A missing sister, a murdered father and a dangerous reunion years in the making.

The last place Honey Granger wants to be is Tumbleweed, Texas—the judgmental town that made her childhood a living hell. But when Sheriff Harrison Hawk informs her that her alcoholic father has been murdered, she reluctantly joins his investigation. The sexy sheriff has long suspected Honey’s father in his sister’s disappearance and vows to solve both mysteries. But keeping his professional distance from the vulnerable blonde proves nearly impossible. He’ll guard her 24/7 until her life is out of danger. But how will she feel if Harrison proves her father was a murderer?

Badge of Justice

“I’m going to find out who did this,” Harrison said. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Honey.”

She started to say something but he stopped her. “Shh.” He pressed his finger to her lips to quiet her. “I mean it. People in this town haven’t been nice to you and it’s not right. I should have stood up for you a long time ago, when we were kids.”

A blush stained her face and she averted her eyes as if bad memories had assaulted her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of the past.”

“I can’t ever forget the past,” Honey said. “Not until we figure out if my father killed your sister.”

Their gazes locked. Tension escalated. Emotions and desires flamed between them.

She shivered and Harrison realized he’d wanted to soothe and protect and touch her ever since he’d seen her at the morgue.

No longer able to resist, he stroked her cheek with the back of his thumb, then lowered his head and kissed her.

Redemption at Hawk’s Landing

Rita Herron

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for writing romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. Rita lives in Georgia with her family. She loves to hear from readers, so please visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.

To the fans of The Heroes of Horseshoe Creek series

who asked for another family—meet the Hawks!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Excerpt

Copyright

Chapter One

The dead man lay sprawled on the mountain ridge at Dead Man’s Bluff, his eyes blank, his arm twisted at an odd angle.

He’d probably broken it in the fall. Blood matted his graying hair from where he’d hit the rock as he’d gone over the edge of the ridge.

Sheriff Harrison Hawk cursed. Dammit, he’d recognized him immediately.

Waylon Granger.

The man his mother blamed for his sister’s disappearance eighteen years ago. They’d never been able to prove he was at fault, though.

And now he was dead; they might never know the truth.

Curiosity over what had happened nagged at Harrison. Granger was a known drunk, and a mean one. Even his daughter, Honey, had left home after high school graduation to escape the bastard.

What was Granger doing here at Dead Man’s Bluff?

This was the teenage hangout—just as years ago he and his friends had been drawn to the swimming hole and dark mines with the mysterious ghost stories that surrounded them, the local high schoolers still frequented it.

The two thirteen-year-old boys who’d called in the body sat hunched by Granger’s rusty pickup, their young faces etched in horror.

The scent of death hit Harrison, the summer heat accentuating it.

Memories of the night his little sister, Chrissy, had gone missing bombarded him. The years since hadn’t dulled the pain or trauma. It felt as if it had happened yesterday.

He was seventeen at the time and supposed to babysit his siblings that night while his parents attended a party. Instead, he’d sneaked out to meet his buddies at this very place.

He inhaled sharply. He’d thought Lucas, fifteen, would watch their thirteen-year-old brother, Dexter, eleven-year-old Brayden and their ten-year-old sister, Chrissy. But Lucas had a friend visiting and hadn’t noticed when Chrissy and his youngest brother, Brayden, sneaked out. Dexter claimed he and Chrissy had argued because he was playing video games and she kept interrupting. Brayden and Chrissy rode their bikes to the bluff to see what Harrison was up to.

While they were exploring, Brayden tripped and sprained his ankle. Chrissy went to get help. Brayden thought she’d run to Honey Granger’s, but Honey denied seeing her that night.

The sheriff organized a search party, and they’d searched the mines and town and dragged the swimming hole. But they hadn’t found her.

Someone claimed they’d seen Granger’s truck drive by, casting suspicion on him. Granger denied picking Chrissy up or having any contact with her.

Desperate for a big-sister role model, Chrissy had taken a shine to Granger’s daughter, Honey. But Harrison’s mother didn’t like Honey and had forbidden her from hanging out with the teenager.

Honey’s father didn’t allow Honey friends or visitors, so Harrison’s mother suggested that the man had caught Chrissy on their property, lost his temper and done something to her.

The boys’ voices sounded from Granger’s truck and dragged Harrison back to reality. The taller one stood and walked toward him, his eyes wide with fear. “C-can we go home now, Sheriff?”

Harrison felt for the boy. He and his friend were only kids and had no business being out here by themselves. The mines and bluff were dangerous.

Hopefully they’d learned their lesson.

Unfortunately neither had seen anyone else at the bluff. They’d been horsing around, throwing rocks off the ridge when they noticed the vultures, then spotted Granger’s body on the ledge below.

“Yeah, but be careful. If you think of anything else you saw, call me.”

The boy nodded, then jogged over to his bicycle. His friend joined him, then the two of them began pedaling as fast as they could to get away. Tonight they’d probably be glad to go home to their parents.

A siren wailed in the distance, indicating the rescue team and crime team were approaching. Once they recovered Granger’s body, they’d transport it to the morgue for an autopsy.

Although most likely Granger had been drunk and had simply slipped and fallen, Harrison had a job to do. Whether or not he liked the man didn’t matter.

He had to verify that his death was accidental.

His stomach knotted. He also had to call Honey and deliver the news that her father was gone. It was one conversation he dreaded.

* * *

HONEY GRANGER WIPED perspiration from her forehead, the Austin summer heat stifling as she studied her latest project—a brick ranch built in 1960 that she was renovating.

The scent of dust and old weathered wood blended with the hint of new pine she’d bought to replace the rotting boards on the kitchen floor.

Adrenaline pumped through her. Taking dilapidated, run-down houses that had been left for dead and refurbishing them was challenging but stimulating. She loved transforming the ruins into something beautiful, and had built a successful business out of it.

