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Classified Cowboy
Mallory Kane






Classified Cowboy

Mallory Kane






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u4a83626e-6690-53c5-bcba-bea6b9405b06)

Title Page (#u5c96036f-cc92-55de-9e12-36ab75279076)

About the Author (#ulink_dd224674-65a8-5b59-8a9c-234cf431ce69)

Dedication (#u24a80e95-c33b-558c-9186-1bb1738adffe)

Chapter One (#ulink_409163d4-114a-5101-bf0f-59d898ff2c7b)

Chapter Two (#ulink_b1b9c64b-a5dd-5979-99e9-2e24a8e7d2cc)

Chapter Three (#ulink_98acfa26-ead4-5095-8de4-9f145ba85ca0)

Chapter Four (#ulink_322b31ad-a202-5ce9-a7f5-55d7d7800ce4)

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)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




About the Author (#ulink_7e0d2c30-586f-5ef9-988b-74dcafcd7794)


MALLORY KANE credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.


For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.




Chapter One (#ulink_325af054-fdf9-5a07-b3d7-f491e769b56a)


“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.




Chapter Two (#ulink_2428ac9f-0235-55e6-b820-ee74990473da)


“Whoa, cowboy,” a low amused voice said.

Wyatt carefully relaxed his trigger finger.

Nina Jacobson. Son of a …

He blew out breath in a long hiss and holstered his gun. “I told you to get out of here.”

“No. You told me to—and I quote—'get them out of here.’” She lifted her chin and stared at him defiantly. “I did that. For now.”

He set his jaw. “Great. So we’ve established that you can follow directions. Good to know. Follow this one. You get out of here. Now.”

She shrugged. “No can do. No transportation.”

His gaze snapped to the empty road where the SUVs had been parked. Then back to her. First her face, then her left shoulder, which was weighed down by a heavy metal case, and on down to her right hand, where it rested on the telescoping handle of a small black weekend bag.

Oh, hell. He raised his gaze to meet hers.

Her eyes widened, and like before, he was grimly pleased that he could so easily intimidate her. He knew the effect of his glare. He’d seen it in the faces of suspects, subordinates and, occasionally, friends.

“Then you better start walking,” he muttered, turning and propping his boot up on the fallen tree trunk again.

“Not a chance, cowboy. I’m staying with my site. I need to get some more pictures.” Her hand moved from the bag’s handle to the camera around her neck.

“It’s not your site. It’s my crime scene.”

She didn’t answer. Wyatt felt a cautious triumph. Maybe he’d won. Of course, he knew he was going to have to take her back to town, so she scored props for that. But there was no way she was going to turn his crime scene into a field trip for a bunch of students.

No way. He set his jaw and got ready to tell her to get into his Jeep.

“The ME said he thought there were two bodies.” She spoke softly, but her tone got his attention.

Reluctantly, he slid his gaze her way. “He thought? Does that mean you don’t?”

She stepped over the crime-scene tape and dropped to her haunches at the edge of the hole. He started to stop her, but she’d piqued his curiosity, so he followed her and crouched beside her, sitting back on his heels.

She slid her narrow, powerful flashlight beam over the clods of dirt and debris left by the road crew. After a couple of seconds he picked up on the pattern she was tracing.

Across, up, down and back. Then she moved the beam back to where she’d started and traced the pattern again. “What? What are you showing me?” he asked.

“Look closer.”

“If I look any closer, I’ll fall in.”

She laughed, a sexy chuckle that impacted him like a bullet straight to his groin. Surprised at his reaction, he shifted uncomfortably and swallowed hard to keep from groaning aloud.

“See this?” She shone the beam on her starting point and slid the light back and forth, over what looked like a ridge in the dirt. “That’s a human thigh bone.”

Adrenaline shot through him again. “That?” He pulled his own flashlight out of his pocket. “How can you tell?”

“I’m a forensic anthropologist. Bones are my business.”

“What else can you tell about it? Is it male? Female?

Child? Adult?”

She shook her head as she fished a brush out of her pocket. She telescoped the handle of the brush and leaned over to run the bristles across the surface of the bone. The dirt covering the bone was a mixture of dust and mud, so brushing at it didn’t accomplish much.

“It’s not a child. But making all those determinations is never quite as easy as the TV shows make it seem. Now look at this.” She swept the beam of light across and up, then back across.

“Another thigh bone?”

“Go to the head of the class, cowboy.” The beam moved again.

“And a third,” he said, tamping down on his excitement—and his dread. One of those bones could be Marcie’s. “Three thigh bones? Everybody has two, so was the ME right? There are two bodies in here?”

“Not so fast. These closest two may be similar in size, but the three femurs are all different,” she said, with the same lilt in her voice that he was trying to keep out of his.

“Three? You’re saying they’re from three different people?” He looked at her, dread mixing with excitement under his breastbone. Three sets of bones. Three people gone missing in the past five years. Was it going to be that easy? “That’s three different thigh bones, laid out like that?”

She met his gaze, her dark eyes snapping. “Yeah. Exactly. Look at that placement. They’re crisscrossed in a star pattern. I suppose it could be chance that they ended up like that.” He shook his head, but she wasn’t looking at him. She had turned back to the bones and was brushing at them again. She gasped.

“What is it?”

“I think this largest bone has a piece of pelvis attached. That could definitively tell us if it’s a male or female.” She leaned a fraction of an inch farther forward and brushed at the far end of the bone. “Damn it,” she muttered.

“What now?”

“The ground’s too wet. I’m going to have to wait to unearth the bones.”

“I guess you can’t just pick them up.”

She laughed shortly. “No. There might be something attached to them—clothes, another bone, a piece of jewelry. No. I have to be very careful to avoid destroying evidence.”

