Rawhide Ranger
Rita Herron
Rawhide
Ranger
Rita Herron
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u6467e13d-7e7b-5a10-ac21-2ca45e6be5cc)
Title Page (#u7d1219a1-1225-5df8-9dd2-098b4e3dc92f)
About the Author (#u5f655d9f-8180-5203-8d55-d9b7e365be4b)
Dedication (#ucaae1ff0-c38a-5b49-acca-77077100856c)
Prologue (#u7ca30198-0e00-5dbf-84bb-f5b92022c3cf)
Chapter One (#uf632ba46-48fd-58a0-bb65-39fbd45f17bc)
Chapter Two (#ud558d42f-fcc8-5f30-9687-fd60ce25edc0)
Chapter Three (#ufe66d697-b41e-56b4-ae2c-826e85ac6ab1)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Award-winning author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling to kids for romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers so please write her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.
To Sheila and Linda—friends, fans and cowboy lovers!
Prologue
“The case is not over,” Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter announced to the task force gathered in the courthouse in Comanche Creek. “We still have a murderer to catch.”
Ranger Sergeant Cabe Navarro frowned. The last place in the world he wanted to be was back in his hometown. When he’d left it years ago, he’d sworn never to return.
But he couldn’t disobey an order. And so far, the multiple murder case had been a mess. National media was starting to take interest, and if they didn’t solve the case soon, the Rangers would be usurped by the FBI and look incompetent.
None of them wanted that.
Still, if they thought he could be a buffer between the Native Americans and Caucasians in town, they were sorely mistaken.
Cabe had never fit in either world.
Ranger Lieutenant Colter introduced the task force members. Forensic anthropologist Dr. Nina Jacobsen. Ranger Sergeant Livvy Hutton who absentmindedly rubbed her arm where she’d just recently been shot. And Reed Hardin, the sheriff of Comanche Creek.
Hardin cast a worried and protective look at Hutton, cementing the rumor that Cabe had heard that they had gotten involved on the case and now planned to marry.
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “Let’s recap the case so far. “First, two bodies were found on the Double B, Jonah Becker’s ranch, property the Native Americans claim was stolen from them. The first body was Mason Lattimer, an antiquities dealer, the second, Ray Phillips, a Native American activist who claimed Becker stole the land from the Natives.”
“They have proof?” Cabe asked.
“Supposedly there is evidence that suggests Billy Whitley forged paperwork to make it appear that the land originally belonged to Jonah Becker’s great-great-grandfather. That paperwork overrode the Reston Act which had given the Natives ownership.”
Cabe made a sound of disgust in his throat. “No wonder the Native Americans are up in arms.”
Lieutenant Colter nodded, then continued, “Marcie James, who worked at the land office, had planned to testify against Jerry Collier, the lawyer who brokered the deal, but she went missing two years ago. Evidence indicated she was murdered and buried on the property and construction of the road going through was halted.”
He paused. “But we now know Marcie faked her kidnapping and murder. She resurfaced though, but someone caught up with her, and killed her at a cabin on Becker’s property.”
Sheriff Hardin stood, a frown on his face. Cabe had heard that Hardin was protective of his town and his job. “My deputy Shane Tolbert was found standing over Marcie’s body holding a Ruger. He claimed he was knocked unconscious and someone put a gun in his hand. We arrested him, but forensics indicated that the blood spatter and fingerprints were consistent with his story, so he was released.” Hardin rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “But his father, Ben, was certain we were gunning to pin the crimes on his son, and tried to kill me and Sergeant Hutton.”
“Ben Tolbert is in jail?” Cabe said.
“Yes. He copped to threatening us and destroying key evidence, as well as setting fire to the cabin where Marcie was murdered, but not to murder.”
“Daniel Taabe, the leader of the Native American faction, was also murdered?” Cabe asked, knowing Taabe’s death was the trigger for bringing him into the case. Everyone in town thought the Rangers were trying to cover up the crime.
“Right.” Lieutenant Colter’s eyes snapped with anger. “So far, our suspects include Jonah Becker, his son Trace, his lawyer Jerry Collier who brokered the land deal, the mayor Woody Sadler who could have been protecting Shane as Ben did, and possibly Charla Whitley, Billy Whitley’s wife.”
Holy hell. Half the town were suspects. Between that and the war raging between the Caucasian faction and Native American faction, he had his job cut out.
Especially since both sides detested him.
He’d get this case tied up as soon as possible, and leave town. And this time, nothing would bring him back.
Chapter One
Anxiety plucked at Cabe as he parked at the Double B where the murder victims’ bodies had been found. He scanned the area, half expecting an ambush.
Someone had been sabotaging the investigation at every turn, and he had to be on guard every minute.
According to the lieutenant, Jonah Becker was furious at having the Rangers on his property. And he certainly wouldn’t welcome Cabe in town or on his ranch.
Jonah had always made it clear that he thought the Comanches were beneath him.
Not that Cabe cared what the rich bastard thought. He’d dealt with prejudice all his life. Prejudice from both sides.
But his Native blood ran deep. So did his cop instincts.
And as he climbed from his SUV, the scent of death surrounded him.