She’d been trying to do the same for herself for years—take the battered girl who’d run from Tumbleweed, Texas, and make her into something to be proud of. Sometimes she thought she’d succeeded.

Other times she felt like the tainted teenager with the thrift store clothes and shady family, who’d run away when the gossip and rumors became too crushing.

Her contractor and business partner, Jared North, strode toward her, swinging his sledgehammer.

Today was his favorite part—demo day.

He tilted his hard hat. “You want that wall between the kitchen and living room knocked out?”

Honey nodded. “Everyone wants open concept these days, to be able to see their friends and family while they cook and entertain.”

“Got it,” Jared said. “It’s load bearing, though, so we’ll have to install a support beam.”

“It’ll be worth it.” Honey stepped back, mentally picturing the reconfigured design of the kitchen. “With the wall gone, we can install upper and lower cabinets, and build a large center island, maybe from reclaimed wood, for more prep space and storage beneath.” She walked over and examined the fireplace. “Remove the Sheetrock. My guess is there’s shiplap below it. Exposing it will add character to the space.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Honey laughed at his mock salute. The planning and design stage, she was in charge. But when it came to the actual construction details and labor, Jared took command and she saluted him.

“How about the bathrooms?” Jared asked.

“We’re gutting them.” The outdated tiles and flooring had to go. She just hoped they didn’t find water damage or mold.

Her phone buzzed at her hip, and she checked the number. The area code wasn’t Austin’s, but it seemed familiar. It took her a moment to realize the location.

Tumbleweed.

Nerves fluttered in her belly. The sheriff’s office.

Fear and anger resurfaced quickly. Good grief, she’d recognize that number anywhere. What had her father done now? He’d been arrested for public drunkenness, disorderly conduct and driving under the influence when she lived at home. And she’d had to bail him out.

But she’d cut off contact when she’d left town and told Sheriff Dunar not to bother calling her when he locked her father up again.

The phone buzzed again. Jared frowned. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Honey shook her head. She didn’t give a damn if her father was in trouble. He had shamed her enough in high school. She’d moved away years ago to escape the stigma.

She refused to let him taint her newfound life here in Austin.

The phone settled, and she and Jared walked through the rest of the house. She pointed out her plans—a new window here, French doors off the living room to open up to the patio they were resurfacing, removal of all the popcorn ceiling, bathroom remodel.

Her phone buzzed again just as they finished. The same number.

Damn.

“What’s wrong, Honey?” Jared asked.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Nothing.” She snatched up the phone. “I guess I’d better take this.” She’d tell Sheriff Dunar to lose her number and never bother her again.

Her lungs tightened as she hurried outside to the backyard for air. Just the thought of her father made her feel dirty.

Ready to get the call over with, she pressed Connect. “Hello.”

A heartbeat of silence passed. “Is this Honey Granger?”

Honey heaved a breath. It didn’t sound like Sheriff Dunar. “Yes, who is this?”

“Harrison Hawk... I’m sheriff now.”

Honey swallowed hard. Harrison Hawk was sheriff of Tumbleweed?

Good God. She’d had such a crush on him when she was younger. But then his little sister went missing, and her hellish life became a real nightmare when her father became a suspect.

“Harrison?” Honey rubbed her damp forehead, wiping at the perspiration. “How did you get my number? Why—”

“Just listen, Honey. It’s important.”

She leaned her back against a sawtooth tree and waited, but her gaze homed in on the sagging porch and rotting awning of her renovation project.

“I have bad news,” he said in a gruff voice. “It’s about your father.”

Was there any other kind of news where he was concerned? “What has he done now?”

Another tense moment passed, then Harrison cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Honey. I hate to have to tell you this, but he’s dead.”

Honey’s legs buckled, and she felt herself sliding to the ground just like the rotting exterior of her latest project.

* * *

SEVERAL TENSE SECONDS passed as Harrison gave Honey time to absorb the news.

A rescue team and the medical examiner sped up the winding road to the clearing at the top of the hill and screeched to a halt.

“Honey, are you still there?”

The rescue team climbed from their vehicle, followed by the ME. Harrison waved them over to the ridge and pointed out the body.

“Honey?”

“I’m here,” she said in a strained voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I just thought you’d want to know.” Or maybe not. She hadn’t returned to Tumbleweed in years. He didn’t know if she’d spoken to her father recently or if they’d communicated at all since she’d left.

“How? His drinking?”

“I can’t say for sure until the autopsy.”

Another strained silence. She was obviously in shock.

“I’ll transport the body to the morgue,” he said, hating to sound callous but he didn’t know what else to say. Better to just stick to business. “I didn’t know if you wanted to come back and make arrangements—”

A heavy sigh. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

“All right.” He watched as the rescue team anchored a harness so they could climb down and bring up the body. “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know.”

Honey murmured, “Okay.” A second later the phone went silent, leaving him wondering if she’d been alone or with someone. He should have asked before he dropped the bomb.

But he and Honey hadn’t exactly been friends when she lived in Tumbleweed. Worse, his sister’s disappearance had cast a dark cloud over both their families.

The rescue workers’ voices jerked him from his thoughts, a reminder he needed to focus on the job. He strode to the edge of the bluff and looked down.

One of the workers was kneeling by Granger’s body.

Harrison used his camera phone to take pictures before the men moved it. The ME stepped up beside him.

“What happened?” Dr. Weinberger asked.

Harrison shrugged. “Don’t know. Looks like he fell. A couple of kids called it in. I took their statements and let them go home. They were pretty shaken.”

The ME glanced around the area. “They see anyone else up here?”

Harrison shook his head. “No. They were throwing rocks off the ridge when they saw vultures circling over Granger’s body. See that blood on the back of his head?”

Harrison nodded. Granger lay facedown, arms at odd angles. “Looks like he broke his arms trying to brace his fall.”

“Yes, it does,” the ME said. “He fell face forward. So how did he get the gash on the back of his head?”