“But you’re absolutely sure the three bones are different.”

She sat back on her haunches and tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Absolutely.”

“Are you thinking …” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He needed to know if one of those bones belonged to Marcie James.

Dear Lord, he hoped not.

Nina’s face closed down immediately, and he saw a shudder ripple along her small frame. She needed to know, too. He understood that. But she had a very different reason.

She shook her head. “I can’t say yet.” Her voice had taken on a hard edge—the outward manifestation of an obvious inner struggle between her love for her friend and her professional detachment.

She hissed in frustration as she collapsed the brush handle, wiped the bristles against her jeans-clad thigh and then put the brush in her forensics kit.

“I need to build a platform so I can get to the bones without disturbing the site any more than it already has been.” She informed him. “I can’t rule out the possibility that this is a Native American burial site.”

“Burial site? Are the bones that old?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ll need to clean them and test them to be sure. But the layout of the land around here is consistent with the places the Comanche chose for their sacred burial grounds. I didn’t see the site before excavation started, but the level of rise and the general shape suggest the possibility.”

Wyatt grunted. He’d thought the same thing as soon as he’d gotten his first glimpse of the scene. The thought had gone out of his head once he’d seen the kids milling around.

“As soon as I can study the bones, I can give you the sex and race. However, to estimate the time of death requires more testing and equipment. Fresh bones will glow when exposed to ultraviolet light. The fluorescence fades from the outside in over time. Still, my opinion right now is that these bones are recent. As soon as I get them cleaned up, I can look at them under my portable UV lamp. Then I’ll take samples for DNA analysis.”

Wyatt’s chest felt tight. There were only a few reasons that DNA would do her any good. “For a positive ID,” he said quietly.

Nina nodded solemnly. “For a positive ID.”

Both of them knew whose DNA they were thinking of.

He stared down at the three ridges. “So, Professor, I guess you need your students and their spotlights to help you get the platform built and extract the bones.”

“That’s right, cowboy.” Her eyes glittered with triumph as she stood and pulled a cell phone out of her pocket.

He stood, too. “Tomorrow.”

“Tonight. You just agreed that I need them.” She flipped the phone open.

“Tomorrow.” He folded his hand over hers, closing the phone. A funny sensation tingled through his fingers. For a second he thought the phone had vibrated.

She looked at their hands, then up at him. “Give me one good reason why not tonight. I told you I need some more pictures, and I do not want anybody disturbing the bones.”

“Because I’ll be overseeing every stick, every bone, every clod of dirt that’s removed, and I need some sleep.”

“Speaking of clods,” she muttered, pulling her hand away from his. “It’s dangerous to delay. This rain could turn into a deluge and bury the bones again. Any disturbance of the site increases the chances for contamination.”

A pair of headlights appeared, coming around the curve beyond a thick stand of evergreens.

Wyatt checked his watch. “That’s Deputy Tolbert. I didn’t realize it was midnight already. That settles it. He’s here to guard the site tonight. He’ll make sure it’s not disturbed. You and I are heading into town.”

“I’ll stay with the deputy.”

“No, you won’t.”

“But the weather—”

“No more rain in the forecast.”

“I need to—”

“I said no.” He didn’t raise his voice, but there went her eyes again, going as wide as saucers.

He gave a small shrug. “You’ll get more done in the daylight.”

He could practically see the steam rising from her ears, but she pressed her lips together and nodded once, briefly. He knew she’d been informed that as the senior Texas Ranger on the task force, he was in charge, even of the civilian members.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Can I at least call my team and let them know what I’ve found and what I’m going to need in the morning?”

“Be my guest,” he said, putting his hand to the small of her back, his gentle but firm pressure urging her away from the crime scene.

They stepped over the yellow tape as Deputy Tolbert’s white pickup rolled to a stop and he jumped out.

“Deputy.” Wyatt held out his hand.

Tolbert ignored Wyatt’s hand and eyed Nina appreciatively.

Wyatt watched him with mild distaste. He’d sized up Shane Tolbert the first time he’d met him, over two years ago. The designer jeans and expensive boots, plus what Wyatt’s sister called product in his hair, had pegged him as a player back then, and from what Wyatt could see, nothing had changed.

“Nina Jacobson. Gorgeous as ever. I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Tolbert touched the brim of his hat, then glanced sidelong at Wyatt. “Lieutenant Colter.” His voice slid mockingly over Wyatt’s rank.

Wyatt stopped his fists from clenching. Tolbert grated on his nerves, but Reed Hardin had hired him, and the sheriff seemed to be a good judge of character.

Tolbert and Marcie James had dated, although they’d broken up by the time Marcie was tapped to testify. It didn’t stretch Wyatt’s imagination to figure out that Tolbert was one of the people who blamed Wyatt for Marcie James’s death.

“So, Nina,” Tolbert continued, “what did you find? Doc Hallowell thought there might be two bodies in there.”

Wyatt shifted so that he was a half step between Nina and Tolbert. “She’ll be back in the morning with her team to start examining the evidence.” He felt rather than heard Nina take a breath, so he spoke quickly. “We’re heading to town. I’ll be back here by nine in the morning, if not before. You know the drill. Don’t let anyone close except Dr. Jacobson and her team. Call me if anything happens.”

Tolbert’s eyes narrowed. “I do know the drill, Lieutenant. Happy to oblige.”

Wyatt directed Nina toward his Jeep. He’d talk to Sheriff Hardin first thing in the morning about the burr under Tolbert’s saddle. If Shane Tolbert was going to be a problem, Wyatt needed to know.

“I DON’T LIKE leaving the burial site unguarded all night,” Nina said.

Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter took a sharp right onto the main road into Comanche Creek. “The crime scene is guarded. Or did you miss your buddy Deputy Tolbert? He was the one in the black cowboy hat.”

“I don’t trust him.”

Wyatt’s head turned slightly, and she felt his piercing eyes studying her. It took a lot of willpower to meet his gaze. Finally he turned his attention back to the road. “Any particular reason?”

“Other than how mean he was to Marcie when they were dating?”

“They dated for how long? A year?”

“Something like that. Maybe eighteen months. Long enough for Marcie to figure out what kind of man he was.”

“And what kind of man is that?”

“A loser. A coward. An abuser.”

“He hurt her?” A dangerous edge cut through Wyatt’s voice.

Nina bit her lip. She shouldn’t have gone that far. She really didn’t have any proof of abuse. Marcie had never admitted any specific mistreatment. “She just said he could be mean.”

“Mean how?” He slowed the Jeep as they passed the high school and turned onto Main Street.

She should have known better. Wyatt Colter wasn’t the kind of man to dismiss anything he heard or saw without sticking it under his personal microscope. Right now he was focusing that scope on Shane Tolbert, and she understood why.

Tolbert was guarding his crime scene. Wyatt considered it his duty to know everything there was to know about the deputy.

Nina wasn’t sure how or why she had suddenly become an expert on Wyatt Colter. But she was definitely not comfortable with her newfound insight.

Time to change the subject. “I’m supposed to have a room at the Bluebonnet Inn.”

In the watery glow from the streetlights, Nina saw Wyatt’s jaw flex. She almost smiled. He was upset because she’d deflected his question.

“With your students?” he asked.

“No. They’re staying on campus at West Texas Community College. The college made arrangements for us to have one of their chemistry labs as a temporary forensics lab, so we don’t have to drive for an hour each way to the Ranger lab each time we need something. That’s why I was so late getting out to the site. I was setting up the equipment.”

“Is a community college lab going to be good enough? I can arrange for a driver—”

“It’s really nice. Brand-new. All the chemicals a girl could ask for, as well as sterile hoods and some very nice testing equipment. Obviously there will be specific sophisticated tests that can be done only at a forensics lab, but for the most part, it’s got all the comforts of home.” She smiled.

For a few seconds, Wyatt didn’t speak. “So you’re the only one who rated a hotel room?”

“Perks of the job,” she murmured as he pulled into a parking place in front of the Bluebonnet Inn, a two-story Victorian with double wraparound porches and sparkling clean windows. It was one of the original buildings in town. “Wow. Betty Alice has really fixed up this place.”

He didn’t comment, just turned off the engine and reached for the door.

“You don’t have to—” Oh. For a second she’d thought he was getting out to walk her to the door. But that wasn’t it. His jaw action earlier hadn’t been because she’d changed the subject. “Don’t tell me you’re staying here, too? Well, isn’t that … convenient.” She sighed. She’d finagled herself onto this project, knowing she’d have to put up with Wyatt Colter. Relishing the opportunity.

He’d been so arrogant two years ago, pushing Marcie to testify against Jonah Becker and assuring her that she didn’t have to worry. That as long as she was under the protection of the Texas Rangers, she’d be safe.

Marcie had trusted him. Everyone had. And no wonder. Not only did the very large, reassuring shadow of the Texas Rangers envelop the entire state of Texas and everyone in it, but Wyatt Colter himself exuded competence, assurance, safety.

It was the first thing Nina had noticed about him when she’d met him back then.

From his honed jaw and the cleft in his chin to his confident, deceptively casual stance, from his intense blue eyes to the long, smooth muscles that rippled with reined-in power beneath his clothes, he was the perfect personification of the Texas Rangers. And as long as he was guarding Marcie, nothing could possibly happen to her. He’d promised her.

Well, something had happened.

And it was Wyatt Colter’s fault. Her best friend was gone—likely dead—because he’d never once doubted his ability to keep her safe.

When Nina had called in a favor to get on this task force, she hadn’t thought any further than her determination to be a thorn in Lieutenant Colter’s side and to find justice for Marcie. She hadn’t bargained on spending this much time this close to him.

Still, at least this way she could keep an eye on him.

While Nina’s thoughts whirled, Wyatt got out of the Jeep and headed for the front porch. As he climbed up the steps, it started raining again. He removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh, then glanced back at her before disappearing inside.

She could read his thoughts as easily as if they were printed in a cartoon bubble above his head.

Open your own door. No double standard for Wyatt Colter. If she wanted in on the task force in place of George Mayfield, then she should expect to be treated like him or any other member of the team.

Little did he know, that was fine with her. Gestures like opening doors, holding seats, paying for dinner all came with strings attached. And Nina didn’t like strings.

She was here in an official capacity. She expected to be treated like any other member of the task force. While it was true that there was a chance that the site could turn out to be archeologically significant, Nina wanted nothing more than to find out what had happened to Marcie.

Well, that and to keep an eye on Colter. Not that she thought he was less than honest and aboveboard. She just didn’t want to take any chances. This find could remove the haunting grief that had enveloped her for the past two years.

Marcie and she had been paired as roommates at Texas State, and despite their very different personalities, they’d become fast friends. Marcie had been there for Nina when Nina’s father died and when her brother was killed in combat in Iraq. She’d been Nina’s family. There was no way Nina was going to pass up this chance to find out what had happened to her friend.

The town was split. Half of the people thought Marcie had been killed. Her kidnapping had never resulted in a ransom notice. She and her mysterious kidnapper had just disappeared.