According to Dr. Jacobsen, the forensic anthropologist brought in to study the bones of an unnamed cadaver that had also been found here, one grave held ancient bones belonging to a Native. That grave suggested that this land was a Native American sacred burial ground. Worse, the body had been moved. Dr. Jacobsen was right.
The ancient war cries and whispers of the dead bombarded him as he walked across the dusty, rock-strewn rugged land. There were other graves here. Graves of Natives who’d been buried long ago. Spirits who were upset that their sacred grounds had been disturbed.
Noting the plywood platform the forensic anthropologist had built to excavate the first finds, he muttered a silent thanks that Dr. Jacobsen had respected the grounds.
The image of the most recent corpse in the morgue flashed back, jolting him to the past and the reason he’d left years ago. The way the legs had been bound with chord, the face painted red, the eyes glued shut with clay—all part of the Comanche burial ritual. Just the way Daniel Taabe’s had been.
And exactly the way his little brother had been buried as well. Pain and grief suffused him. His little brother had died because his father had relied on the Big Medicine Ceremony to heal him instead of taking him to the hospital as Cabe had begged.
The moment they’d buried Simon, Cabe had left town, and he hadn’t spoken to his father since.
Shaking off the bitter memories, he studied the area where the bodies of the antiquities dealer Mason Lattimer and Native American activist Ray Phillips had been discovered. Forensics had already combed the area and bagged everything they’d discovered. He didn’t expect to find anything new, but took a few minutes to search himself. Yet as he touched his finger to the ground, a sense of violence and pain assaulted him full force.
He could always sense death. It was part of his Comanche heritage.
Now the stench, the anguish and suffering, the cries of the fallen Native Americans filled the air as if they still walked the land. He heard their footfalls, the stampeding horses, the screams of women and children and battle cries echoing from the ground. He saw their ghostly spirits gathering as one.
Their collective shouts that this land belonged to them.
With his gloved hand, he pushed aside a clump of thorny brush and pushed at the dirt below, then dug a sample of the clay from the ground. The lab could verify if it was the same clay used in the burial ritual.
“You’re going to jail, Becker,” he muttered. Tipping back his Stetson, he collected a sample and bagged it.
Horse hooves pounded against the ground, the sound coming closer. He glanced up, half expecting to see more spirits, but instead a woman wearing a black Stetson with silver trim approached, riding a palomino, her long curly red hair flowing in the wind.
Dammit. Jessie Becker, Jonah Becker’s daughter. He’d heard about her, seen pictures of her. She was not only a knockout but supposedly the brains behind the ranch’s recent rise in success.
And she hated the Rangers being on her land, had thwarted their attempts to interrogate her father, protecting him at every turn.
She galloped toward him, rage and anger spewing from her aura as she brought the horse to a halt barely inches from his side and glared down at him. The morning Texas sun was nearly blinding him, and he shifted his own Stetson to shade his eyes so he could see her more clearly.
God, she was a sight for sore eyes. Her nose was dainty, eyes a crystal shade of green like fresh spring grass, her body full of sexy curves. And those legs …
Her lean legs hugged the horse’s flanks just the way they would a man.
His body tightened, his sex hardening against his fly.
Double damn. He didn’t need or want to be attracted to the rancher, not when they were on opposite sides of the land issue—and perhaps the murders.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” she asked.
In spite of the anger in her voice, Cabe bit back a smile at her sassy tone. He hated pansy, whiny women and judging from her attitude—and the way she rode—she didn’t fit that category.
But he had his priorities straight. His work as a Ranger. His people—the Comanches.
And women.
In that order.
The spitfire redhead giving him a go-to-hell look was a complication. But now the damn sex kitten—rather, tigress—was part of the job, part of the task force the Rangers had put together, and he had to deal with her.
He stood to his full six-four and pasted on his most intimidating stare. “Sergeant Cabe Navarro,” he said. “I’m investigating the recent murders.”
She slid one leg over the side of the palomino and dismounted as if she’d been born in the saddle, then planted her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders. Still, her head barely came to his chest, and he could pick her up with one hand tied behind his back.
“When are you Rangers going to stop harassing my family?” she barked.
His gaze settled over her, intense and suspicious. Since the Rangers had arrived, she’d been more or less the spokesperson for the Becker family. What was she hiding?
“When we find the evidence we need to put away your father for stealing Native American property.” He paused for emphasis. “And for murder.”
JESSIE BECKER GROUND HER teeth in frustration at the tall, dark-skinned Ranger’s threat. She knew exactly why he was here, and she had about as much use for him as she had for the other Rangers and the sheriff who’d been traipsing all over her property the past few days.
No, she had no use for him. They’d brought out the big guns now. This one was Native American, a sexy broad-shouldered hunky one at that. But his heritage meant that he would definitely be out to slaughter her family.
And her as well.
She had to protect her family.
“My father didn’t steal this land, and he certainly never killed anyone.” Her tone matched his, and she dug the silver toe of her boot into the dirt.
“Are you sure about that, Miss Becker? Maybe you don’t know your father as well as you think.” He stepped closer, tilted his head sideways and pierced her with his laser eyes. “Or maybe you’re covering for him.”