The air around Harrison stirred, bringing the scent of impending rain and the whisper of the ghosts the locals gossiped about. Some said it was the miners screaming when the mine had collapsed on top of them.

Others justified the eerie whistle of the wind as just that—the wind rolling off the mountain ridge.

The ME’s words echoed in Harrison’s ears. Granger fell face forward. The back of his head was one bloody mess.

His gaze met the doctor’s as he realized the implication. “Damn. He didn’t just fall, did he? He was murdered.”

Chapter Two

Honey ignored the grief stabbing at her the rest of the day as she finalized plans for the house renovation. She left the project in her partner’s hands, trusting him with implementing her design, then drove back to the small Craftsman-style bungalow she’d bought two years ago.

This was home sweet home. Her happy place.

Here she was safe from her past. From the rumors and gossip and the nastiness that had been her life.

She had no idea how long she’d be in Tumbleweed. Only as long as it took to address her father’s will and handle his burial. She definitely would not give him a memorial service.

It wasn’t like anyone would attend if she did.

Her father hadn’t been a popular man in Tumbleweed when she lived there. She couldn’t imagine he’d made friends since.

She took a deep breath as she entered her home, savoring the cozy interior she’d personally designed to her taste. She liked the farmhouse, shabby-chic look, but avoided anything reminiscent of her childhood home.

Memories bombarded her—sleeping in a room with no heat, with raggedy quilts piled so thickly on her that she couldn’t turn over. The furnace in the den barely kept that room warm. The summers were hot and stale, the rooms reeking of smoke, rotting wood and booze.

She blinked back tears, walked to her bedroom and dragged out a suitcase. The earthy tones mingled with slate blue in the room to soothe her nerves after a long day.

But as she gathered jeans, shirts, boots and a couple of skirts, the memory of the wind jarring the windowpanes in her father’s house taunted her as if she was standing in that old house.

She would be soon.

Scrubbing her hand over her eyes to blot out the tears and wipe her emotions away, she braced herself. She wouldn’t let that place or her father’s death get to her.

Not ever again.

In her mind, he’d died a long time ago. This visit was just a formality, then she could erase him, Tumbleweed and its residents from her life forever.

* * *

ANXIETY KNOTTED HARRISON’S shoulders as he parked at the morgue the next morning. Honey Granger was meeting him here.

He hadn’t slept the night before for stewing over the fact that she was coming back to town. He didn’t exactly know why that thought unnerved him, but it did.

His first instinct had been to call his family together and relay the news about Granger’s death, but he’d kept the information between the ME, his deputy, Mitchell Bronson, and himself.

Telling his mother and brothers would dredge up all the pain again.

He also wanted to verify the cause of death. Everyone in town knew that his mother hated Granger, which would no doubt lay suspicion on her. Truthfully on his entire family.

He wasn’t ready to deal with that suspicion or to throw his mother and siblings into the line of fire.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he climbed from his SUV onto the hot asphalt and walked toward the hospital. The morgue and ME’s office were located in the basement. Already the noonday sun was beating down full force and the temperature was climbing.

His phone buzzed. Dr. Weinberger. He punched Connect. “Sheriff Hawk.”

“Harrison, Honey Granger is here.”

“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I just parked.” He ended the call and took a deep breath as he entered the hospital. The image of Honey Granger at sixteen with her golden-blond hair, big brown eyes and long legs made his gut tighten.

As a teenager she’d been pretty but homely, with her ragged secondhand clothes. The popular girls had been mean to her, and the boys had joked about getting into her pants. Two football players had made a bet to see who could screw her first.

A foul taste settled in Harrison’s mouth. She had definitely gotten a bad rap.

Oddly his little sister was the one who’d stood up for Honey instead of him. He wasn’t proud of that.

Chrissy had liked Honey’s flashy clothes, jewelry and makeup.

But their mother had forbidden her from hanging out with the girl, saying Honey was too old to be friends with Chrissy and that Honey looked like a tramp.

When Honey left town abruptly after high school, rumors surfaced that she’d gotten pregnant and had gone away to have the baby.

He’d hoped that wasn’t true, that she’d found a better life.

The air-conditioning hit him as he entered the hospital, stark against the blazing summer heat. He strode to the elevator and rode down to the basement, the scent of cleaner and antiseptic was strong as he walked down the hall to the ME’s office.

The receptionist waved him in. When he’d phoned Honey, she’d obviously been shocked at the news of her father’s death and hadn’t said much.

He had no idea what to expect today. Granger was her father and the only family she had left. He was surprised she hadn’t asked for more details, but everyone reacted differently to bad news. She probably would be asking now.

And he needed to find out the answers.

He knocked then eased open the door to Weinberger’s office. Dr. Weinberger stood and nodded in greeting, then Harrison’s gaze fell on Honey.

The teenager with the too-flashy clothes had disappeared.

This woman wore jeans with a silky-looking deep blue top and strappy heels that made her legs look endlessly long. Her hair was just as blond and golden looking, her big brown eyes smoldering hot, sensual, like liquid pools a man could drown in.

His gut clenched. Dammit she was...beautiful. In a wholesome, almost-innocent way.

“Honey?” He offered his hand.

Her hand trembled as she placed her slender palm in his. Heat rippled through him at her touch.

A wary look flashed in her eyes, and she rubbed her palm on her jeans as if she’d felt it, too. Then her soft lips pressed into a thin line, and a frown darkened her face.

“We were waiting on you,” Dr. Weinberger said. “I explained to Honey that she doesn’t need to make an ID, that we recognized her father, and DNA confirms it’s Waylon. But if she wants to see him, that’s fine, too.”

Harrison arched a brow, waiting on Honey’s response. He needed time to get his reaction to her under control.

Their past was way too complicated for him to be attracted to her now.

* * *

HONEY QUICKLY AVERTED her gaze from Harrison.