The other half figured she had got cold feet and arranged the kidnapping herself to get out of testifying against Jonah Becker, one of the most powerful men in the state of Texas. But if Marcie were alive, why hadn’t she contacted anyone in all this time?

Of course, Nina wanted Marcie to be alive and well, but there was one huge obstacle to that theory. If Marcie had arranged her own kidnapping, that meant she was responsible for shooting Texas Ranger Wyatt Colter.

And Marcie wouldn’t have done that. Nina couldn’t see her shooting anyone. Not even to save her own skin.

Through the glass front door of the Bluebonnet Inn, Nina saw Wyatt glance back toward her. With a wry smile, Nina opened the passenger door and climbed out, leaving her forensics kit on the floorboard at her feet. She hefted her weekend bag by its handles.

Wyatt was disappearing up the dark polished stairs by the time she got to the front desk.

“Hey there,” the round-faced woman said on a yawn. She’d obviously been asleep until Wyatt had slammed the front door. “I’m Betty Alice Sadler. Welcome to the Bluebonnet Inn. Can I help you?”

“Nina Jacobson. I have a reservation. I apologize for getting here so late.”

“That’s all right,” the woman said, tapping the keyboard with her index finger. “I’m always happy to have a guest. Let me just look here.”

Nina sighed. “Oh, I forgot. The reservation is in the name of George Mayfield, Texas State University Anthropology Department.”

“Ah. Of course.” Betty Alice eyed her curiously. “This is about those bodies on Jonah Becker’s place.” In Betty Alice’s Texas drawl, the word bodies sounded sinister. “Will Mr. Mayfield be joining you?”

“No.” Nina didn’t see any need to explain.

However, Betty Alice obviously thought she deserved an explanation. She waited for a few seconds, hoping to get one, but Nina just stood there calmly.

“Well,” Betty Alice drawled finally and hit a few more keys. “I’ll need your ID.”

Nina handed over her driver’s license and glanced at her watch. Betty Alice yawned again and sped up the check-in process. Apparently she was ready to get back to sleep.

She handed Nina a room key—a real key, to room 204 on the second floor. “If I’d known you would be here instead of—” Betty Alice glanced at the computer screen “—Mr. Mayfield, I could have given you the pink room. I keep it for my female guests.”

Nina winced inwardly as she pictured how the pink room would be decorated. She didn’t need a pink room. She just needed a room. She was exhausted, and eight o’clock was going to come very early.

“That’s very nice of you, but I’m sure room two-oh-four will be fine. Do you have Wi-Fi?”

Betty Alice beamed at her. “We surely do. My niece hooked it up—or whatever you do with Wi-Fi. And it’s complimentary.”

Nina thanked her and headed up the stairs.

“Say, Nina Jacobson.”

She turned around to find the woman pointing a finger at her. “I thought I recognized you. You were Marcie’s friend. I remember you were staying here when she disappeared and that Texas Ranger got shot.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Nina said, forcing a smile.

“Oh, my goodness.” Betty Alice’s hand flew to her mouth. “I remember him, too. Lieutenant Colter was the one who got shot.”

Nina nodded, doing her best to suppress a yawn.

“Oh, honey, run along. Here I am, just talking away, and you’re asleep on your feet.” Betty Alice shooed her toward the stairs and turned around to head back to her own room behind the desk.

When Nina got to the second floor, Wyatt was holding a full ice bucket in one hand and pushing his key into the lock of room 202 with the other.

He turned his head and his offhand glance morphed into annoyance as his eyes lit on the key in her hand.

“That’s right,” she said, brandishing the key with a gaiety she didn’t feel. “Howdy, neighbor.”

He scowled. “Good night,” he said and went into his room and closed the door.

“Good night, cowboy,” she muttered.

After an ineffectual attempt to get mud off her black hoodie and jeans, and a defeated glance at her favorite work boots, which were beyond any help she could give them tonight, Nina took a hot shower.

By the time she had slipped on a bright red camisole and panties and was ready for bed, her mind was racing with her impressions of the burial site.

She settled into bed with both pillows behind her back and the pad and pen she always kept in her purse. She rested her pad on her bent knee and wrote the date, the location and her name. Beneath that she jotted a note to herself.

Ref: report of State Highway Dept regarding unearthing of remains. Attach copy.

Then she let her thoughts float freely. She’d type up an official report later on her laptop, but right now what mattered was getting her first impressions down before she lost them.

Incredible find. Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter has claimed it as his crime scene, but it’s likely to be of archeological significance. Appearance consistent with indigenous burial grounds.

Important to note that condition of the find suggests a possible hoax. Three unique thigh bones, laid out in a star pattern. Accidental? Or placed by someone? All three femurs appear to be of recent origin. The largest is certainly male. But I need to measure and examine all three to estimate gender.

Nina stopped and closed her eyes. Bones were her business, but that didn’t mean she was immune to the idea of handling remains that could turn out to be those of her best friend.

A wave of nausea slithered through her, and her eyes pricked with tears. What if one of the bones was Marcie’s?

Marcie. Sweet and kind, but impulsive, and maybe even a little bit self-destructive. Definitely not the best judge of character.

“Oh, Marcie, what did you get yourself into?”




Chapter Three (#ulink_23b8c48c-bdff-5ef8-95e9-8a4da7b05a12)


Nina shook off the renewed grief over losing her friend. She couldn’t afford to get emotional. She needed to concentrate on the bones.

She reached for her camera and viewed the flash photos she’d taken.

She tried to view the three thigh bones in close-up, but the exposures were too dark. She’d have to send them to Pete, the graphics expert at the university, to have them corrected and enhanced.

She glanced at her laptop. She ought to send the photos tonight so Pete could get to work on them as soon as he got in tomorrow. The sooner she got the enhanced photos back, the sooner she could make more specific determinations of age, sex and time of death.

