by Nina Bruhns
"Want to learn how to do this?" she asked.
"Sure," he answered willingly, and after that he was in charge of bagging the finds. Not that they unearthed many other things besides bones—which they left in place—and she always kept an eye on what he was doing. But by the time she'd removed a ten centimeter layer of dirt from around the skull, ribs and part of an arm, he was feeling comfortable with his duties.
"Piece of cake," he said with a wink, basking under her warm return smile.
The sun was creeping toward the horizon, and his thoughts turned to dinner and the interesting things that might follow, when suddenly his attention was grabbed by what RaeAnne's trowel revealed at that moment. It was a well-articulated skeleton of a hand and wrist. And wrapped around the wrist bone was—
"My God!" they exclaimed in unison.
"It's my father!"
"It's Crawford Edisto!"
* * *
Chapter 12
«^»
"What?" they chorused, darting each other astonished glances, then both did double takes at the skeleton.
RaeAnne was sure she was looking at the remains of Crawford Edisto, the ill-fated brother who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances in 1859—supposedly shot in the back.
"Impossible. This is an historical burial. No way are these bones fresh."
"My father was supposedly killed thirty years ago. That's hardly fresh," Roman countered.
"You said he was still alive."
"And then we got that box with his regalia and eagle feathers, and decided he could be dead."
She huffed. "But look at that little finger!"
The bones of the hand were arrayed in perfect order, undisturbed by rats or anything else since they'd been laid to rest—at least as far as she could tell. The little finger bones were poised at an acutely unnatural angle, pointing straight out to the side, presumably due to the man's childhood cotton gin accident.
"This has to be Edisto. What makes you think it's your father?"
"The bracelet. It's the one my mom gave him."
That put a whole different light on things. The Native-style bracelet was a wide circlet of engraved silver, a slip-on type not unknown in the historic southwest. Still, it would be somewhat unusual for a white man to have worn it back in
1859.
"Maybe it just looks a lot like his."
"Anything's possible," Roman said, but his expression showed how little he thought of that theory.
"Unbelievable." RaeAnne sat back on her heels and let out a long sigh. "Damn, damn, damn. How could this be?"
He looked more and more shell-shocked as he sat there, rubbing his free hand up and down over his mouth and chin in a nervous, shaky motion. "God knows. Jeez, first he's dead, then he's alive, then dead again. What the hell do I do now?" he murmured.
She wasn't sure exactly on what level he was speaking—as a law enforcement official, a crime scene investigator or as the victim's son.
"Do you want me to drive down the mountain and make some phone calls? Get Bugs back? Or call Philip?"
That snapped him out of his paralysis. "No! Not O'Donnaugh. But Bugs might be a good idea." Gazing at the remains, he appeared to think for a moment, raking his hand through his hair. "Except… There's something not quite right here. I just can't put my finger—" he blanched and jerked his eyes from the bones— "Hell, I need a drink."
RaeAnne took that as her cue. Rising, she tugged on his hand. "Come on, what you need is a cup of tea."
Though he didn't budge, that earned her a lopsided smile. "No problem too great for a cup of tea to solve, right?"
"You know it."
He shook his head, scrutinizing the skeleton and what was left of the mound that surrounded it. "No, there's definitely something wrong." Pulling his hand from hers, he reached for the skull. "If only I could—"
"What are you doing!" she exclaimed as he gingerly grasped the lower jaw and tried to move it. "Stop that! You're destroying evidence! Of all the—"
"I need to know."
"Know what? Roman!"
He pushed out a breath and fixed his eyes on hers in an intense expression. "Before I said anything about the bracelet, you were positive this burial was a hundred and forty years old?"
"Well, yeah. But I—"
"Then I'm going with your instincts. Let's check his teeth. They didn't have fillings back in those days, did they?"
"Well, no. Of course not." She pried her eyes from his and glanced at the skull. "But I'm guessing your dad did."