Good heavens. She’d thought he was cute when he was seventeen, but he was so handsome now he could bring a woman to her knees.

He’d morphed into a mountain of a man with big, broad shoulders, a muscular body, the deepest amber eyes she’d ever seen and an all-gruff, masculine exterior. His tanned skin and dark hair accentuated his high cheekbones, square jaw and the cleft in his chin.

He had dimples, too, when he smiled, although that smile had disappeared after his sister went missing. It was still gone.

In fact, his frown suggested he found her lacking.

His mother’s hateful words had been imprinted in her brain forever. “You’re trash, Honey Granger. You’re not welcome at Hawk’s Landing. My daughter is not going to associate with the likes of you.”

“Have you decided on arrangements?” Harrison asked, jarring her from the painful memories.

Honey shrugged. “According to Daddy’s lawyer, Truitt Bennings, my father wanted to be cremated.” She was surprised that her father had a will, but grateful he did. He’d left the house to her. Owning it outright would make it easier to sell.

She didn’t intend to stay in this town any longer than necessary.

“I can call the crematory for you if you want,” Dr. Weinberger offered.

“Thank you,” Honey said. “I’d appreciate that.”

Dr. Weinberger gave her a sympathetic smile. “Do you want to see him now?”

Did she? No. When she’d left town, she’d sworn never to see or speak to him again.

But some inner voice beckoned her to at least say goodbye. After all, he was her father. And he hadn’t deserted her as her mother had, although some could argue that drinking himself into a stupor was his way of abandoning her and reality.

She stood, lifting her chin and putting on a brave face. “Yes. Let’s get it over with.”

Harrison and the doctor exchanged an odd look, but neither commented. She almost asked what was going on, but decided they’d probably discussed her before she’d arrived. Gossip in small towns was hard to overcome. For all she knew, everyone in Tumbleweed knew of her arrival.

She lifted her chin. Dammit, she didn’t care what the people here thought of her anymore. She’d made herself a new life, and she was proud of who she’d become.

Still, their quiet looks made her uneasy and reminded her of the reason she hated Tumbleweed.

Dr. Weinberger led her from the office through a set of double doors past a room labeled Autopsy, then into a smaller space. She took a deep breath to brace herself, then followed him over to a steel gurney. The room was so cold that she shivered.

Her father lay beneath the draped cloth.

The ME stepped to the opposite side of the table. “Are you ready, Ms. Granger?”

She nodded.

He pulled the cloth away from her father’s face, but she didn’t react. It was as if she was looking at a stranger, someone she’d met years ago, someone who hadn’t meant anything to her. Age had turned his hair gray, carved deep lines in his craggy face, and he’d lost weight. The yellowish-gray pallor of his skin coupled with the bruises on his face looked stark beneath the harsh lighting.

“What happened?” she asked. She’d assumed it was the liquor, but his face looked like he’d been in a bar fight.

The doctor shifted. Beside her, Harrison’s breath puffed into the air. “I found him at Dead Man’s Bluff.”

Honey looked at him for confirmation. “Why was he there?”

“I don’t know,” Harrison said.

“How did he die?” Honey asked.

“Cause of death was head trauma,” Dr. Weinberger said.

“So he was drunk and fell?” Honey said, disgusted.

A tense second passed. Harrison cleared his throat. “He didn’t simply fall, Honey. It looks like he was struck by a rock then pushed over the edge.”

Shock bolted through Honey. “You mean someone murdered him?”

“I’m sorry,” Harrison said. “But yes, it looks that way.”

Now she understood the odd looks between the men.

Her mind began to race. Her father hadn’t had any friends in town. A lot of people didn’t like him, but no one hated him enough to kill him.

Except...

Her gaze met Harrison’s. Except for his family.

* * *

HARRISON SAW THE wheels in Honey’s mind turning. She was jumping to the same conclusion that everyone else would—that one of his family members might be responsible.

“Do you know who pushed him?” she asked, tactfully avoiding an accusation.

He didn’t have the answer to that question.

“Not yet.”

He would find the truth, though. That was his damn job.

“Would you like a few minutes alone?” Dr. Weinberger asked.

Another tense heartbeat passed. Honey twisted her hands together, looking fragile for a moment, then she gave a slight nod.

“Let us know if you need anything,” the ME said.

For some reason, Harrison was reluctant to leave her alone. She’d grown up in a house filled with turmoil. Had suffered at the hands of her mother and father. Had left nearly two decades ago.

And now she’d traveled back here alone to say goodbye to the man who’d failed her.

Compassion for her made him reach out and squeeze her arm. “Are you okay?”

A sad smile curved her mouth. “Of course. I’ll just be a minute.”

Harrison nodded, then followed the medical examiner into the hallway. Worried about her, he turned and watched her through the window in the door, unable to leave.

“She seems to be handling it okay,” Dr. Weinberger said in a low voice.

Either that or she was good at acting. He had a feeling Honey Granger had done a lot of that over the years—pretending the rumors and gossip hadn’t hurt her. But deep-seated pain colored her eyes.

He had the sudden need to make things right for her. To strip her of the anguish she was suffering.

But he didn’t have a clue as to how to do that.

Besides, she would probably leave town as soon as she handled the details surrounding her father’s death, the cremation and possibly the sale of his house. Unless she decided to move back and live in it.

A sardonic chuckle rumbled in his throat. He didn’t see that happening. Ever.

“Did you find any forensics?” Harrison asked.

Weinberger crossed his arms. “Slivers of rock and dirt were embedded in the back of Granger’s head where he was struck. My guess is that he was hit with a rock from the bluff.”

Harrison shifted. “That would imply the murder wasn’t premeditated, that something happened on that ledge that triggered the other party to attack.”

He’d have to go back to the bluff, look for that rock, see if there were fingerprints on it.

“Anything else?” Harrison asked.

“Dirt under his fingernails and a short brown hair.”