Still, in the morning she’d be able to look at the bones themselves. She glanced at her watch and yawned. Tonight it was more important to get her first impressions down on paper.

She continued writing.

Bones too covered with dirt and mud to tell much more. Already dark when we arrived at the site at 8:30 p.m.

History. (See fax from Ranger captain.) Two days ago road workers were breaking ground for a state route on land owned by Jonah Becker when they unearthed bones, which the foreman suspected were human.

The foreman stopped the ground breaking and called Sheriff Reed Hardin, who called the county medical examiner. The ME found the bodies “too decomposed and mixed up to identify” (i.e., skeletonized) and requested help from forensics experts.

Because of the state of decomposition and the fact that three people have disappeared from the area in the past five years, Sheriff Hardin called in the Texas Rangers, who were responsible—

Nina paused, then crossed out that last word.

—who were involved in one of the disappearances. The Rangers put together a Special Investigations Task Force.

Nina paused, clicking the cap of the ballpoint pen she held. If the site was a Native American burial ground …

Her pulse jumped slightly. She couldn’t deny her excitement. New burial sites were rare. A junior professor getting a chance to be the principal on such a find was even rarer.

In fact, she wasn’t sure why Professor Mayfield had acquiesced so easily when she’d asked him to let her take his place on this task force. Maybe he already knew the site wasn’t old.

That thought gave her mixed feelings. She’d love to have a significant find with her name on it. On the other hand, she couldn’t forget the real reason she’d requested to be on this task force. That could be Marcie lying out there. If it was, then she deserved a proper burial, as well as closure.

Nina clicked the pen angrily. Who was she kidding? If her best friend had been murdered, she deserved vengeance.

Nina twisted her thick black hair in her left fist and lifted it off her neck. Glancing down at the pad, she saw that she’d written vengeance and then underlined it three times.

She crossed through it and took a deep breath. Okay, Dr. Jacobson. Get it together. You’re a professional.

Plan: Tomorrow students will construct a plywood platform from which we can extract the bones with as little disturbance of the site as possible. Until I can determine whether the site or any part of it is of archeological significance (a historic burial site), I am compelled to treat the entire site thusly.

First order of business: take samples of the three femurs for physical examination, dating and DNA extraction.

Nina chewed on the cap of the pen and read back over what she’d written, but she found it hard to concentrate. At least she’d gotten her first impressions down. She could add to it tomorrow.

She set the pad and pen on the bedside table, set her cell phone alarm for 7:00 a.m., and then turned off the lamp and sank down into the warm bed. But light from a streetlamp reflected off her camera lens. She turned her back to it.

It would take only five minutes to transfer the photos and send them.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered to herself.

Tonight, the camera taunted her.

Sighing, she threw back the covers and turned on the lamp. She retrieved her laptop and booted it up, then grabbed the camera and transferred the photos into an e-mail and sent it off to Pete.

By the time she was done, her arms and legs were thoroughly chilled. She turned off the lamp and dove under the covers.

Despite how tired she felt, it took her a long time to fall asleep. To her surprise, it wasn’t thoughts of the burial site or the identities of the remains buried there that kept her awake.

The image that seemed burned into the insides of her eyelids was of Wyatt Colter lying in a matching double bed not forty feet from hers, his broad bare shoulders and torso dark against the white sheets. Was he also having trouble sleeping?

Even if he was, she doubted it was because he was picturing her lying in bed this close to him. More likely, if he were fantasizing about her, it was a dream of watching her mud-covered backside recede as he ran her out of town.

She sniffed and squeezed her eyes shut. She had no idea why she couldn’t stop thinking of Wyatt Colter. Probably she was just too tired to concentrate on anything rational, and too excited about the case to calm her mind for sleep.

She concentrated on her breathing, counting each breath until she dozed off. But as soon as sleep claimed her, an image of Wyatt rose in her vision—in boxers. In briefs. In nothing.

“Stop it, Nina!” she growled as she turned over and pounded the pillow again.

Finally her breathing relaxed, and her brain began to banish the sensual but disturbing images.

A SHRILL RING pierced Nina’s eardrums.

She moaned and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t her phone. That wasn’t the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Which one of her neighbors had gotten a new, hideously loud tone? She pushed her nose a little deeper under the covers.

“Colter.”

The low, commanding voice reverberated through her. Her eyes sprang open.

Colter. Bones. Marcie. Her thoughts raced. Had something happened at the site?

She sat up and kicked off the covers, squinting at the clock on the bedside table.

Four o’clock in the morning. She’d been asleep for over three hours. It didn’t feel like it.

“Son of a … No. You stay there.” Wyatt’s voice, even through the connecting door, was deep, harsh, commanding.

She held her breath listening, her heart fluttering beneath her breastbone. She pressed her hand against her chest.

Fear? No. She wasn’t afraid of Wyatt Colter. Maybe a little intimidated by his larger-than-life presence. But her reaction was definitely not fear. Now, if she were a criminal, she’d be afraid. Or a subordinate who’d screwed up.

“Have you called Hardin?”

Something had happened.

She shot up out of bed, grabbed her jeans and pulled them on, balancing on tiptoe as she zipped and fastened them. She didn’t even bother combing her hair, merely twisted it into a ponytail as she thrust her feet into her muddy work boots.

“Call him. I’ll be right there!” Wyatt’s voice brooked no argument.

Just as she pulled the Velcro straps on her boots tight, Wyatt’s door slammed. The picture hanging over her headboard and the glass lamp on the bedside table rattled.

She shoved her arms into her hoodie and threw open the door to her room. Wyatt’s broad shoulders were just disappearing down the stairs.

