Читать книгу Rancher's Redemption - Beth Cornelison - Страница 9

Chapter 3

After bagging the blood sample and wrapping up her sweep of the abandoned car and surrounding area, Tamara collected her equipment and prepared to leave for San Antonio. She was eager to start processing and analyzing the evidence she’d collected.

Blood.

Sure, a past driver could have gotten a bloody nose, and the rental company might have missed this drop during their routine cleanup. But coupled with the curious circumstances surrounding the scene—the money, the indications that the car had been wiped clean, the fact the sedan had been stolen—Tamara’s bets were on the blood pointing to a violent confrontation involving the missing driver. That was the theory she would be trying to prove or disprove back at her lab.

She had ridden over from San Antonio with Pete, and the team’s photographer was loading the last of his equipment into his SUV. Time to go.

But not before she took care of one last item.

She marched across the hard Texas dirt to where Clay stood beyond the yellow crime scene tape talking to Sheriff Yates.

“All finished, Sheriff. We’ll let you know as soon as our test results come in.”

Clay’s gaze stroked her like a physical touch as she offered her hand to Jericho.

The sheriff clasped her hand in a firm grip. “It was good to see you again, Tamara. Take care and thanks for your help.”

She pivoted on her heel to face Clay. Her stomach somersaulted when she met his dark brown eyes. Fighting to keep her arm from shaking, she stuck her hand out. “Clay, thank you for your help.”

She was fortunate she’d finished speaking by the time he wrapped his long fingers around hers, because the moment he grasped her hand, her voice fled. A tornado of emotions sucked the air from her lungs, and heady sensations churned through her.

“No problem.” The intimacy in his tone, the fire that lit his eyes sparked a heated flush over her skin. “If there’s anything else I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Was there any hidden meaning behind that offer, or had she imagined the intimate warmth in his tone? Fighting for oxygen, she tried to pull her hand back. But Clay refused to release her. He squeezed her fingers, his hot gaze scorching her, and he stroked the tender skin at her wrist with his thumb. “It was good to see you, Tee.”

Her heart leaped when he used his pet name for her.

She nodded her head stiffly. “You, too.”

“You’re as beautiful as ever.” The soft, deep rumble of his voice vibrated in her chest and stirred an ache she’d thought time had put to rest.

“Thank you,” she rasped. This time when she tugged her hand, he let her fingers slip from his grasp.

Tamara curled her tingling hand into a fist and wrapped her other hand around it, as if nursing a wound. But her scars were internal, and seeing Clay today had only resurrected the pain she’d worked five years to move beyond.

Spinning away, she hurried to the SUV where Pete was waiting. She climbed into the passenger seat and angled the air-conditioning vents to blow directly on her face. If the summer sun weren’t enough to induce heatstroke, the fiery look in Clay’s eyes and the warmth of his sultry tone could surely cause spontaneous combustion.

“You okay?” Pete asked as they pulled away.

Not trusting her voice, Tamara nodded. She leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. The image of Clay’s square jaw, straight nose, stubbled cheeks and thick eyebrows flashed in her mind. Her ex was pure testosterone. All male. Grit and determination.

Suddenly Tamara was blindsided by a need to see for herself what Clay had accomplished at the ranch, to revisit the haunts of her married days. She clutched the photographer’s arm as he started to turn toward the highway. “Wait, Pete. Let’s not go yet. I want to drive through the ranch. See the property, the house, the stables.”

“What’s up? You thinking Colton might be hiding something?”

She jerked a startled glance to Pete. “Heavens, no! Clay’s as honest and forthright as a Boy Scout. He had nothing to do with that money or car.”

“And you know this because…” He drew out the last syllable, inviting her explanation.

“I was married to him.”

A startled laugh erupted from Pete. “Excuse me?”

“Before I came to San Antonio, I lived here. With Clay.” Tamara tucked her hands under her legs and stared straight ahead. “We were high-school sweethearts and got married just hours after he signed the deed to this ranch.”

Pete frowned. “Does Eric know? Are you objective enough to work this case?”

“I’m fine. There’s no conflict of interest, because Clay’s not involved. We can prove that easily enough if you’re worried. And Eric knows…now. I heard Clay tell him.”

“I suppose you know Sheriff Yates, too, if you lived out here for a while.”