Harrison gave a nod. “Send it to the lab. That hair may belong to our killer.”

Chapter Three

Her father had been murdered.

That fact echoed in Honey’s head as if someone was pounding the words inside her skull.

Who had killed her father? And why?

Emotions welled in her chest as she studied his cold body. Eighteen years had aged him, but the alcohol had intensified the process, adding another ten years. The bruises and contusions on his face looked stark beneath the lights. His skin was a sallow yellow, lips a bluish purple, eyes closed as if...as if he was at peace.

Maybe he finally was. She’d never understood the reason he drank so heavily, why his moods changed erratically, and she’d blamed herself. He missed her mother... He hadn’t wanted a child... He didn’t know how to raise a daughter, especially alone... She’d been a bad kid.

On a more rational level, as an adult, she realized he’d battled inner demons that she knew nothing about; that alcoholism was a disease. But his behavior and his rejection had hurt.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she ached with a sudden longing to go back in time. To a time when she was little, and he’d carried her fishing at the pond. He’d surprised her that day by packing a picnic and taking her on a canoe ride. For a couple of hours she’d felt like she had a real family. He’d taught her how to cast a fishing rod and laughed when she’d been squeamish over baiting her own hook with worms.

Yet that precious memory had been ruined when he’d pulled out a bottle of whiskey, consumed most of it and passed out in the sun. She’d fished alone and played at the edge of the water and pretended everything was okay. She’d gotten good at pretending.

But then night set in and the wilderness had seemed vast and lonely and...creepy. She’d been terrified as darkness encroached and the howl of coyotes had echoed around her. She’d shaken him to wake him up so they could go home, but he’d been belligerent, cursed her then backhanded her for crying.

He’d also been so inebriated that he’d woven all over the road and nearly crashed into another car head-on. He’d blamed that on her, as well.

She shivered. When they’d finally made it home, she ran into her bedroom, locked the door and hid there all night and half of the next day, too afraid to come out and face his wrath.

Honey straightened, banishing the memory to the attic of her mind with the other troubling ones that she’d packed away. No use dwelling on them. You had to play with the cards you’d been dealt.

She’d accepted her father for what he was long ago, but a sliver of hope had remained that one day he might change and she’d have the loving, caring father she’d always wanted.

Now any chance of that was lost forever.

Resigned and swallowing back tears, she placed her hand against his cheek. His skin felt leathery, rough, cold in death. She had an insane urge to kiss his cheek, but refrained.

Instead she whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy,” and left the room, shutting out this image and the pain as the door closed behind her.

* * *

HARRISON CONTEMPLATED HIS conversation with the ME. If they identified Granger’s killer, he could solve this case quickly. Then Honey could leave and take her tempting, pretty little butt with her.

Harrison phoned the crime scene investigator and spoke with the lead CSI, Roger Watkins. “Did you find any forensics at the bluff where Waylon Granger’s body was discovered?”

“Nothing on the ledge. No definitive footprints, either. We did collect a button. Looks like it came from a flannel shirt. Not Granger’s and no print on it.”

“Hell, it could have been there no telling how long.”

But he had to revisit the crime scene. If Granger had been hit by a rock, the perp could have tossed it far enough away so CSI hadn’t found it. That rock could be key evidence.

The door opened and Honey appeared. Harrison’s gut tightened at the strain on her face.

“I should be finished with the autopsy by tomorrow, then I’ll contact the crematorium,” Dr. Weinberger said.

“Thanks.” Honey folded her arms around her waist. “I’ll be at my father’s house for a couple of days. I’m going to see what needs to be done to get it on the market.” She lifted her gaze to Harrison, a world of old hurts flashing in her big eyes, then directed her comment to the ME. “Harrison—the sheriff—has my number if you need me.”

Dr. Weinberger gave a quick nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll walk you out, Honey,” Harrison said as she started toward the door.

She stiffened as he fell into step beside her, and they walked down the hall and rode the elevator in silence. Even though the heat was stifling, Harrison welcomed the fresh air as they stepped outside. Honey’s shoulders relaxed, too.

He followed her to a white minivan emblazoned with a graphic of a house and a company name, Honey’s Home Makeovers.

“You own your own business?” Harrison asked.

The anger on Honey’s face dissipated slightly and a small smile titled her lips. “Yes. Don’t sound so surprised.”

Her defensive tone made him feel like a heel. “I didn’t mean it like that.” He shifted on the balls of his feet, hoping she’d elaborate but she didn’t.

The familiar wary expression returned. “You said my father was pushed over that ledge. Do you have any idea who did it?”

Her gaze met his, the past once again creating an impenetrable barrier between them.

“I’m investigating.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.

She studied him for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to see that smile again, and found himself wondering if she had someone special in her life, someone she graced with that smile all the time.

If she did, the guy was a lucky man.

She hit the key fob to unlock her van, and he closed his fingers around the handle to open the door. His arm brushed hers, and she startled, then stepped away from him as if he’d burned her.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She shrugged as if she realized she’d overreacted. Then she slid into the driver’s seat.

He caught the door with his hand before she could close it. “Did you and your father stay in touch?”

She heaved a breath, filled with wary resignation, then shook her head. “No, I haven’t spoken to him in years. Why? You don’t think I had something to do with his death?”

He should consider that theory, but no, it hadn’t occurred to him. “No,” he said honestly.

“Good,” she said sharply. “Because I have a life in Austin, Harrison. I have my own business and love what I do. When I left here, I left everything behind. That included my father.” She clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip. “No matter how much I despised him, there’s no way I would have jeopardized my career to get back at him, especially now.” A sad expression washed over her face. “He wasn’t worth it.”

She started the engine, pressed the gas and sped from the parking lot.

Harrison stood for a moment, absorbing her statement. Sad that she didn’t feel more grief toward the old man. But then again, Granger didn’t deserve it.