“Hey, cowboy. Wait for me!” she called.

His head cocked, but he didn’t slow down.

She started out, then realized she didn’t have her camera. It took only a fraction of a second to decide. If she went back, he’d be gone.

She vaulted down the stairs two at a time, landing at the bottom with a huff and a scattering of dried mud.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wyatt growled. “Go back to bed.”

Betty Alice poked her head out from the door behind the desk in time to hear Wyatt’s words. Her eyes sparkled, and she snorted delicately.

Nina’s face heated, and she sent Betty Alice a quelling glance. To someone who didn’t know what was going on, she supposed Wyatt’s words had sounded suggestive.

“Go on.” Wyatt sounded like he was shooing a disobedient dog.

“Not a chance, cowboy. Where are we going? Did something happen at the site?”

“We aren’t going anywhere.”

“You can’t keep me away from my bones,” she declared pugnaciously.

“Your bones?”

Now Betty Alice’s pupils were dark circles surrounded by white.

“It might be your crime scene, Lieutenant, but I’m the forensic anthropologist. They’re my bones.” Nina lifted her chin. “That was Deputy Tolbert, wasn’t it? Something happened at the site.”

Wyatt blew air out in a hiss between his teeth and tossed a peppermint into his mouth.

“Got another one of those? I didn’t get a chance to brush my teeth.”

He glowered at her, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. Finally he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a cellophane-wrapped disk and tossed it toward her. She swiped it out of the air with no effort.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.” She was pretty sure she heard another growl as he spun on his boot heel and headed out the front door.

WYATT DIDN’T SAY a word on the drive out to the crime scene. He was in no mood to deal with Nina Jacobson. Against his better judgment—almost against his will—he cut his eyes sideways. They zeroed in on that red lacy thing that peeked out from under her half-zipped hoodie.

The red lacy thing and the creamy smooth flesh that it barely covered. He growled under his breath as his body reacted to what his eyes saw.

Snapping his gaze back to the dirt road, he clenched his jaw and lifted his chin. Forget what Nina Jacobson is or isn’t wearing, he warned himself.

He had enough on his plate right now. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to separate his personal and professional life.

Yeah. Separate them so well that one of them no longer existed. His awareness turned to the slight weight of the star on his chest. That star, with its unique engraving and aged patina, represented who he was.

Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger.

And as he knew very well, there was no place in a Ranger’s life for personal complications.

“Would you at least tell me what Shane said?”

Nina’s voice broke into his thoughts. It was breathy and low—sultry. Like a hot summer Texas storm. Like her.

He didn’t bother to answer her.

Shane Tolbert had sounded groggy, embarrassed and angry all at the same time. But that was nothing compared to how he was going to sound—and feel—once Wyatt had ripped him a new one, right before he did the same for Sheriff Reed Hardin.

Wyatt’s first act upon hearing about the discovery of the bodies less than forty-eight hours ago had been to demand two guards on the crime scene twenty-four hours a day. Sheriff Hardin had countered that one guard per eight-hour shift was plenty. “Nobody’s bothered the scene,” the sheriff had said. “There were a few folks who drove up there on the first day, right after the road crew discovered the bones. Most notably Daniel Taabe and a couple of his cronies, who wanted to know if what the road crew had unearthed was a historical burial site. But after that … nothing. My deputies can handle things just fine.”

Wyatt had requested the extra men from his captain, but the captain had sided with the sheriff.

Now, as he’d known he would be, Wyatt had been proven right. If there had been two men guarding the site, this wouldn’t have happened.

He roared up to within a few feet of the crime-scene tape and slammed on the brakes.

To his amusement, Nina uttered a little squeak when the anti-locking brake system stopped the Jeep in its tracks.

He jumped out, leaving the engine running. He stalked over to Sheriff Hardin’s pickup, where Deputy Tolbert was sitting on the tailgate, with Doc Hallowell and the sheriff hovering over him.

“Need to go to the hospital?” Sheriff Hardin was asking as Wyatt walked up.

Doc Hallowell shook his head. He reached inside the black leather bag sitting beside Tolbert.

“Sheriff,” Wyatt said.

“Lieutenant.” Hardin didn’t look at him. He pointed a pocket flashlight at Tolbert’s head. “That’s a nasty cut.”

“I’m going to stitch it right here,” Doc Hallowell said, searching in his bag, “as soon as I can dig out my suture kit.”

A doctor making a house call or a crime-scene call. Wyatt shook his head. Small towns. They were a mystery to him.

“What happened?” Nina asked from behind him.

Wyatt wished he could pick this damn crime scene up and transport it to a secure location. He desperately needed some time alone here. Just him and the crime scene, and maybe Olivia Hutton, the top-notch crime scene analyst. He could use her expertise, but while she was available to him as part of the task force, she hadn’t been called in yet, since this was classified as a cold case. He made a mental note to call her and ask her opinion.

Tolbert looked up at Nina sheepishly. “Got myself conked over the head. I heard something and went to investigate. I’m thinking there were at least two of them. One to distract me and the other to bash my skull in.” He winced as Doc Hallowell poured alcohol on the gash on the back of his head. “Ow! I guess I’m lucky I’ve got a thick skull.”

From the corner of his eye, Wyatt saw the thinly disguised look of disgust on Nina’s face. She really didn’t like Tolbert.

“Doc,” Wyatt said. “can I look at that cut before you start working on it?” He pulled out his own high-powered flashlight and shone it on the deputy’s skull.

The gash looked fresh, of course. And it was edged by an inflamed strip of scalp, which disappeared into Tolbert’s hair. As far as he could tell, it had been made with a honed-edged instrument, like the edge of a plate or a board, or maybe even a hatchet, if it wasn’t too finely sharpened.