She bobbed her head, grinned. “I had a crush on Jericho for a while in tenth grade. Before I started dating Clay. Jericho’s a good man. Salt of the earth.”

Pete drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “So what is it you want me to do here?” He waved a finger toward the windshield.

“Go left. I want to see how things have changed…or not. For old times’ sake.”

Pete complied, and Tamara sat back in the front seat, holding her breath as familiar landscape and outbuildings came into view. They drove past a corral where three magnificent stallions grazed. The horses looked up, tossing their manes as the SUV rolled by. As Tamara admired the striking males, melancholy twanged her heartstrings.

Lone Star had been a beautiful animal, too. After years of feeding and grooming the stud, Tamara had bonded with the best stallion in Clay’s breeding operation. She’d been heartsick when she learned he’d contracted strangles, a bacterial disease that affects the lymph nodes, and devastated when Clay had chosen to put the horse to sleep rather than treat him for the illness. She still couldn’t understand how her ex-husband could have been so clinical and emotionless about his decision, especially when she’d begged him to save the horse she’d grown to love.

“Quinn thinks putting him down is our best option,” Clay had said.

“Quinn? It’s not his decision! He’s our horse!”

“He’s the vet, Tee. His professional opinion counts—”

“More than mine? I’m your wife! What about what I want, what I think is best?”

“Ranching is a business, Tamara. I have to do what is best for the ranch.”

“But why can’t we even try—”

“My decision is made. Quinn knows what he’s doing.”

Tamara squeezed her eyes shut as revived pain shot through her chest. Resentment for the veterinarian who’d held more sway over Clay than all her pleading churned with a bitter edge in her gut. Quinn Logan may have been Clay’s friend, but Tamara had no respect for the man’s medical choices. Every rancher she’d spoken to after Lone Star was put down told her strangles had a vaccine, could be treated with antibiotics.

Why hadn’t Quinn taken measures to prevent the illness in the stud? And why had the vet dismissed the option of treating the animal’s illness so quickly? Was he trying to cover his ass? Prevent a malpractice suit? The whole scenario seemed highly suspicious to Tamara, yet Clay had sided with Quinn.

The crunch of gravel beneath the SUV’s tires told Tamara they’d reached the main drive to the ranch house. She peeked out in time to see them pass the barn where Lone Star had been quarantined—and put down. A sharp ache sliced through her, and she swallowed hard to force down the knot of sorrow and bitterness that rose in her throat.

What was it about this ranch that brought all her emotions to the surface, left her feeling raw and exposed? In San Antonio, in her lab, at a crime scene, she’d become a pro at suppressing her emotions and keeping a professional distance in her job. Yet a few hours in Esperanza had her dredging up old hurts, recalling the passion she’d once shared with Clay and longing for the early days in her marriage when life had seemed so golden.

“Nice place. How many acres does Colton have?” Pete asked, pulling her from her thoughts. His gaze swept over Clay’s spread.

“He started with thirty acres. I’d guess he’s up to about three hundred acres now.” Tamara glanced through the open door of the building where Clay still parked his 1978 Ford pickup.

Still runs. Why should I get rid of it?

A grin ghosted across her lips. Practical, frugal Clay. He still had no use for waste.

Yet, for all his prudence, Clay had gotten rid of his wife.

Her smile dimmed.

After three years, their marriage had been damaged. The incident with Lone Star had just been the final straw. For months, Tamara had felt herself suffocating, her dreams of working in criminal investigation withering on the vine. When they married, she’d put her aspirations on the back burner to help Clay get his new ranch on its feet. But the longer she’d stayed at the Bar None, the dimmer her hope of fulfilling her life’s goals grew.

She’d awakened every morning to a sense of spinning her wheels, going nowhere. At night, she’d tumbled into bed, sore and tired to the bone from the arduous labor involved in running a ranch. Even her happy-new-bride glow had tarnished as, time and again, she’d taken second place in Clay’s life to his land and his horses. Like the night he and Quinn ignored her opinion and put down the stallion she’d loved.

“Wow. That house is huge!” Pete sent her a wide-eyed glance.

She angled her gaze to the ranch house, a two-story wood-frame structure with a wide front porch and a warmth that had welcomed her home for three years.

She hummed her acknowledgment. “The previous owner had a big family and needed all four bedrooms. Clay and I kinda rattled around in all the extra space. We used the spare rooms for storage mostly.”

