Читать книгу Classified Cowboy - Mallory Kane - Страница 6

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter slammed the door of his Jeep Liberty and crossed the limestone road in three long, crunching strides.

It had taken him longer than he’d intended to get here. Jonah Becker’s spread was huge—as big as Comanche Creek, Texas, was small. Becker had twelve thousand acres. The entire city limits of Comanche Creek would fit in the southeast corner of the spread.

Right now, though, Wyatt was much more concerned with the northwest corner, where human bones had been unearthed by the road crew, which Becker had fought so hard to keep off his land.

This small piece of real estate was Wyatt’s crime scene, and the owners of the two mud-spattered SUVs had breached it. Where in hell was the deputy assigned to guard the scene?

Just as he drew in breath to yell again, the growl of a generator cut through the damp night air. A large spotlight snapped on with an almost audible whoosh. He headed toward it.

“Ben, hit your light!” a kid yelled. His long-billed baseball cap sat askew on his head, and his pants looked as if they were going to fall off any second.

A second light came on. Now that there were two lights, Wyatt could see more people. He had to get this under control now, or his crime scene would be totally contaminated.

“Hey!” Wyatt grabbed the kid’s arm.

“Ow, dude. Watch the shirt.”

“Where’s the deputy sheriff?”

“I don’t know.” The kid shrugged and peered up at Wyatt from under his cap. “What’s the nine-one-one?”

“The nine-one-one is you’re stomping on my crime scene. Who the hell authorized you to be here?”

“My boss the hell did, dude.”

Wyatt tightened his fist in the boy’s shirt. “I’m not dude. I’m Lieutenant Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger. Now, who authorized you to be here?”

The kid’s eyes bugged out. “I, uh, I’m an anthropology major. This is part of my Forensics 4383 course. If we’re lucky, we’ll see signs of murder on the bones.”

Wyatt’s anger skyrocketed. He twisted his fist in the kid’s shirt, showing him he didn’t appreciate his comment.

“Those are human beings,” he growled. “Show some respect.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Forensics course. He should have guessed. The students were from Texas State. They were here with Dr. George Something, the head of the Forensics Department. He’d been called in by Wyatt’s captain. And without asking, he’d brought a bunch of ghoulish kids with him.

No way was Wyatt going to allow students to stomp all over this scene. He had a very good reason for wanting to make sure nothing—and that meant nothing—went wrong.

This time.

As the head of the Texas Rangers Special Investigations Unit, Wyatt hadn’t been surprised when he was assigned to investigate a suspicious shallow grave containing badly decomposed remains. What had surprised him was that his assignment was in this town.

The last time Wyatt had seen Comanche Creek, it had been through a haze of pain and the stench of failure as he was loaded into an ambulance two years ago.

The idea that he was here now, to possibly identify the body of the woman he’d failed to protect back then, ignited a burning in his chest. He absently rubbed the scar under his right collarbone.

“Where’s your boss?” he snapped.

“Over there.”

Wyatt looked in the general direction of the kid’s nod. There was a group of people standing inside the tape, right in the middle of his crime scene. He caught flashes of light as one of them took pictures.

“Which one?”

“In the hoodie.”

Wyatt raised his arm an inch, nearly lifting the kid off his feet. All three had on hooded sweatshirts. “Try again.”

“Ow, dude! I mean, sir. The black hoodie. Taking pictures.”

Wyatt let go of the kid and turned on his heel.

So the forensic anthropologist was going to be his first problem. He was the only member of the task force that Wyatt knew nothing about. He’d been appointed by the captain.

Wyatt had chosen the rest of the team. He’d picked Reed Hardin, the sheriff of Comanche Creek, and Jonah Becker’s daughter Jessie, because of their familiarity with the area. He had hopes that Ranger Sergeant Cabe Navarro’s presence would ease the tension between the Caucasian and Native American factions in town.

He’d never worked with Ranger Crime Scene Analyst Olivia Hutton, but she had an excellent reputation, even if she was from back East.

It was the captain’s idea to use an anthropologist from Texas State University. “They have one of the premier forensics programs in the United States,” he’d told Wyatt.

“And besides, the governor’s looking for positive press for the new forensics building and body farm Texas State just built.”

Great. Politics. That was what Wyatt had thought at the time. And now his fears were realized. The professor was trying to take over his crime scene.

“Well, Dr. Mayfield,” Wyatt muttered. “You might be the head of your little world, but you’re in my world now.”

As he strode over to confront the professor, he took in the circus the guy had brought with him. Two spotlight holders, plus four other students milling around. Add to that three rubberneckers drooling over his crime scene, and it equaled nine people. And that was eight—nearly nine, too many.

He stopped when the scuffed toes of his favorite boots were less than five inches from the professor’s gloved hand and toeing the edge of a shallow, lumpy mud hole.

“Hey, Professor.”

The guy had hung his camera around his neck and was now holding a high-intensity pocket flashlight. He shone it on Wyatt’s tooled leather boots for a second, then aimed it at a white ruler with large numbers on it, propped next to what looked to Wyatt like a ridge of dirt.