Her stomach fluttered with awareness, but she steeled herself against his accusations—and his sinful looks. The fringed rawhide jacket he wore gave him a rugged look that matched his brusque masculinity. Shoulder-length, thick black hair brushed his neck and his eyes were the darkest color of brown she’d ever seen. Brown and sultry and mysterious.
They were also as cold and intimidating as his thick, husky voice.
Both of which could melt the clothes right off a woman. Even hers and she was a hard sell when it came to men.
But she had to stay on her toes and couldn’t let down her guard—or her bra straps—for a second.
“Or maybe you arranged to buy the land illegally,” he said, “and you’re responsible for murder.”
“How dare you?” She raised her hand back, balled it into a fist, tempted to slug him, but his eyebrow went up in challenge, and her sanity returned. She had to get a grip. She couldn’t attack the law or she’d end up in jail. Then what would her father do?
“How dare I what?” he asked. “Try to find out the truth? Try to solve the murders that occurred on your property?”
He inched closer, so close his breath brushed her cheek. A breath that hinted at coffee and intimacy and … sex.
She folded her arms, ignoring any temptation to take another whiff. “I thought Billy Whitley killed Marcie James, Daniel Taabe, and those others?”
He shrugged. “We have reason to believe that someone else might be responsible, that Billy Whitley’s suicide note might have been forged.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The handwriting analysis didn’t pan out after all, and the blood used in the ritualistic burial doesn’t match Billy’s.”
“What blood?” Jessie asked.
“The Comanches bury their dead in a ritualistic style. They bend the person’s knees, bind them with a rope, then bathe them. Then they paint the deceased’s face red, and seal the eyes with clay. The red face paint is made from powdered ochre mixed with fish oil or animal grease and blood.” He paused again to make his point. “Human blood.”
In spite of her bravado, Jessie shivered slightly.
“After that, they dress the deceased in the finest clothing, lay them on a blanket, then wrap the body in another blanket and tie them with buffalo-hide rope. The body is placed in a sitting position on a horse and taken to the burial place west of the Comanche settlement and buried.”
“So you really think this land is sacred?”
He gave a clipped nod. “Yes. The cadaver found was definitely Native American, the bones years old.”
Jessie rubbed her arms with her hands. “But why would Billy admit that he killed Marcie and Daniel if he didn’t?”
Sergeant Navarro’s eyes darkened. “Because someone forced him to write that confession, or forged it.”
Tension stretched between them as she contemplated his suggestion. “If you think my father did all that, you’re crazy.”
His jaw tightened. “Your father had means, motive and opportunity.” He gestured toward the crime scenes where the bodies had been discovered, then to the latest grave where the Native American had been uncovered. “But if he’s not guilty, then someone else is, and I intend to find them and make them pay.”
His big body suddenly stilled, went rigid, his eyes sharp as he turned and scanned the grounds. She saw the animal prints in the soil just as he did. Coyote prints.
He moved forward stealthily like a hunter stalking his prey, tracking the prints. His thick thighs flexed as he climbed over scrub brush and rocks until he reached a copse of oaks and hackberries. Tilting his hat back slightly for a better view, he dropped to his haunches and pawed through the brush.
She hiked over to see what he was looking at. Hopefully not another body. “What is it?”
He held up a small leather pouch he’d hooked by a gloved thumb. “It looks like a woman’s.”
She knelt beside him to examine it closer, focusing on the beaded flowers on the leather.
“Have you seen it before?” he asked.
He turned it over, revealing the letters LL engraved on the other side, and perspiration dampened her breasts. “Yes.”
“Whom does it belong to?”
She bit her lip, a memory suffusing her. “LL stands for Linda Lantz. She worked for us as a horse groom a couple of years ago.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. She left the ranch about the same time Marcie was killed.”
The Ranger cleared his throat. “And you’re just telling us about this now?”
She jutted up her chin defiantly. “I didn’t think her leaving had anything to do with Marcie’s disappearance and death. Linda had been talking about moving closer to her family in Wyoming so I assumed she left to go home.”
“Without giving you notice?”
She shrugged. “It happens.”
“Well, if she left that long ago, then this pouch has been here for two years. That makes her a possible suspect …” He let the sentence trail off and Jessie filled in the blanks.
A suspect or perhaps another victim.
Worried, she stood, massaging her temple as she tried to remember if Linda had acted oddly those last few weeks.
“Did she know Marcie?” Ranger Navarro asked.
“I don’t think so, but they could have met in town.”
He cleared his throat. “Maybe she disappeared because she knows something about the murders. What if she stumbled on the killer burying the bodies out here?”
“Oh, God …” Jessie sighed. “I hope that’s not true. Linda was a nice girl.”
A heartbeat of silence ticked between them. That knot of anxiety in her stomach gnawed deeper. What if Linda’s body was buried here, too? What if it had been here for two years? Maybe she should have reported her missing.
The sound of animals scurrying in the distance reverberated through the hackberries and mesquites, then a menacing growl—a coyote?
Odd. Coyotes usually surfaced at night, not morning.
“They’re watching,” he said in a low tone.
“What?” Jessie searched the early morning shadows dancing through the trees. “Who’s watching?”
“The spirits of the dead,” he said in a quiet tone, as if he could see them. “Their sacred burial ground has been disturbed, one of their own moved, and they want the body returned.”