Fresh pain squeezed her heart. She and Clay had planned to fill the bedrooms with their own children, had dreamed of outgrowing the house as their family multiplied.

Pete slowed to take a long look at the Bar None homestead. “Sweet digs. And you gave it up for a tiny apartment in the city?”

She gave him a withering glance. “We got divorced. Remember?”

“Ever miss the wide-open land and smell of horse manure? Or does the glamour of big-city life and crime solving fill the void?” His tone was teasing, but Pete’s jibe touched a nerve.

Tamara scowled. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

The realization that she missed a lot of things about the Bar None caught her by surprise. The night she’d left Clay, she couldn’t get away from the ranch fast enough.

But she missed the fresh air, the solitude, the animals…and Clay.

She huffed and shook her head. Fine. She admitted it. She missed her ex.

That didn’t mean she was ready to run back to him and beg for a second chance. Nothing had changed between them. He was still a dedicated rancher, and she had her life, her work, her dreams that pointed her in a different direction.

As they bounced down the gravel driveway toward the old farm-to-market road into Esperanza proper, Tamara noticed the foals in the fields, the abundant supply of hay in the barn, the fleet of farm equipment, the full stables. Signs of prosperity and success.

Clay had his dream. His ranch was thriving. Bittersweet pride swelled in her chest. As happy as she was for Clay, she wondered if he ever regretted the costs of building the ranch. Did he ever miss the early days, miss their marriage? Miss her?

Chances were, she’d never know.

Clay climbed into the saddle and turned Crockett toward the main stable.

Thanks to finding the stolen car, he was well behind schedule for the day.

He didn’t know what bothered him more, the evidence that a violent crime had taken place on his property or the reappearance of his ex-wife in his life. One could mean trouble for the ranch, the other could stir up past events better left alone. As a kid, Clay had learned the hard way what happened when you poked a hornet’s nest. The summer after first grade, he’d spent two weeks recovering from that foolish bit of boyhood curiosity. His divorce from Tamara was still too fresh in his memory to dwell on the could-have-beens.

Still, he sighed. Having Tamara at the ranch again had felt natural. As if five years and countless lonely nights didn’t stand between them.

He gave Crockett a pat on the neck. “You sure seemed glad to see her. Bet you thought she had some of those sweet treats she used to spoil you with, didn’t you?”

Clay sat straighter in the saddle and rolled his stiff shoulders. The simple joy that had filtered across Tamara’s face when she’d recognized Crockett and patted the bay gelding made his breath lodge in his throat. Tamara’s love of animals had been one of the reasons he fell for her, one of the reasons he’d believed she’d be happy on the ranch.

One of the reasons she ended up heartbroken. One of the reasons they’d fought the night she left. What would she think if she knew how much it had hurt him to have Quinn put down his prize stallion?

Clay shook his head and scoffed. There he went poking that hornet’s nest again.

As they crested the rise at the north end of the main pasture, Crockett saw the shady barn where his evening hay and cool water waited. The bay picked up his pace.

Clay was just as eager to get a cold shower and a hot meal. But before he could call it a day, he had animals to feed and groom, stalls to clean, and financial reports to review. Hired hands helped with the daily chores and a part-time housekeeper cooked for him three nights a week, but ranching still filled every waking hour. Many times those hours extended late into the night if a horse got sick or a mare was ready to foal. Clay couldn’t complain, though. Ranching was his life, his passion.

He thought again of the blood Tamara had found on the stolen Taurus and the huge sum of unclaimed money. A chill skated down his spine. Whatever seedy events had happened under the mesquites by the Black Creek ravine, Clay would make damn sure the ripples couldn’t touch his ranch. Since Tamara had left him, the Bar None was all he had.

Tamara carefully transferred the partial fingerprint they’d lifted from the trunk to a slide and sent the image to the main computer for analysis. She wasn’t holding her breath for a match, but she’d been surprised by what her tests had revealed in the past.

Forensics was a science. Her tests revealed facts and scientific data that had to be reviewed objectively. No amount of hoping the print would lead them to a suspect would change what the computer analysis told her was the cold truth.

Never mind that the crime scene was on Clay’s land. Still, the notion that a heinous crime could have happened so close to where her ex slept at night made the fine hair on her neck stand up.