“Okay,” Wyatt muttered to himself, pulling his own flashlight out and thumbing it on. En garde. He crossed the other man’s beam with his own. “Hey. Excuse me, Professor?” he said loud enough that heads turned from the farthest spotlight pole.

Wyatt heard drops of rain spattering on the brim of his Stetson as the guy thumbed off the flashlight and pushed his hoodie back. Wyatt spotted a black ponytail. Oh, hell. This was no gray-haired scholar with a tweed jacket and Mister Magoo glasses. He was a long-haired hippie type.

Just what he needed, along with everything else. He hoped the guy didn’t have a cause that could interfere with this investigation.

The professor rose from his haunches and lifted his head.

“Hey to you.” The voice was low and throaty.

Low, throaty and undeniably feminine. Wyatt blinked. It matched the pale, oval, feminine face, framed by a midnight-black crown of hair pulled haphazardly back into a ponytail.

He’d heard that voice, seen that face, wished he could touch that hair, before.

“Oh, hell,” he whispered.

“Yes, you already said that.”

Had he? Out loud? He clamped his jaw.

She turned to look at the kid with the spotlight. “Let’s get that canopy back up. It’s starting to rain.” Then she gestured to the two standing beside her. “Help them. No. Leave my kit here.”

Then she tugged off her gloves and wiped a slender palm from her forehead back to the crown of her head. The gesture smoothed away the strands of hair that had been stuck to her damp skin, along with several starry droplets of rain.

Wyatt wasn’t happy that he remembered how hard she had to work to tame that hair.

“I have to say, though, I’m really fond of hey. You’re just as eloquent and charming as I remember,” she said.

He felt irritation ballooning in his chest. He could show her eloquent and charming.

No. Screw it. She didn’t deserve to see his charming side. Ever.

“The name listed on the task force was George Mayfield, from some university. Not Nina Jacobson,” he informed her.

Her lips, which were annoyingly red, turned up. “Texas State. And that’s right. It was supposed to be George Mayfield. Think of this as a last-minute change.”

“I’m thinking of it as a long, thick string being pulled. Where’s Spears?”

“Who?”

“The deputy who’s supposed to be guarding my crime scene.”

“Oh. Of course. Kirby.” She smiled. “He’s very helpful. I told him he could leave.”

“And he did?”

She nodded.

He was about two seconds away from exploding. He lowered his head, and water poured off the brim of his Stetson, onto her pants.

“Oh!” she cried, brushing at them. “You did that on purpose.”

“I wish,” he said firmly, working hard not to smile. “I want these people out of here.”

“No.”

“What? Did you just say no?”

“That’s right. No. I need them here. It’s already started to sprinkle rain. If we’re not careful, we’re going to lose evidence.”

That reminded him of what she had said about the canopy. “You took down the canopy? Have you totally contaminated the scene?”

“The canopy was collapsing. It was about to dump gallons of water right into the middle of the site.”

He glowered at her. “Well, I’m not having a bunch of college brats stomping all over my crime scene. This is not a field trip. It’s serious business. More serious than you may know.”

Nina’s pretty face stiffened, as did her sweatshirt-clad shoulders and back. “I am perfectly aware of how serious this find is. You, of all people, should understand just how aware I am.”

Now his eyes were burning as badly as his chest. He squeezed them shut for a second and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “Get them out of here,” he said slowly and evenly.

Nina’s eyes met his and widened. To her credit, she lifted her chin. But she also swallowed nervously, and her hand twitched. She showed great control in not lifting it to clutch at her throat.

But then, she’d always showed admirable control, unlike her best friend, Marcie. It had baffled him how the two of them—so completely different—had ever become so close.

He held her gaze, not an easy task with those intimidating dark eyes, until she faltered and looked away.

He’d gotten to her, and he was glad. Last time they’d seen each other, she’d had the final word.

It’s your fault. My best friend could be dead, and it’s all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.

She stepped past him with feminine dignity and walked over to the kid whose pants were still drooping.

He heard him say, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he heard her say, “Okay, guys. Let’s put this equipment away. We’re done for the night. We’ll get started again in the morning.”

Wyatt turned and found Nina staring at him. “They’re done, period, Professor.”

This time her chin went up and stayed up. “We’ll see about that tomorrow, Lieutenant. And I’m not a professor. I’m a fellow.”

Wyatt felt a mean urge and acted on it before his better judgment could stop him. He shook his head. “No, Professor, you’re definitely not a fellow. I can attest to that.”

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

“Charming,” he muttered.

She turned away, so quickly that her ponytail almost slapped her in the face, and followed the students to the SUVs.

Wyatt took off his hat and slung the water off the brim, ran a hand through his hair, then seated the Stetson back on his head. The rain had settled into a miserable drizzle, the drops falling just fast enough to seep through clothes and just slow enough to piss him off.

He went back to the Jeep and got a roll of crime-scene tape. Obviously one thickness of yellow tape around the perimeter wasn’t warning enough. Not that twenty thicknesses would actually keep anyone from getting to the newly discovered grave, but the tape, plus the deputy, who was supposed to be here by midnight and guard the scene until morning, would be a deterrent.

