Читать книгу Rawhide Ranger - Rita Herron - Страница 9

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!”