Tamara clicked a few computer keys. The hard drive whirred softly as the program searched local and state police databases for a match on the print. The familiar hum was comforting. Her lab was a safe haven of sorts. She was in her element here, where her logical mind could have free rein and her tender heart was never at risk of being broken. Statistics, patterns and chemical elements provided basic certainties with no room for emotional entanglement. At day’s end, she could set a case aside like shedding a pair of latex gloves. No fuss, no muss. No heartache if things didn’t work out as you’d hoped.

Not like her years of working the ranch with Clay, where a foal might be stillborn or a case of colic could be fatal or a prize stud could be put down in the name of business.

Tamara rocked back in the desk chair and propped her feet on the drawer. She watched the computer screen click through images, making mathematical analyses, comparing patterns and probabilities.

Numbers. Safe, unemotional numbers.

Tee, I have a business to run. Even if we could save Lone Star, the treatment would be expensive. He’s contagious, and I can’t afford for any other horses to get sick.

Her breath caught, and she slammed her feet back to the floor as she sat up.

For Clay, ranching had been about the numbers.

Her heart performed a tuck and roll. Maybe she and her ex-husband weren’t so different after all. Was it possible Clay relied on the numbers, based his decisions on business models because they provided a distance, a safety net for the difficult decisions when a beloved horse was at stake? Was he trying to protect himself from the pain of loss inherent to the business of horse ranching?

Didn’t she purposely refuse to think of the evidence she gathered in terms of the people who were involved, the lives taken, and the families shattered by the crimes?

Her computer beeped, telling her its work was done and calling her out of her musings. Rattled by her new insights about Clay’s attitude toward ranching, her hand shook as she rolled the mouse to review the results lighting the screen.

Shoes scuffed on the floor behind her, and Eric stepped up to review the fingerprint analysis over her shoulder.

“You get a match?”

Tamara scanned the report. “No. The print’s not in the state database.”

Her boss sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Got anything on the carpet fibers?”

She spun the chair to face him and folded her arms over her chest. “Yeah. The color is called basic beige. It’s an inexpensive brand sold by most do-it-yourself home stores and used widely by the construction company that built three-fourths of the new homes in Esperanza in the past twenty years. No help there.”

Eric skewed his lips to the side as he thought. “How many homes could have been built in a podunk town the size of Esperanza?”

She grunted her offense. “Hey, I grew up in Esperanza, remember?”

“And you told me you couldn’t get out of that two-horse town fast enough, if I remember correctly.”

He was right. In high school, she’d been itching to shake the dust of Esperanza from her feet and head to New York or Chicago. But once she’d married Clay, she’d revised her plans for a while. She’d have been happy living in Esperanza with Clay until her golden years, if only…

She squelched the thought before it fully formed.

“I’ll have you know, Esperanza had a boom of new houses in the early ’90s. Surrounding towns did, too. The guy made a mint building small, affordable homes for the families who wanted the rural life and to be within easy driving distance of San Antonio.”

Eric raised a hand. “Okay, so more than five houses with this carpet?”

“Way more. Try ninety to a hundred, if you count the surrounding towns and do-it-yourselfers.” Tamara turned back to the computer and clicked a few keys. “I also found nothing on the red hair from the passenger seat. DNA breakdown for it and the blood from the driver’s door won’t be ready for a while yet. A batch of samples from the Walters case got in before us.”

Tamara frowned. “I can’t help but think we missed something. I was careful, and I double-checked everything, but…where’s all the evidence? The scene was just too clean.”

“You can always go back out to Esperanza and take another look. Head down to impound and check the car again. Maybe without your ex-husband watching your every move, you’ll find something you didn’t notice before.”

Tamara snapped her gaze up to Eric’s. “Clay didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Save your breath. I saw how you looked at each other.” Eric headed for the laboratory door. “Just don’t let your feelings for your ex get in the way of this case.”

She squared her shoulders, pricked by the implication that she still cared for Clay, that she was less than professional in her approach to her job.

Her boss turned when he reached the door. “Go back to Esperanza tomorrow and widen the search grid. I’ll sweep the Taurus again and take Pete with me, so be sure to have one of the department cameras with you when you go.”

“Right.” Tamara swallowed hard. Being close to Clay and her old home had been hard enough the first time.

Maybe she could do her search without alerting Sheriff Yates or Clay. If she found anything significant, she’d call Jericho. If she were lucky, she wouldn’t have to face Clay at all. She hoped not anyway. Her heart stung badly enough from their unexpected encounter today.