The doctor had trimmed the hair around the gash, and now he was stitching it, quickly and neatly. Wyatt watched with casual interest as he tied the stitches. He counted seven.

“Any idea what they hit you with?” Wyatt asked.

Tolbert shook his head. “No clue. Something with an edge. Maybe the back side of an ax. You see how much it bled.”

Wyatt gestured to Nina. “Professor, can you get a couple of photos of the wound?”

“Hey,” Tolbert said, ducking his head. “It’s humiliating enough without a record of it.”

Nina snapped a couple of shots.

“I need it for a match with a possible weapon,” Wyatt explained.

“Stay still, Shane,” the doctor said. “I’m almost done.”

“They just hit you once?” Wyatt asked.

“Ow, Doc!” Tolbert exclaimed, blinking as Nina’s camera flashed. “Are you done yet?”

Hardin took a step backward. “Lieutenant Colter? Looks like Doc’s getting Shane fixed up. Why don’t we check out the crime scene?”

Wyatt looked at Tolbert, then at Hardin. He had a lot more questions for the deputy, but the sheriff obviously wanted him at the crime scene—or away from Tolbert.

“You mean nobody has checked out the damage yet?” Wyatt replied.

When Wyatt turned to head over to the burial site, he saw that Nina was there. As he watched, she crouched down to sit on her haunches—the exact position she’d been in earlier.

Only this time he knew who she was. How could he have thought she was a middle-aged, sedentary professor of anthropology? Granted, it had been raining and she’d been cloaked by that oversize black hooded sweatshirt. But looking at her now in the same position, he couldn’t believe he’d mistaken the feminine curve of her back and behind for a male’s.

She pushed the hood of her sweatshirt off her head and shone the beam of her high-powered flashlight along the ground.

By the time they walked up beside her, she had sat back on her heels, her face reflecting disgust and anger.

“One of my bones is missing,” she said.




Chapter Four (#ulink_302c76d7-fe33-5f46-8a24-0f06969eefb1)


“Which one?” Wyatt burst out. “Which bone is missing?”

Nina shook her head. “Whoever did this made a mess. Tromped all over the site. But I think it’s the largest one. The one that had a piece of pelvis attached to it.” She looked up at him, her dark eyes snapping.

Wyatt shone his flashlight over the ground. “Can you get casts of these prints?” he asked the sheriff.

Hardin crouched down and studied the ground. “It’s pretty wet, and he was slipping in the mud. But yeah.”

“You’re sure?” Wyatt asked.

Hardin nodded. “Deputy Spears can handle it.”

“Make sure he finds the sharpest print,” said Wyatt.

Hardin frowned. “Look, Lieutenant, if you want to call in your own crime scene investigator—”

“No!” Nina exclaimed.

Wyatt’s gaze snapped to her.

“Sheriff, if your deputy can cast the prints over there, I’d appreciate it.” She pointed. “I really don’t want anyone else trampling the site.”

Wyatt shook his head. “Professor—”

Nina stood. “First of all, I’m a certified crime scene investigator, so I can do it if you insist. But I have no doubt that Sheriff Hardin and his men know what they’re doing. Let them cast the prints over there while I extract the other two bones. I’ll process this area for trace evidence while I’m at it.”

It probably couldn’t hurt for her to handle the crime scene. And the boot prints at the edge of the shallow hole were clearer, anyhow. He nodded at Hardin.

Beside him, Nina sighed in obvious relief.

The sheriff rose, dusting his hands against each other, then propping them on his hips.

“Can we get them done now?” Wyatt asked.

This was why he didn’t like small towns. Everything moved at a snail’s pace. This was a crime scene—a major crime scene. It might tell them of the disappearances that had haunted Comanche Creek for the past several years. It might hold evidence of what had happened to Marcie James.

And yet the people who could provide the answers—the doctor, the sheriff, the deputies—seemed to operate with a “we’ll get around to it” mentality.

Hardin sent Wyatt a hard glance. “Can we get a thing or two straight, Lieutenant?”

“Happy to. As long as it cuts down on the delays.” Wyatt nodded.

“This isn’t Austin. We might be kind of slow here compared to your Texas Ranger pace, but we can do the job,” Hardin replied. “I’ve already called Deputy Spears and told him to get back out here. Once he’s here, he’ll get the footprints cast. Do you think that’ll be time enough for you?”

Wyatt clenched his jaw. “That’s fine. Spears. He’s the one who abandoned the crime scene, isn’t he?”

“He didn’t abandon it.” Hardin countered. “Dr. Jacobson, a member of your task force, assured him that she would be responsible for the scene until Tolbert came on at midnight.”

“Nobody on my task force but me has that authority, Sheriff. Is that clear?” Wyatt grumbled.

Reed Hardin’s mouth flattened, but he nodded.

Wyatt felt a twinge of regret for his tone. “Thanks,” he muttered. “When can I talk to Deputy Tolbert?”

“Any time, Lieutenant. I would like Doc to release him first.”

Wyatt nodded. “What’s the story with him, anyhow? I know he and Marcie James were dating at one time. Apparently she told Nina he could be abusive.”

“I said mean,” Nina interjected as she bent down again to study the indentation where the missing bone had lain.

Hardin nodded. “Right. Abusive might be too strong a word. Shane’s got a temper, but he’s a good deputy. He’s competent. Might even call him a go-getter.” Hardin’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his sights on being sheriff one day.”

“You trust him that much?” asked Wyatt.