Jessie tipped back the brim of her hat and studied him. “You really believe that?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “See that tzensa on the ridge.”
“That what?” “Coyote.”
“Yes.” Intrigued that a man of the law believed in folk legends, she followed him as he walked over to a cluster of rocks, then peered up toward the ridge at the coyote as if he was silently communicating with it.
“The tzensa is an omen that something unpleasant is going to happen,” he said in a deep, almost hypnotic tone. “He may even be a skin walker.”
In spite of the warm spring sunshine, a chill skated up Jessie’s arms. He’d followed the coyote’s prints to the leather pouch. “What exactly is a skin walker?”
He gave her a questioning look as if he suspected her to make fun of him, then must have decided that either she wasn’t, or that he didn’t care and continued. “According to the Comanches, when an evil spirit is angered, it wants revenge and can sometimes possess the body of an animal.”
Jessie shook her head. “That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it?”
He gave a sardonic chuckle. “Some would say the same about religion.”
Jessie mentally conceded the point. “You’re a Ranger. I thought you believed in forensics and cold, hard evidence, not in superstitions.”
He lifted his head as if he smelled something in the air, something unpleasant. Maybe dangerous. “A good cop uses both the physical evidence and his instincts.”
She sighed, hands on her hips. “This is unreal. First you accuse my family of stealing land, then murder. And now you expect me to believe that evil spirits are here, wanting revenge.”
His dark eyes fastened on her, unnerving and deadly serious. “Your father disturbed them when he bought the sacred land, and then that road crew stirred them up even more.”
“If the land is indeed sacred, we had no idea when we closed the deal,” Jessie argued. “And I sure as heck didn’t expect anyone to be killed over it.”
“But your father set the chain of events into motion,” the Ranger said. “And now, if I’m right, you and your father may be in danger from the spirits.”
“I’m not worried about spirits.” Jessie waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “But go ahead and do your job, Ranger. The sooner you arrest the real killer, the sooner you can leave us alone, and our lives can return to normal.”
His gaze met hers, determination flashing in his steely gaze, but a warning also darkened the depths. She barely resisted another shiver. He really believed those legends.
But she was a by-the-book kind of girl. The danger lay in the Native American activists threatening her family, and the killer whom the Rangers obviously hadn’t yet arrested.
Not some angered spirits.
Still, as if to defy her, the coyote suddenly howled from the top of the ridge and a gust of wind rustled the trees, the scent of the death on her land surrounding her.
CABE SILENTLY CURSED.
Hell, he knew how people in the town looked down upon the Native legends. But for a moment, something crazy had possessed him, and he’d spilled his guts to Jessie.
A mistake he wouldn’t do again. She was the enemy. He was supposed to extract information from her, not the other way around.
But as much as he’d left the old ways and superstitions behind, he couldn’t ignore his instincts. He felt the evil spirit lingering as he stared into the tzensa’s eyes. The coyote was a great predator, a trickster.
And he was here for a reason. Cabe had felt the connection.
The animal angled its mangy head toward the ridge below as if silently passing on a message, and Cabe headed toward the spot where the tzensa had looked. Sun glinted off rocks and what looked like a bat cave below, and he skidded down the hill, climbing over shrubs and sagebrush, dirt and crumbled stones skidding beneath his rawhide boots.
Behind him, Jessie followed, her soft breaths puffing out as she descended the hill. He spotted the dark entrance to the bat cave nearby. Weeds and brush shadowed the opening, and he frowned, grateful that bats were nocturnal and he didn’t have to face them now. At night they’d be swarming.
He rounded a big boulder, and came to an abrupt halt. Owl feathers.
An owl was a sign of death.
The ground had been disturbed, clawed away, the earth upturned. He gritted his teeth, then dropped to his haunches and studied the claw marks. The tzensa’s.
Bones poked through the soil, and a dirt-crusted silver headdress with emeralds embedded in the Native etchings shimmered in the sunlight.
“What did you find now?” Jessie asked behind him.
He shifted slightly as she approached so she could see for herself.
“Oh, my God,” Jessie gasped as she spotted the skeleton.
A rustling sound followed, and Cabe jerked his head toward the woods, his heart pounding as he spotted a shadow floating between the oaks. Someone was there, watching them.
Someone who posed a danger.
A second later, a gunshot pinged off the boulder beside them. Jessie screamed.
He shoved her down to the ground, grabbed his gun and tried to shield her as another bullet flew toward them.
Chapter Two
Jessie’s knees slammed into the ground as the Ranger threw her down and covered her with his body. Hard muscle pressed against her, his breath heaving into her ear, his shoulder pressing hers into the ground, his legs trapping her.
The scent of man and sweat assaulted her, then she tasted dirt. Pinned down by his big body, a panicky feeling seized her, and she pushed against him to escape. But another bullet zoomed within inches of them, bouncing off the boulder, and he rolled her sideways until they were near the bat cave, and hidden by the thorny brush.
“Stay down!” he growled in her ear.
Jessie heaved a breath, wishing she had the gun in her saddlebag. “Do you see the shooter?”
The Ranger lifted his head, bracing his Sig Sauer to fire as he scanned the horizon. She raised her head as well, searching and struggling to crawl out from under him. The big damn man was smothering her.