"Exactly. In fact, I remember him having a root canal. We should be able to spot that, right?"
"Oh, yeah. But what if I'm wrong about the age?"
"I'll take that chance. I trust you, Rae."
How could a heart take flight and sink so low at the same time? He trusted her. With something this important, he trusted her. Why couldn't she do the same for him?
Maybe it was time she set aside her final doubts and took the plunge.
"All right," she said, and met his gaze. "Let's go for it."
He smiled, a tender, relieved smile, and for a second she thought maybe he was reading her mind again.
"Good. You do it. I'm not thrilled about touching dead people."
"Baby," she softly teased and accepted a kiss on her palm before she reached for the lower jawbone and gently wiggled it loose. They put their heads together and peered at the teeth.
"Not a filling in sight."
Roman let out a long breath. "Thank God. You were right."
She slipped the mandible back in place and let herself fall backward onto the grass beside the grave. "Jeez Louise, Roman, give me a damn heart attack."
"That was a close one," he agreed, lying down next to her: "Strange about the bracelet, though. It really is a dead ringer for my father's."
"It's not an uncommon type." She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. "And it's pretty encrusted with dirt and corrosion. Once it gets cleaned up, I'm certain you'll see it's not the same piece."
"I guess." But he was staring up at the mountain peaks with a weird, contemplative expression on his face, as though still trying to figure something out.
"You're not disappointed, are you?"
"I want to find my father, but I need him alive, to answer my questions."
"You're still planning to track him down?"
"If it's the last thing I do."
Her heart squeezed painfully.
There it was, then. Another reason she shouldn't trust him. Until he'd gotten this obsession with his father out of his system, he'd never be content to stay. He needed answers, and she'd just be in the way of finding them.
She slid her hand from his and rose to her feet. "It's getting late. I'm going to secure things for the night."
He blinked twice, looking up at her. "Sure. I'll—"
Suddenly the air was split by a loud bang, and a thin buzzing noise zipped past her ear. All was silent for a nanosecond, then Roman shouted, "Get down!" and all hell broke loose.
In an instant she'd been knocked off her feet, and pressed into the dirt, with Roman's weight on top of her. His arm was tight around her, his other hand holding up his gun. Where had that come from?
"Hang on," he whispered, and rolled their entwined bodies off the exposed hillock into a small ravine.
She barely had time to realize she was terrified. "What's going on?" she asked, spitting out grass and pine needles.
"Someone's shooting at us."
Another shot rang out, taking a chunk out of a granite boulder just above them. Roman swore and shielded her from the resulting shower of sparks and loosened shards.
"For crying out loud, Roman! Shoot back!"
"I can't see him, and don't want to waste bullets. Come on, we need cover."
He grasped her by the upper arm and practically hauled her along the ravine to a stand of trees, protecting her back the whole time with his body. By the time he flung her behind a large fa
llen log and landed on top of her again, her breath was coming in big gulps. But more from crushing fear than exertion.
"Are they trying to kill us?" she asked, shaking like a ninny despite his reassuring presence over her.
"That, or a damn good imitation."
She looked up at him. "But who…?"
Her stomach plummeted when he deliberately avoided her gaze. She suspected who he thought it was.
He had to be wrong! Philip would never try to kill her. Or him—despite what Roman believed. He had no motive.
"Maybe we hit a nerve with Pritchett and his gang this morning," she whispered into an eerie stillness. All the birds had flown off. Even the insects had gone silent.
"Maybe. Yeah, probably," he quietly conceded, and she could tell he actually gave credence to the suggestion. "Well, I'll never find out by hiding in the trees. Stay here."
"Wait! You don't intend to—!" She grabbed him as he started to lift off her. "Don't you dare leave me here alone!"
"I have to, cara. I've got to get that bastard."
"But—!"
"Don't move. Don't even breathe."
And with that he was gone. Vanished into the trees.