He glanced toward the mountain. Remembering that the murder weapon was most likely a rock, he walked to his SUV, climbed in and drove to Dead Man’s Bluff. He parked, then scanned the area, tormented by the memory of that fateful night Chrissy went missing. The fact that her body hadn’t been found should have given him hope that she was alive, but...he knew the odds.

Was her disappearance somehow tied to Waylon Granger’s murder? He didn’t see how it could be.

But he had to know.

He pulled on latex gloves and climbed from his SUV. The sun beat down on him as he combed the parking area and weeds beside it. He searched the overgrown bushes flanking the old mine, and the weeds jutting up by the swimming hole.

Nothing.

Of course the killer could have tossed the rock into the swimming hole and it could be under water. The wind whistled from the cave, that ghostly sound that stirred the rumors surrounding the place, and he retrieved his flashlight from the truck.

Determined to explore all possible avenues before diving into the swimming hole, he crept inside the entrance to the mine. It was dark as hell inside, cold, and smelled of wet moss, dirt and decay. The scent of urine was almost overpowering, suggesting that curiosity seekers not only ventured inside but used it as a bathroom, too.

Ignoring the stench, he raked the flashlight along the wall and searched the floor. The opening was clear. Cigarette butts, beer bottles and evidence of discarded drug paraphernalia.

He picked up a stick and raked away some of the trash then made his way to the corner where he found an old sleeping bag, two empty tin cans that had held beans and a metal coffee mug. Had someone been living inside?

He shone the light along the wall and spotted a small cluster of rocks in a circular pattern. Burned sticks lay in a pile of ashes in the middle.

His light illuminated the corner of the pile, and he noticed a rock shoved into the debris. He stooped down and raked away the ashes with a stick.

It definitely was a rock, a sharp, jagged one. He peered closer. Something red stained the side of the stone.

He pulled the rock from the pile and examined it. It was almost as large as his hand and could have been used as a weapon.

He sniffed the red substance. It was sticky and held a metallic odor—definitely blood.

Granger’s? He’d have it tested.

Pulse jumping, he carried it from the cave, bagged it and stowed it in his truck. If there were prints on it, he might be able to nail the killer.

His gut tightened with dread.

He hadn’t yet told his family about Granger’s death. It was time he did.

He glanced at the rock on the seat of his truck with trepidation. He just hoped he didn’t find one of their prints on that rock.

* * *

HONEY PASSED THE sheriff’s office as she drove through Tumbleweed. She couldn’t believe Harrison Hawk was sheriff. She’d expected him to leave this small town for something bigger and better. Harrison was smart, had been popular, had girls swooning over him.

His bad-boy sexy, flirty ways had been appealing. But after his sister disappeared, he’d become angry, moody and sullen.

His close-knit family had fallen apart.

Several mothers and their children played in the park at the edge of town where they’d added splash pads for the kids to cool off in the summer heat. Her heart squeezed as a little girl in pigtails with pink ribbons flying in the wind ran toward her mother and threw her arms around her.

Ribbons... Chrissy had loved ribbons in her hair and had collected a box of assorted colors.

Honey turned down the side street that led to Lower Tumbleweed, the street where her father lived. Technically the area was named Lower Tumbleweed because it sat in the lower valley. Although the name held another connotation, implying the families who lived there were lower-class. The families on the street were poor—the children received free lunches and free dental care, and they lived off food stamps.

Taunts from other kids about Lower Tumbleweed echoed in her head.

God, how she’d hated the cruel comments. Had hated that the kids at school knew so much about her. Worse, that the gossip about her mother being a tramp and her father a drunk were true.

At least her best friend at the time, Cora Zimmerman, had a mother who worked hard for a living. Not that Cora hadn’t gotten teased, too, but at least her mother’s job at the hair salon had been reputable.

She hadn’t thought about Cora in a long time and wondered where she was now.

The street sign for her father’s road had been run over and lay on the ground. Tire tracks marred the faded green metal. She knew the turn, though, and made it, her throat filling with disgust when she spotted the dilapidated, run-down houses and yards.

The houses had been small and worn eighteen years ago. Weather and lack of care had sent them downhill. Porches were sagging, boards rotting, paint peeling off, concrete driveways cracking, shutters dangling askew.

Weeds and dead bushes choked the yards, and debris from a recent storm littered what had once been grass. Most of the houses were vacant now, and a couple were boarded up as if they’d been condemned.

Her father’s sat like an eyesore at the end of the street. The once-white wood had yellowed, and her father had substituted a lone brick to replace the broken steps to the porch. She sighed as she parked, and ran a hand through her hair.

She bought houses like this and completely renovated them, turning them into showcases. For a brief second an image of gorgeous little bungalows filled her vision. She could make this neighborhood into something to be proud of.

But every house needed to be gutted.

Sweat beaded on her neck as she climbed from the van.

No. She would not think about renovating the neighborhood. She didn’t intend to stay here a minute longer than necessary. And she sure as hell didn’t care if someone bulldozed every house on the street.

Tomorrow she’d talk to the local real estate agent and see if any investors were interested in the properties.

But tonight she had to stay here.

The thought sent dread through her. How was she going to sleep in this nasty place? It had been bad enough as a child before she’d known better.

She should have booked a room at the local inn, but she hadn’t wanted to announce her arrival or come face-to-face with anyone else from her past.

Squaring her shoulders, she decided to check out the inside first. If it was unlivable, she’d try the inn.

Weeds clawed at her legs as she walked up to the porch. She climbed the makeshift brick step, then dodged holes in the floor as she crossed to the door. She jiggled it and it opened easily, then she stepped inside.

Nausea flooded her as her childhood rushed back. Images of her parents fighting hit her, along with the strong odor of cigarettes and booze.

It was a gut job. The threadbare sofa and chair her father had had when she lived here was falling apart. Cigarette ashes and empty liquor bottles testified to the fact that he hadn’t changed his ways.