He jerked his head toward his SUV. “Get in my Land Rover, lock the doors and stay down. I’m going after him.”
Without waiting on her reply, he jumped up, ducking behind brush and trees as he ran toward her horse, vaulted onto it and sent the palomino into a gallop toward the woods where the shots had come from.
“No!” She launched after him. No one rode Firebird but her. The nerve of the arrogant bastard. This was her land—she had to protect it.
But she wasn’t a fool either. He had just ridden off with her weapon and she couldn’t chase the shooter on foot.
Another shot skidded by her ear, nearly clipping her, and she realized she had no choice. It was the bat cave or his Land Rover, and she didn’t intend to tangle with the bats.
She crouched low and sprinted toward his Land Rover, furious, and hoping he caught the man.
Firebird’s hooves pounded the ground, and the shots faded as she climbed in the Land Rover, locked the doors and crouched on the seat. Tension thrummed through her body as she waited and listened. She felt like a sitting duck and lifted her head just enough to peer out the window to watch in case the shooter snuck up on her.
Her temper flaring, she checked for the keys to the vehicle. She’d drive it back to the house and leave the surly Ranger just as he had left her. But of course, the keys were missing.
Probably in his damn pocket.
Steaming with anger, she folded her arms and tapped her snakeskin boots on the floor while she waited.
Ever since her father had purchased that land, their lives had fallen apart.
When they’d first discussed the deal, he’d been excited about the prospects of expanding his operations. She’d still been in college, but she’d grown tired of following her mother around from one man to another. So, she’d finished her degree and decided to come back to the ranch, reunite with her father and join his operation.
But when she’d returned, she’d immediately sensed something was wrong with him. Although the cattle operation was successful, her father had made some other poor investments. Odd, since he was usually such a shrewd businessman.
After reviewing the books, she’d realized they had to increase their cash flow, so she’d added boarding and training quarter horses to the cattle operation. With even bigger ranches than the Becker one around needing working horses, she’d struck a deal to train them and had increased their cash flow within months, enabling him to pay off the debts he’d accrued and steer the ranch back on track.
But her father’s behavior had worried her.
At first, she couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, but little things had seemed out of sync, and she feared his memory had been slipping. He’d complained of seeing things on the land, of hearing voices and bad things happening. Lights flickering on and off. Shadows in the house. Cattle missing. A watering hole that had dried up when they had had torrential rains. Fences broken. A small barn fire that had nearly spread out of control which could have been dangerous for the livestock and ranch hands.
And now these murders.
Sergeant Navarro’s warning about danger from the spirits taunted her, but she blew it off. Spirits didn’t fire guns or start fires.
Whoever had killed Marcie and the others was obviously still lurking around. And they didn’t want her or the Rangers asking questions.
CABE KICKED THE PALOMINO’S sides and they galloped up the hill, scouring the wooded area where the shooter had disappeared. Another bullet soared near his head, and he ducked, then fired off a round with his Sig Sauer. The horse protested, whinnying and backing up, but he gave the animal a swift kick to urge him forward.
Another shot whizzed by his shoulder, and Cabe cursed and coaxed the horse around another bend of trees, but the shadow was gone, and the trees were too thick to maneuver the horse through, so he brought the animal to a stop, jumped off and ran into the copse of oaks.
He spotted a shadow moving ahead—the tzensa—then jogged to the east where the road lay, in case the shooter had a car ahead. Another bullet pinged off the oak beside him, the bushes to his right rustling as the man dashed through them. Cabe raced toward him, but a rattler suddenly lurched from the bushes in attack.
“Easy,” he said in a low voice. Not wanting to kill the diamondback, he froze, aware any sudden movement would bring it hissing at him.
In the distance, an engine roared to life. He cursed. He was losing the shooter.
Furious, he grabbed a stick, picked the snake up and whirled it away, then jogged toward the sound of the car. The wind ruffled the mesquite as he made it to the clearing. The creek gurgled, water rippling over jagged rocks, and a vulture soared above, its squawk breaking the silence.
But the car disappeared into a cloud of dust so thick that Cabe couldn’t detect the make of the vehicle or see a license plate. Dammit.
He’d never catch the car on foot, or horseback for that matter.
Stowing his gun in his holster, he turned and sprinted back to where he’d left the palomino, climbed on it, then rode back to the crime scene. He had to protect the evidence. Then there was the problem of Jessie Becker.
Mentally, he stewed over the identity of the shooter, considering their current suspects. Her father for one.
Jonah Becker was a ruthless businessman, but to chance hurting his own daughter—would he stoop that low?
The sun was rising higher in the midmorning sky and blazing hotter by the time he reached the crime scene, his senses honed. What if the shooter had been a distraction to mess with the crime scene? What if he’d had an accomplice and he’d gotten to Jessie Becker?
Slowing the palomino as he approached, he scanned the area. The original graves that had held the body of the antiquities broker and activist were still roped off with crime scene tape. Still keeping his gun at the ready, he dismounted, then checked the gravesites to verify that nothing had been disturbed. Everything appeared to be intact.
In two quick strides, he reached his crime kit, and examined it to verify that the evidence he’d collected was still inside. A lawyer could argue that it had been left, unguarded, and could have been compromised.