Great. A homicidal maniac was out to kill her and her protector had just left her there, her only cover a rotting log. She'd have no trouble with his last order. Her chest was so tight she didn't think she could breathe even if she wanted to.
Sweating, she lay quietly in the prickly moss for endless minutes, stretching into what seemed like hours. The sun crept lower and lower, the shadows of the pines lengthening into the menacing shapes of fanged beasts and gun-toting murderers. Ants crawled over her—and probably worse—but the only time she dared move was when she heard a noise and couldn't help jumping.
The sudden echo of gunfire blasted through the valley. Roman! Her heart leaped to her throat as she counted shots. Two, three.
No! He wasn't hurt. He couldn't be!
Four. She forbade the tears welling up to fall. She absolutely would not cry. And she would not move. Five. Six.
No way. She wasn't one of those silly women who crept down into a dark, dank basement to investigate a mysterious noise, only to end up dead. No, siree. Not this lady. Roman was a professional. An FBI agent. He was fine, and he'd told her to stay put. Stay put was what she intended to do. No matter how many shots she heard.
Seven, eight.
Ah, hell.
She scrambled to her feet just as something big crashed down the hillside, landing right beside her. She screamed. And spun around just in time to see a hulking shadow reach for her.
* * *
Roman clenched his teeth together as he ducked through the underbrush, running quickly away from RaeAnne's hiding place. He was determined to catch whoever was shooting at them—or more correctly at RaeAnne.
The man was history. No one tried to kill the woman he loved and lived to tell about it.
He headed toward the dirt track to the cabin, circling around in a wide arch. Cleary was too far from anywhere to hike in, even from Tecopa; the guy had to have a vehicle. Roman figured it must be hidden somewhere along the road. If he could spot the car, the shooter was as good as his.
But who was it? Pritchett's henchman or O'Donnaugh's? Whoever it was, if they'd started to shoot at RaeAnne, they must be mighty worried about something—something even bigger than the murder of Jason Danforth.
It took Roman a quarter hour to circle around and meet the primitive road, working his way under cover of the trees along the canyon slopes. By that time it was nearly dark. A branch suddenly snapped a few yards away and he froze, hitting the ground just before bullets scattered bark from the tree behind him. He rolled and came up shooting.
He exchanged three more shots, then wheeled behind a tree trunk, listening intently. Light footsteps sped away, muffled by the forest. He darted after them, keeping behind trees and boulders, but the sound vanished. Damn. He sprinted along the darkened road, ignoring caution, his only thought to catch the man who'd tried to hurt RaeAnne.
The sound of an engine revving and tires crunching into the distance told him he'd been too slow. Roman swore vividly.
And that's when he noticed the last glimmer of the setting sun glint off the rack of a sheriff's cruiser parked behind the cabin.
* * *
"Philip! Oh, thank God!" RaeAnne exclaimed and launched herself at the dark figure that had stopped its headlong dash down the hillside at the sight of her. His gun was drawn, but she ignored it as she hugged him in terror.
"RaeAnne? What the hell's going on here? I was driving down from Tecopa and thought I heard shots."
"You did!" She hung on to him, but pulled back enough to peer up into his shadowed face. "They were shooting at us!"
"Who?"
"I don't know. Roman went after them and left me here all alone. I thought I'd die of fright."
"Calm down, I'm here now," he said, peering through the gloom around them. "Tell me exactly what happened."
The sun had gone down and within seconds a curtain of black descended on the valley. As be led her toward the cabin—at least she thought that's where he was leading her—she clung to his arm to keep from tripping and in a shaky voice told him about the shooting.
"It was awful. And the worst is that I don't know if Roman is lying out there somewhere bleeding to death."
"I should be so lucky," Philip muttered under his breath, and RaeAnne cut him a sharp glance. "Sony, that was inappropriate," he said stiffly, then came to a halt. His cruiser was right in front of them and he quickly opened the door. "Get in. I'll take you—"
"You aren't taking her anywhere," Roman's voice hissed out of the darkness. "RaeAnne, step away from the car."