The kitchen was outdated, the cabinets sad looking, the Formica kitchen table and counters greasy and splattered with food stains.

Anger at her father for letting the place reach such disrepair railed inside her. She’d seen worse on jobs, but this had once been her home, albeit a dysfunctional one, but at least it hadn’t been filthy. Because she had cleaned it.

She passed the kitchen, then stopped in the hallway in front of her father’s bedroom. The faded chenille spread remained, stained and dotted with cigarette burns. The metal bed was rusty, the curtains dingy, her father’s work boots and clothes piled on a chair in the corner.

She forced herself to go into her old room. He hadn’t changed the pink-and-white-gingham bedspread or curtains. Her teddy bear and dolls still sat on the shelf on the wall. She spotted the jewelry box she’d gotten for Christmas the year before her mother left, picked it up and sank onto the bed.

The springs creaked beneath her weight. Her mother had loved costume jewelry and had given Honey some of her pieces when she’d grown tired of them. Honey had called them her treasures and had played dress up in them, pretending to be glamorous.

A bitter chuckle rumbled from her chest.

She’d never been glamorous. Instead her attempts at dressing up her homely clothes as a teenager had only made her look cheap. No wonder Harrison’s mother hadn’t wanted Chrissy around her.

Unable to resist, she opened the jewelry box to see what was left of the costume jewelry.

Instead her heart leaped.

On top of the pop beads and clunky gold-and-rhinestone pieces lay a yellow ribbon.

Nausea churned in her stomach.

Chrissy had been wearing yellow ribbons the night she’d disappeared.

Chapter Four

Honey draped the shiny bright yellow satin across her hand. An image of Chrissy’s pigtails, tied with yellow ribbons, flashed behind her eyes.

Little Chrissy singing, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” as she skipped across the yard.

One day it would be yellow ribbons, the next day purple or red or blue.

Sometimes she wore ribbons of different colors and called them her rainbow hair.

She had been such a happy kid, all smiles and singing and curiosity. She had sneaked over to Honey’s one day and asked Honey to show her how to wear makeup. Honey had thought it was sweet. Since the little girl only had brothers, she’d figured Chrissy needed a female in her life to teach her girl things.

In spite of Chrissy’s pleas for layers of blush, eye shadow and lipstick, Honey had brushed her cheeks with a light powder, applied a pale pink gloss on her lips, then a very faint dusting of sparkly white eye shadow. Chrissy had thought she was beautiful.

But Chrissy’s mother had stormed over to Honey’s that night and ordered her to stay away from Chrissy. Mrs. Hawk finished by saying she didn’t intend to allow Honey to make Chrissy look like a tramp.

Tears blurred Honey’s eyes. She’d realized then that the gossip about her mother and father extended to her, and that she would never fit into the same social circle as people like Harrison Hawk and his family.

She’d also made up her mind to leave town as soon as she was old enough to get a job.

And she had.

She blinked to clear her vision and the memory. The yellow ribbon mocked her with questions, though.

How had it gotten in Honey’s jewelry box?

If Chrissy was wearing this ribbon the night she disappeared, that meant whoever had killed her must have taken it. Which made it even more curious as to how it had gotten in her own jewelry box.

Rumors had spread that Chrissy had come to see Honey the night she went missing, and that Honey’s father had done something to her. Honey had hated her father, but she didn’t think he would have hurt Chrissy.

But this ribbon... What if her father had done something to Chrissy?

If so, why would he have kept the ribbon?

She’d never seen it before, and she’d used her jewelry box plenty of times after Chrissy went missing.

Maybe her father had hidden it, then after Honey moved out, he stashed it in the jewelry box, thinking that if anyone searched the premises and found it, they’d think it belonged to Honey.

Her hand trembled, the ribbon dangling between her fingers. If her father or Chrissy’s abductor/killer had taken this ribbon, their fingerprints might be on it.

And she’d just contaminated it with her own.

Indecision warred in her mind. What should she do? She’d spent her childhood hiding her family’s dirty little secrets. She could just stuff the ribbon back in the jewelry box and no one would ever know about it.

If she showed it to Harrison, he and everyone in town would assume, even believe, that her father was guilty of...murdering Chrissy.

Her stomach roiled. But could she keep quiet?

The Hawk family had been tormented for years, wondering what had happened to their little girl. They’d probably imagined a hundred different awful scenarios.

Although Mrs. Hawk hadn’t liked Honey, Honey still had compassion for the woman and her family.

This ribbon might help them find the truth.

They deserved to have closure, didn’t they?

* * *

HARRISON DREADED THE conversation with his family. Their dinners were meant to keep the family close, although Chrissy’s disappearance had thrown a permanent kink in their relationships.

No dinner, holiday or amount of alcohol could smooth over the awkward tension between the brothers and their mother.

Still, he had to tell his family about Granger’s death. Warn them that even if he didn’t ask questions, others would.

Warn them that even though they might not have liked the man, it was Harrison’s job to investigate his murder.

His phone buzzed just as he climbed inside his SUV. He checked the number. Honey Granger.

What did she want? Answers about her father’s death?

Or maybe news about his body and what to do next?

The phone buzzed again, and he pressed Connect. “Sheriff Hawk.”

Breathing rattled over the line. “Hello?”

“Harrison, it’s me. Honey.”

Her voice sounded shaky. Uncertain.

“Yes?”

“I...have to show you something. I don’t know what it means or if it means anything, but, well, can you come out to my house? I mean, my father’s house.”

Harrison gritted his teeth. He had to deal with her, find her father’s killer. But seeing her was difficult. It resurrected memories he’d tried to forget. And another kind of guilt—he should have stood up for Honey when his mother had judged her.

“Can you come?” Honey asked again.

“I’ll be right there.” Harrison’s pulse clamored as he started the engine and drove toward the Granger’s house. He phoned his deputy and asked him to do rounds around town.