Hell. He didn’t want to lose the case on a technicality. Maybe Jessie could tell him if she’d seen anyone else around.
Sweat beaded on his neck as he strode over to his Land Rover. But when he reached for the door handle and looked inside, Jessie was gone.
His heart stuttered in his chest. God, he hoped there hadn’t been another shooter.
He didn’t want anyone dying on his watch. Even Jessie.
JESSE LAUNCHED HERSELF AT the Ranger and shoved him up against the Land Rover. “What in the hell were you were doing taking my horse and leaving me unarmed?”
A shocked look crossed his face, then fury flashed into his eyes, and he grabbed her arms to fend off her attack. “Trying to save your pretty little ass,” he barked. “And why didn’t you stay in the car like I ordered?”
“Because I don’t take orders from anyone.” Her pulse clamored, a mixture of anger at him mingling with relief that he’d returned and the shooter was gone. Although she’d never admit that to him. Then his comment registered, and she couldn’t resist taunting him. “So you think my ass is pretty?”
His jaw tightened as if he was working to control his temper, and regretted any compliment, no matter how backhanded it was. “You have a gun?”
Good grief, he was going to turn the tables on her. “Of course. I live on a ranch, Sergeant. I have to protect myself from snakes and rustlers and whatever else.” She gave him a challenging look. “And before you ask, yes, I know how to use it.”
His eyebrow lift infuriated her more. “You’re surprised? Don’t tell me you were expecting some spoiled, rich girl with a dozen servants who lives off her daddy’s dime.”
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 to 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?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father said, the strength in his voice reminding her of her old father, not the frail man he’d been lately, the man she’d feared might be suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s or dementia.
The man she tried to hide from the press and police.
If word leaked that Jonah Becker was seriously ill, especially mentally incapacitated, not only would the cops attack, so would the media and his competitors. Jonah’s business investors might also lose faith in him and drop their support.
“They can’t do that to us.” Her father slapped a shaky hand on the arm of his chair.
“Dad, the land is the least of our worries,” Jessie said. Not that she wanted her father arrested for a fraudulent deal, but murder was much more serious. “Daniel Taabe’s body was buried in a Comanche ritualistic style just as those other two were. The face was painted with red paint, paint which has human blood in it. The blood didn’t match Billy Whitley’s, so now the Rangers believe that Billy didn’t kill Marcie and Daniel, that someone forced him to confess to their murders, then killed him.”
“I don’t understand.” That confused look she’d seen the past weeks momentarily glazed his eyes. Releasing a weary sigh, he puffed on his pipe. A moment passed, then his lucidity returned.
“Someone else in this town killed them,” her father snapped. “A lot of people in Comanche Creek are jealous of us, Jessie. Jealous of me and my success.” He turned toward her, his eyes imploring. “Don’t you see? Someone is trying to frame me.”
Jessie squeezed her hand over her father’s. “You’re probably right,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I’ll find out who’s doing this, I promise, Daddy.”
Suddenly the door burst open, and her brother, Trace, stormed in. “What in the hell is going on, Jessie?”
She stiffened. “Calm down, Trace. What’s wrong?”
“I heard you were hanging out with that Comanche Ranger. What were you doing, trying to help him hang us out to dry?”
Hurt mushroomed in Jessie’s chest. Her brother had resented their mother for taking Jessie with her when she’d left and for leaving him behind. He also resented her return and any attention her father gave her now. He even hated the fact that the horse training she had arranged had garnered success.
And he looked sweaty and winded, panic in his eyes. Suspicions mounted in Jessie’s mind. Trace had arranged the deal with Jerry Collier, and would do anything to win his father’s favor and safeguard the family ranch.
She flinched, hating her own train of thought. Had Trace known the land was an ancient burial ground, that the papers giving ownership to their father had been doctored?
A sick feeling gnawed at her at the venom in his eyes. Had he killed Daniel or Marcie to keep his secrets and protect the business?
Was he the shooter who’d fired at her and the Ranger a few minutes ago and tried to kill them?
CABE PAWED THROUGH THE brush and dirt, examining trees and rocks for the bullets and casings. After several minutes, he finally located two bullets, one embedded in a shattered tree limb on the ground near where they’d crouched in hiding, the second a partial one that had hit the boulder, warped and landed on the ground a few feet from the grave he’d just discovered.
He searched for footprints, and noticed matted grass, but there were no definitive footprints, nothing clear enough to make a plaster cast.
A mud-splattered vehicle pulled up, gears grinding as it slowed to a stop. Dr. Nina Jacobsen, the forensic anthropologist who’d worked the original crime scene with Wyatt, threw her hand up in greeting as she climbed out.
He’d heard she and the lieutenant had hooked up during the investigation—like Sheriff Hardin and Livvy—and that they planned to marry.
“Wyatt said you found another body,” Nina said as she approached.
“Yeah,” Cabe said. “Evidence suggests it’s a Native American female.”
A smile of excitement tilted her mouth. “Then I was right. I thought this property was sacred.”
