzing their positions, where he’d been standing, how close the bullet had come to his head, then studied the top of the hardware store building. Judging from the angle of the shooter, the distance the bullet had traveled, the line of fire…

  His stomach knotted.

  Had the shooter been firing at him or Jessie?

  The realization that he might not have been the target presented momentary relief as well as surprise, but the fact that Jessie might have been the perp’s target disturbed him even more.

  Why would someone want to kill Jessie Becker?

  Because she had secrets? Because she was protecting her father?

  And who wanted her dead?

  Trace?

  He hissed a breath between clenched teeth, then pivoted, this time focusing on where Jessie had stood, and strode over to the diner’s front wall again. He was about six-four, Jessie probably five-five, so this time he skimmed his hand down the wall again, considered the angle of the shot and distance, and shone the flashlight on the surface. About an inch above where Jessie’s head would have been, he spotted a break in the plaster.

  Muttering a curse, he removed his pocketknife from his jeans pocket, flipped it open and dug the bullet from the wall. Using tweezers, he examined the bullet.

  It was warped, but the lab could do wonders these days. He retrieved a bag from his kit, dropped the bullet inside, sealed it and placed it in the kit. Sweat trickled down his neck as he waved the flashlight across the wall again, looking for the second bullet. Nothing.