The next morning, Tamara drove across the drought-parched pasture at the far end of the Bar None and headed for the mesquite trees near the Black Creek ravine. After parking her Accord, Tamara climbed out and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the bright sun. She swept her gaze around the field. What had she missed? The department’s camera in hand, she headed toward the stand of trees where the Taurus had been found. From there she could fan out, searching in a methodical way, dividing the land with a grid and going section by section.

After two hours of the tedious work, with little to show for her efforts, Tamara had reached the edge of the Black Creek ravine. She thought of Clay, striding up from the ravine yesterday when she’d sought him out for questioning. With his dark good looks, cool control and muscled body, he personified the rugged, larger-than-life attitude that made Texas famous.

The trill of her cell phone roused her from her wandering thoughts.

She checked her caller ID and pressed the answer button. “Hi, Eric. What’s up?”

“You still in Esperanza?”

“Yeah. Why?” She nudged a rock with her toe then moved on, her gaze sweeping slowly left to right and back again.

“Just wondering how much longer you think you’ll be.”

“Well, it stays daylight until almost 9:00 p.m., so I’d say I have eight or nine more workable hours.” She lifted a corner of her mouth, picturing her boss’s face.

“The scary thing is, I’m not so sure you’re kidding.” Eric groaned. “Don’t get me wrong. I love your work ethic. But I don’t need you running yourself down, wearing yourself out. I need you mentally and physically sharp.”

“I just don’t want to leave until I’m sure I’ve covered everything this time. I should be finished in a couple hours.”

“Well, you got anything yet?”

She sighed. “Nothing that looks promising.”

When she finished the call with Eric, Tamara snapped her phone closed and cast an encompassing gaze around the area. Had she made the search grid large enough this time? Was she overlooking something?

As she walked the grid, she flipped her phone open again, and using her thumb, she punched in Pete’s number in the photo lab. 5-5-5-3-0—

Suddenly the earth gave way beneath her.

Tamara gasped. Her phone flew from her hand as her arms windmilled and she scrambled to catch herself. The cave-in sucked her down, and she landed with a jarring thud. Terror welled in her throat as gritty dust filled her lungs and scratched her eyes. Raising an arm to protect her head, she winced as dirt and rock pelted her.

When the world stopped shifting, Tamara lifted her head, shook the loose dirt from her. She coughed out dust, and her chest spasmed. Searing pain arced through her torso, stealing her breath. She lay still for a moment, letting the fire in her ribs subside and collecting her wits.

Grit abraded her watering eyes. Blinking hard to clear her vision, she moved slowly, checking herself one limb at a time for broken bones. Every movement made her chest throb. She grimaced. Cracked ribs. Maybe worse.

Adrenaline pulsed through her. Hands shaking, she tried to calm herself without breathing deeply, which would only fill her lungs with more grit. As the dust settled and she could draw clearer air, the putrid smell of rotting flesh assailed her. She wrinkled her nose and squinted in the dim light. How far had she fallen? The sinkhole she’d landed in seemed to be six or seven feet deep. Like a grave.

She shuddered and quickly shoved aside the chilling thought.

Stay calm. Think. Clay and his ranch hands were too far away to hear her call for help. Her cell phone was—

She groped in the darkness, digging with her fingers through the soil and rock.

Fresh streaks of hot pain sliced through her when she moved. Tamara bit down on her lip and rode out the throbbing waves and ensuing nausea. Climbing out of this hole and driving to Clay’s house was going to hurt like hell, but what choice did she have?

Holding her ribs, she shifted to her knees. A moan rumbled from her throat, and she gritted her teeth in agony. Before she tried pushing to her feet, she ran her hand over the dirt one more time, searching for her cell phone. She stretched as far as she could and found nothing but hot, crumbled earth. She crawled forward a bit, deeper into the shadows, and again shifted her fingers through the dusty debris.

Her hand bumped up against something large and heavy. When she tentatively brushed her hand along the object, she found it soft, like fabric. Or clothing.

Foreboding rippled through her.

She fished in her pocket for her keys, where she kept a small light on the fob to help her find the ignition switch at night. The bright LED light illuminated a tiny portion of the sinkhole. Holding her breath, she held the light toward the object.

And screamed.

Lying face down, mere inches from where she’d landed, was a man’s dead and decaying body.