The energy of the spirits and the sound of their cries reverberated through the air, and Cabe nodded, then led her down the embankment around the boulder to point out the latest find. “Wyatt is working on a court injunction to prevent the land from being touched and the bodies moved,” Cabe said. “But we have to verify that the bones are not a recent murder, and if possible, identify who they belong to.”
Nina squinted through the sunlight, excitement lighting her face as she skidded across the rocky terrain, and halted to hover over the bones. “Judging from that headdress, which looks like it might have been from the 1700s, you’re probably right about it being a female. But I’ll need to study the bones in detail to verify the age and sex.”
“As long as you don’t move the body,” Cabe said.
“I understand.” Nina’s ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “Wyatt also mentioned that you found a leather pouch.”
“Yeah, Jessie Becker identified it as belonging to one of her groomsmen who worked here two years ago, a woman named Linda Lantz. Let’s just hope the girl it belonged to isn’t dead and buried on the property as well.”
Another vehicle rolled up the drive, this one a squad car.
“That’s Deputy Spears,” Nina said, shading her eyes with her hand. “He’s been taking shifts guarding the site with the floating deputies Sheriff Hardin called in.”
“Good. Once the Native Americans hear we found another Native buried here, some of them may be tempted to come out to pray for the dead.”
“Or protest,” Nina said. “That woman Ellie Penateka has been leading marches at the county office for months.”
Ellie—a name blasted from the past. “I know. And I don’t want trouble out here.”
Nina adjusted her camera over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll alert you if there’s a problem. I want to preserve and document this find myself.”
A blond deputy climbed out and strode toward them, his stance wary as he studied Cabe. “Deputy Spears. Sheriff Hardin sent me.”
Cabe shook his hand and introduced himself.
“I heard there was a shooting,” Spears said. “Is Jessie all right?”
Something about his tone sounded personal. “She’s fine,” Cabe said. “Are you two … involved?”
A faint blush crept on the young man’s face suggesting he wanted to be. “No. Not really. But I was worried about her.”
Cabe clenched his jaw. What did it matter if the deputy and Jessie hooked up? once this case was over, he’d be hauling ass out of Comanche Creek.
“I’m going to run some evidence by the sheriff’s office, then call a meeting of the town and local Native American faction to update them on the investigation.”
Spears nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll guard the area.”
Yeah, and he’d probably guard Jessie if the need arose.
But Cabe would handle Jessie himself. He didn’t trust anyone else.
“Good luck,” Nina said, as she headed back to her SUV to grab her equipment.
Cabe stowed the bagged bullets he’d recovered in his evidence kit, then started the engine, hit the gas and sped toward the road leading into town.
A few minutes later, he dropped the evidence at the sheriff’s office, signed the chain of custody form for the courier, then phoned Mayor Sadler to request a town meeting. Sadler agreed to call the Town Council as well as the leaders of the Native American faction.
Cabe grabbed a quick bite at the diner, then headed back to the inn, showered and shaved. With an hour to kill before the meeting, he jotted down notes on the case and his discoveries.
At seven o’clock, he strode over to the town hall, his senses honed for trouble as he watched several people entering the building. Voices drifted to him from the meeting room, and when he went inside, the room was packed with a mixture of Native Americans, Hispanics and Caucasians.
A rugged-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair lumbered up to him and extended his hand. “I’m Mayor Woody Sadler.”
So this was the man who’d raised Sheriff Reed Hardin. He’d also been spotted at the cabin where Marcie had been murdered, making him a suspect as well. Although Sheriff Hardin staunchly defended the man’s innocence.
Cabe shook Sadler’s hand. “Sergeant Navarro.”
“Glad you’re here,” the mayor said. “Maybe you can calm these Indians down.”
Anger churned in Cabe’s gut. “There are two sides to every argument, Sadler, and I’m not here to play favorites, just to uncover the truth.”
Sadler’s bushy eyebrows rose with distress, sweat beading on his forehead. “Don’t forget, Sergeant. This is my town, and if you make things worse, then you won’t last long.”
Cabe shot him a challenging look. “Is that a threat, Mayor?”
A smile suddenly stretched the man’s weathered face. “Of course not, Sergeant. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
“I’ll do the honest thing,” Cabe said in a calm but firm voice. “I’ll find the killer and the truth about who that land belongs to.” He took an intimidating step closer. “And no one will stop me or interfere.”
The voices in the room grew heated, cutting into the tension vibrating between Cabe and the mayor. Anger from opposing sides charged the room as hushed mumbles and complaints echoed along the rows of people seated in metal folding chairs.
Cabe frowned at the mayor. “I requested a small meeting with just the leaders. You know this could get out of hand.”
Mayor Sadler folded his beefy arms. “This matter concerns everyone in Comanche Creek. And I’m counting on you to keep the situation under control. That is why they sent a Native, isn’t it?”
A muscle ticked in Cabe’s jaw. “They sent me to bridge the gap.” And maybe balance out the underdogs, the Comanches.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cabe spotted the sheriff scrutinizing him. Yes, Hardin definitely was protective of the mayor.
But Wyatt had assured him that Hardin was a professional and had done everything by the book.
Hardin stalked over to him. “I hope you’re not going to stir up the town, Navarro.”
Cabe’s jaw tightened as he repeated his comment to the mayor. “I’m on the side of the law.” He tapped the badge on his chest for emphasis.