“Whether or not he could become sheriff has nothing to do with how much I do or don’t trust him. It’s a matter of competence,” replied Hardin. “In fact, that’s one of the things I admire about him. He’s gone to school on his own time to take classes on crime scene investigation. He’s pretty knowledgeable.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt’s mental radar buzzed. So Tolbert was pretty knowledgeable about CSI. “Where’d he get his degree in hostility?”

Hardin shrugged. “That he comes by naturally. His dad, Ben Tolbert, has always been a drinker and a woman chaser. Knocked Shane around some until he got big enough to fight back.”

“And once he got big enough?”

“I doubt you’re asking that question without knowing the answer.”

Wyatt nodded. “He has a suspension on his record. Excessive force.”

“It was a domestic dispute. Single mother’s boyfriend came home drunk and decided to whale on her eight-year-old for leaving his bike in the driveway. He broke the boy’s arm. Shane broke the guy’s nose.”

Wyatt looked at Hardin with new respect. Suspending the deputy was the right thing to do, but it couldn’t have been easy to put a black mark on his record for avenging a child. Especially given Tolbert’s own childhood.

“Ever hear anything about trouble between him and Marcie James?”

Hardin shook his head. “You know how people can talk sometimes. I remember once she hurt her arm. Claimed she’d pulled a muscle playing tennis.”

“Did you check it out?”

“Doc said it could have been twisted in a fall.”

“Could have.”

Hardin nodded. “I kept an eye on her, but I never saw anything else. Shane seemed to care about her. I don’t remember why they broke up.”

“What do you think about the missing bone? Who in Comanche Creek would attack your deputy and steal one of the bones?” Wyatt looked toward the burial site, toward Nina. As he watched, she stood and shed the hooded sweatshirt, leaving her in nothing but the little red thing. He swallowed.

“I don’t have a clue,” Hardin said. “I know there were people who were upset about Marcie testifying in the land fraud case, but it’s hard to imagine that any of them could have killed her.”

“The professor says the bones are recent.”

Nina tugged the red camisole down over her low-slung jeans as far as it would stretch, which wasn’t far, then picked up a fallen branch. After testing it with her weight, she stuck one end into the ground and braced herself as she reached across the shallow mud hole. She stretched precariously, straining toward something Wyatt couldn’t see.

“What are you getting at?” Hardin asked.

“Could Shane have faked the attack so he could destroy evidence?”

Hardin sent him a questioning look.

“Maybe he knows whose bones are buried in there.” Wyatt spoke without taking his eyes off Nina. The scrap of shimmery red material rode up her back, leaving a good eight inches or so of bare midriff between its hem and her jeans.

“You’re suggesting Shane killed Marcie James? No way. He was torn up about Marcie’s disappearance.”

Wyatt swallowed, trying to concentrate on Hardin’s words. “I want to question him as soon as possible,” he said gruffly.

Nina reached a fraction of an inch farther, and Wyatt got a view of the underside of her breasts. He winced. In about three seconds, she was going to fall face-first into the muddy crime scene—not to mention expose her breasts—if somebody didn’t rescue her.

At that very instant, she almost lost her grip on the branch.

“No problem,” Hardin answered. “You can talk to him later this morning at my office. Say ten o’clock?”

“Make it nine. I’ll be there,” Wyatt tossed over his shoulder as he stalked quickly over to the shallow hole.

He bent and scooped Nina up with one arm, grunting quietly. She was more solid than she looked. And her breasts were soft and firm against his forearm.

“Ack!” she squawked as he plopped her down a couple of feet away, on solid ground. “What? You!”

She got her feet under her and stood. When she swiped at a lock of hair that had fallen over her brow, she left a trail of mud. “I almost had it.”

“What you almost had was a face full of mud. You could have ruined my crime scene. As an anthropologist, I’d think you’d know that falling into the middle of a find would contaminate it.”

“I wasn’t falling.”

“The hell you weren’t. What were you after?”

“I’ll show you.” She lifted her chin and walked imperiously over to the edge of the shallow hole.

Wyatt tried not to smile as he followed her. She had no idea that she looked like a tomboy, with mud streaking her face and wisps of hair flying everywhere.

“Damn it,” she muttered and turned back toward him.

No. He corrected himself. With the curve of her breasts and the delicate bones and muscles of her shoulders and collarbone showing, not to mention the outline of her nipples under the red camisole, a tomboy was the last thing she looked like.

“What is it?”

“I don’t see it now.” She patted her pockets. “I need my flashlight. It’s in my hoodie.”

Wyatt clenched his teeth in frustration as he bent down and retrieved her hooded sweatshirt.

“Here. You need to put it on, anyhow.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering downward, to the top of her breasts.

“What? Why?” She looked down, made a small distressed sound, thrust her arms into the massive sleeves and wrapped the sweatshirt around her.

With an effort, he turned his attention away from her to study the general area where she’d been reaching.

She pulled out her flashlight and turned it on.

“What were you trying to reach?” he asked again, hearing the frustration in his voice.

She aimed the beam. “Something bright.”

“Bright?”

“Like metal. I think it might be a piece of jewelry.” “Or a gum wrapper.”

She shrugged, still searching with her flashlight. “Oh. There!” She held the light beam steady.

“That clod of dirt?” Wyatt squinted at the unsightly clump of mud and something fuzzy and tangled. “It looks like it came out of a sewer pipe.”

“Can you get it? I want it intact.”

“Let me have that stick.” He put his weight on the branch, bending it slightly to test it. Then he leaned on it.

“Use this.” She handed him a small tool.

“What’s this?”

“A trowel.”

He sent a glare sideways toward her. “Keep the flashlight on the clump of dirt.”

Bracing himself, he reached. Her prize was farther away than it looked. She’d have definitely ended up facedown in the mud.




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