The overwhelming joy at seeing him unharmed was immediately tempered by the sight of a gun in his hand, pointing straight at Philip. "Roman—"
"Get away from her, O'Donnaugh. And keep your hands where I can see them."
"Don't be an ass, Santangelo. I'll admit I hate your guts, but why would I want to harm RaeAnne?"
Roman emerged from the shadows, her avenging angel in torn blue jeans, covered with dirt from sifting artifacts, willing to die to protect her if need be.
She didn't think she'd ever loved him more than in just that moment. She loved him so much she thought her heart would burst. Even if he was wrong about Philip.
"Suppose you tell me, Sheriff." He motioned with his gun for Philip to raise his hands in the air. "Let's see. The usual motives for murder are power, greed, and, gee, how about love?"
"Oh, yeah. That makes sense. I love her so I have to kill her." Philip rolled his eyes. "Oh, you mean because she prefers you? Sony to disappoint you, Agent Santangelo, but even RaeAnne isn't worth spending the rest of my life in jail for."
"Thanks a lot," she mumbled, but couldn't help smiling. Philip was being a snot, but under the circumstances she couldn't blame him. With his hands raised above his head, the man looked like he was about to blow a gasket.
"And as for power, I'm already one of the most powerful men in Inyo County. Why risk all that? For what?"
She could see Roman's jaw tighten. "My guess would be for greed."
"Give me a break," Philip said, lowering a hand to swipe it over his forehead. "What would I possibly have to gain by doing something as stupid as murder? I can't believe I'm standing here arguing with an FBI agent while we both let the real bad guy get away."
Something in his irritated, weary tone must have gotten through to Roman, because he narrowed his eyes at the sheriff and she could almost hear the gears turning in his head.
Still, his gun didn't as much as waver. "That's right. I almost forgot. You have your deputies do the dirty work for you."
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't play innocent with me, O'Donnaugh. I'm the one they beat up and left for dead, and were on their way back to finish off for good. Too bad for you and your little poaching scheme they didn't succeed. You know what?
You're under arrest—"
Uh-oh. They were back to that. She'd almost forgotten about Toby's accusations of the sheriff's office's involvement in illegal poaching. After the murder, its importance had somehow diminished. Apparently not to Roman, though.
"What the hell?" Philip shouted. "Poaching scheme? Hey, you can't arrest me!"
Roman grasped the other man's shoulder and turned him around. "Just watch me. You have the right to remain silent—"
Lord, she had to do something. Regardless if what Toby said was true or not, Philip was not involved. He couldn't be. "Roman—"
Philip grunted as he was pushed roughly against his own cruiser door. "Stop it! You're a lunatic, you know that?"
"Yep."
She tried again. "Um, Roman?"
He ignored her and patted his own pockets, irritation filling his expression when he didn't find what he was looking for. Handcuffs, no doubt. "Anything you say can and will be used against you—"
"Roman!"
"Then I'll say this once and you'd better listen up good. I did not kill Jason Danforth or shoot at you or RaeAnne. I did not order my deputies to beat you up or kill you, and I have no knowledge of any damn poaching scheme. Now will you please explain to me what's going on?"
"Roman!"
"What?" he snapped, finally acknowledging her. "I'm trying to make an arrest here."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"What?" he repeated, his black eyes flashing impatiently in the rising moonlight.
She nodded toward Philip's revolver, resting safely in its holster on his hip. "Why don't you check his gun? Wouldn't it still be warm, or bullets missing, or something?"
Roman's lips thinned as he stared at the weapon for a moment. "You're a real pain in the butt sometimes," he finally said.
She shrugged, doing her best not to look smug. At least she'd gotten him to calm down and listen to reason.
"You think he's innocent, don't you."
She nodded.
With a jerk, he holstered his own gun. "I still have boot prints on my ribs, RaeAnne. And if that bullet had been two inches closer, you'd be dead right now."