Hardin gave a clipped nod. “Good. Then let’s keep it orderly.”
“I’ll do my part, and you do yours,” Cabe muttered.
The mayor loped over to the podium, and Cabe studied the room. Deputy Shane Tolbert stood leaning against the doorjamb in the back, his arms crossed, his posture antagonistic.
Tolbert had been cleared of Marcie’s murder, but he still appeared on the defensive. That fact alone raised Cabe’s suspicions. Evidence could be tampered with, doctored, especially by someone with the right knowledge. And Tolbert had taken classes in crime scene investigation.
Plastering on his stony face, he walked to the front to join the mayor, still skimming the crowd. Ellie Penateka waved two fingers at him from the front row. As always, she was dressed to seek attention in tight jeans and a bright red, hand-beaded he was sure, shirt that hugged her big breasts. Her long black hair gleamed beneath the fluorescent light, her brown eyes just as cunning as always. Ellie would use any asset she had to achieve her goal.
At one time, the two of them had been lovers, but she’d wanted, no demanded, more—a commitment. That and for him to join her as an activist for the Native American faction.
He’d said no to both and Ellie hadn’t liked it.
Another young woman, this one with black hair tied in a scarf, sat in the second row, fidgeting with the scarf as if to hide her face. She looked nervous, frightened like a skittish colt. Senses alert for trouble, he studied her for a moment, wondering why she refused to make eye contact, and where she stood on the issues in town.
His old friend Rafe Running Horse gave him a friendly nod from a side row, but glares of contempt and distrust followed him as he stepped behind the podium. Jessie Becker’s flaming red hair caught in the overhead light, and his gaze locked with hers for a moment, her body language defensive. But he also sensed that she wanted the truth and a peaceful resolution. Or could he be wrong?
Had her family solicited her to wield her feminine seductive powers on him to sidetrack him from arresting them? Hell, if that was the case, it wouldn’t work.
Besides, he doubted Jonah Becker would encourage any kind of relationship between him and Jessie. Judging from everything he’d heard, Becker had made no bones about the fact that he believed the Native Americans were a class beneath him.
Defying Becker would be half the fun in proving him wrong. So much fun that for a brief moment, a fantasy flashed in his wicked head. Jessie Becker beneath him. But not in social class. Hell, race and class didn’t matter to him.
But he would like the feel of her curves against him, her breasts in his hands, her naked body writhing as he thrust his hard length into her welcoming body.
He blinked, scrubbed his hand over his eyes, forcing the images away. He was at a damn town meeting, couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by a pretty girl. Especially Jessie Becker.
When he focused again, Jessie’s brother, Trace, stood with arms crossed beside her, his look filled with rage. Trace Becker was short and squatty and made up for his size with his pissy attitude. Cabe read him like a book. Trace wanted an end to this mess, too, and he didn’t care if it was peaceful, as long as his family came out unscathed.
Cabe had expected animosity from the group, and it simmered in the air like a brush fire that had been lit and was ready to flame out of control.
Clenching the sides of the podium, he introduced himself, asked for everyone to listen. Intentionally using a calm voice to soothe the noise, he relayed the latest discoveries in the case.
Before he even finished, Ellie shot up from her seat with a clatter. “So that land definitely is a Native American burial ground?”
He slanted her a warning look not to stir trouble. “It appears that way. We’ll release further information when our investigation is complete. Please bear with us though, that will take time. And for purposes of finding the truth, we can’t reveal all the details until the investigation is concluded. That also means that the property is off-limits, so please don’t show up to protest or gawk. If you do, you will be arrested for interfering with a criminal investigation and sent to jail.”
Noises of protest rumbled through the room, but he held up a hand and explained about the injunction. “I need everyone to remain calm and trust us to do our jobs.” He gestured toward the sheriff. “Sheriff Hardin, the Texas Rangers and our task force are doing everything possible to settle this matter in a speedy manner and to ensure your safety.”
“What about our leader, Daniel Taabe?” a dark-skinned elderly woman with twin braids cried. “You’re letting them cover up his murder.”
“There is no cover-up,” Cabe said staunchly. “We will find out who killed Daniel as well as the other victims in the town and see that they are punished. But we need your cooperation. If anyone has information regarding any of the murders, please inform the sheriff or me.”
“I thought Billy Whitley killed Marcie, Daniel and those others,” a middle-aged man in overalls shouted.
“The evidence is not supporting Billy’s confession,” Cabe explained.
“You mean Billy might have been framed?” someone else asked.
“Was he murdered?” a little old woman cried.
A teenage Comanche boy vaulted up from his seat, waving his fist. “He should have died if he faked those documents. That land belongs to us.”
Cabe threw up his hands to calm the crowd. “As I stated before, everyone needs to be patient, and let us get to the truth.”
Trace lurched toward him, shaking his finger. “Just whose side are you on, Ranger?”
“The side of the law and the truth,” Cabe said through clenched teeth.
“You should be on our side,” one of the Natives said, triggering agreement to rumble through the crowd from the Natives.
Trace turned to the crowd. “Navarro’s not on the side of the law. He’s playing both sides.” His voice grew louder, accusing. “He can’t be trusted!”
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