At least for law-abiding folks.

By the time he was finished retaping the perimeter, three times over, most of the equipment was gone from the site and the two SUVs had loaded up and left.

He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. An hour until Sheriff Hardin’s second deputy arrived. He debated calling Hardin and reaming him and his deputy for leaving the crime scene unguarded. But he could just as easily do that tomorrow morning.

He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene. At least the rain had stopped for the moment. He took off his hat again and slapped it against his thigh, knocking more water off the brim, then seated it back on his head.

Propping a boot on top of a fallen tree trunk, he stared down at the shallow, jagged hole in the ground, his mood deteriorating.

The rain had released more odors into the air. The fresh smell of newly turned earth was still there, seasoned with the sharp scent of evergreen and the fresh odor of rain-washed air. Still, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he could smell death. Even if he knew bones didn’t smell.

A frisson of revulsion slid through him, followed immediately by remorse. He propped an elbow on his knee and glared at the hole, as if he could bully it into giving up its secrets.

Are you down there, Marcie?

So now he was talking to dead people? He reined in his runaway imagination sharply. If the remains unearthed here were those of his missing witness, Marcie James, at least her family and friends would have closure.

And he would know for sure that his negligence had gotten her killed. As always, he marveled at his unrealistic hope that somehow Marcie had survived the attack that had nearly killed him. Still, he recognized it for what it was—a last-ditch effort by his brain to protect him from the truth.

She was dead and it was his fault.

He heard the voices arguing with his, like they always did. His captain, assuring him that the Rangers’ internal investigation had exonerated him of any negligence. The surgeon who’d worked for seven hours to repair the damage to his lung from the attacker’s bullet, declaring that he ought to be a dead man.

But louder than all of them was the one low, sexy voice that agreed with him. The voice of Nina Jacobson.

My best friend is gone. She could be dead, and it’s all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.

He rubbed his chin and tried to banish her words from his brain. He needed to put the self-recrimination and regret behind him. Whether or not Marcie James’s death was his fault wasn’t the issue now.

Identifying whoever was buried in this shallow hole was. For a few moments, he got caught up in examining the scene. This was the first time he’d seen it. The kids had erected the canopy, so the area underneath was dark.

But Wyatt could imagine what had happened. The road crew that was breaking ground for the controversial new state route that cut across this corner of Jonah Becker’s land had brought in its bulldozer. It had dug into this rise and unearthed the bones.

The discovery of the bodies—combined with the fact that the ME couldn’t make a definitive identification of the age, sex or time of death of any of the victims—had reopened a lot of old wounds in Comanche Creek.

Marcie James’s kidnapping and disappearance two years before had been the latest of several such incidents in the small community in recent years.

About three years prior to Marcie’s disappearance, an antiques broker who had been accused of stealing Native American artifacts from Jonah Becker’s land had disappeared, along with several important pieces. Everyone thought Mason Lattimer had skipped town with enough stolen treasure to set him up for life. But none of the pieces had ever surfaced.

Then, less than a year after Lattimer’s disappearance, a Native American activist leader named Ray Phillips had vanished into thin air after a confrontation with Comanche Creek’s city council and an argument with Jonah Becker.

One odd character vanishing was a curiosity. A second disappearance was noteworthy. But a third in five years?

That the third person was an innocent young woman scheduled to testify in a land-deal fraud case connected to a prominent local landowner cemented the connection between each of the bodies and that landowner—Jonah Becker.

It had taken less than twenty-four hours to rekindle the fires of suspicion, attacks and counterattacks in the small community of Comanche Creek. The warring factions that had settled into an uneasy truce—the Comanche community, the wealthy Caucasian element and activist groups on both sides—were suddenly back at each other’s throats.

Wyatt straightened and took a deep breath as he surveyed his surroundings. The moisture in the air rendered it heavy and unsatisfying. He unwrapped a peppermint and popped it into his mouth. The sharp cooling sensation slid down his throat, and its tingle refreshed the air he sucked into his lungs.

Jonah Becker and his son Trace had both protested the state’s acquisition of this corner of their property for a newly funded road, although the state of Texas had paid them. From what Wyatt could see of the area, the fact that they wanted to keep it despite the generous compensation was suspicious on its face.

To him, the land was barren and depressing. Anemic gray limestone outcroppings loomed overhead. The worn path that served as a road was covered with more limestone, crushed by cow and horse hooves into fine gravel, which sounded like glass crunching underfoot. Scrub mesquite and weeds were just beginning to put on new growth for spring.

Wyatt knew that in daylight he’d see the new blooms of native wildflowers, but a splash of blue and yellow here and there couldn’t begin to compete with all that gray.

He pushed air out between his teeth, thinking longingly of his renovated loft near downtown Austin. The houseplants his sister had brought him for his balcony were much more to his liking than this scrub brush.

Just as he started to crouch down to take a look at the area Nina Jacobson had been photographing, he heard something. He froze, listening. Was it rain dripping off the trees? Or a night creature scurrying by?

Then the crunch of limestone from behind and to the left of him reached his ears.

In one swift motion he drew his Sig Sauer and whirled.