Harrison had to be at his mother’s house for dinner and drop the bombshell about Granger before she and his brothers heard the news from the local grapevine.

In a small town like Tumbleweed, word spread as quickly as butter melting on hot Texas pavement.

Night shadows hovered along the streets as he drove, the gray sky dark and desolate as he veered onto the road to Lower Tumbleweed. The yards were overgrown with weeds, the houses deserted, dilapidated and in need of repairs.

The neighborhood certainly didn’t look welcoming or inviting to an outsider. The place probably held bad memories for Honey. An image of Honey, thin and wearing hand-me-downs two sizes too big for her, haunted him. She’d looked tiny and lost and lonely. She’d also been smart enough to understand the whispers and stares from the other kids.

No wonder she’d left town and never looked back.

He winced at the rotting porch with the brick for a makeshift step, then parked in the drive behind her van. Admiration for her for owning her own business mushroomed inside him. He didn’t know how she’d done it, but he was proud of her for overcoming the obstacles her family had put in front of her. She’d made a success of herself in spite of adversity, an admirable accomplishment in his book.

He glanced around the unkempt yard and at the peeling paint on the weathered house and wondered what Honey planned to do with the place. Sell it as it was or fix it up then sell? Judging from the lack of curb appeal and run-down condition of the homes, the comps would be low.

Curiosity over Honey’s call nagged at him as he walked up to the front door. He raised his fist and knocked. A second later, she opened the door. Anxiety and some other emotion he couldn’t quite define streaked her face.

Alarm bells clanged in his head. “Honey, is everything all right?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, Harrison. I...honestly don’t know.”

He forced his expression to remain professional. “Let me come in and then you can explain.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, then stepped aside and motioned for him to enter. He scanned the living area. A mess. Granger had let everything go. Judging from the number of empty liquor and beer bottles, drinking had been his priority just as it had been when Honey lived here.

When she reached the sofa, she picked up what looked like a child’s jewelry box, and ran her fingers over the rosewood design.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

She took a deep breath, then gestured toward the jewelry box. “This... I was looking through things after I got home, trying to sort out my father’s stuff and what was left of mine. I have to decide what to do with it all.”

He nodded. “And?”

Misery darkened her eyes. “I found this.” She pushed the jewelry box into his hands.

He narrowed his eyes, confused.

“Open it,” she said tightly.

An uneasy feeling rolled through him. Whatever she’d found had upset her.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I’m not sure what it means, but I had to show it to you.”

He frowned, but slowly lifted the lid to the jewelry box. A slip of bright yellow caught his eyes.

A yellow ribbon. Just like the one his sister was wearing the night she disappeared.

“It was hers, wasn’t it?” Honey asked in a choked voice.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. The turmoil in her eyes mirrored how he felt at the moment. “It looks like Chrissy’s. My brother said she was wearing yellow ones the night she disappeared.”

“I know.” Honey bit down on her lower lip.

“Did she come to your house that night?” Harrison asked.

Honey’s hand trembled as she rubbed her temple. “If she did, I didn’t see her,” she said in a raw whisper.

“Don’t lie to me, Honey. I know you wouldn’t have hurt Chrissy, but if you know something about your father...”

Tension escalated between them. “I don’t. And if I did, I’d tell you. I want to know what happened to Chrissy, too.”

The agony in her voice tore at him.

Of course the questions over Chrissy’s disappearance had ripped her life inside and out, too.

“You really want the truth?” he asked gruffly.

She nodded. “We all deserve closure,” she said softly.

That was one thing they agreed on.

“I’m sorry, but my fingerprints are on the ribbon,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking at first. But I’m sure you want to analyze it. If my dad’s are there...”

Then that would mean that her father had touched the ribbon. That he’d either found it or taken it after he’d killed her.

He’d send it to the lab ASAP.

Two scenarios entered Harrison’s mind. The first—Granger killed Chrissy and hid her body at the bluff. Then he’d returned to visit her.

But where had he hidden her? And why revisit her body now after all these years?

And if he had, who had killed him? Someone who’d discovered what he’d done?

Scenario two—Granger had been at the bluff and either stumbled on Chrissy’s body or he stumbled on the killer, and the killer murdered him to keep him quiet.

* * *

HONEY COULD BARELY look at Harrison.

“Thank you for calling me, Honey,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your honesty.”

Honesty?

More guilt bombarded her. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d been at the bluff that night, too. That if she’d been home, she’d know if Chrissy had come by. And she’d know if her father had done something to Chrissy or if he’d been passed out all evening.

His jaw tightened. “What if I find out that your father killed Chrissy?”

Honey sucked in a sharp breath. She and her father hadn’t been close, but shame engulfed her. “Then we’ll know.”

The darkness in his eyes, a darkness filled with anger and pain, was a reminder that he and his family blamed her for his sister’s disappearance.

If her father had killed Chrissy, he had a right to blame her.

Harrison shrugged. “The search parties never found anything belonging to my sister. Not her backpack or the pink jacket she was wearing or any clothing.”

Honey thought back to the gossip after that night. “Some people thought that was a good sign. They thought she ran away and—”

“She didn’t run away,” Harrison said. “Chrissy may have argued with me and my brothers but she was afraid of the dark and wouldn’t have gone out that night if Brayden hadn’t convinced her to sneak out.” He swallowed hard. “She was also attached to a stuffed doll that she won at a rodeo with my parents. She couldn’t sleep without that rag doll.” He paused, pain riddling his face. “If she was going to run away, she would have taken the doll.”

Now that he mentioned it, Honey remembered the rag doll with the big blue painted eyes and red braided pigtails.

Honey had envied that doll because Chrissy had something Honey didn’t—the innocence of childhood, which allowed her to play with dolls like a normal little girl.

Only Chrissy had lost her innocence—and maybe her life—that night.

“If you find any of those things, let me know.”

“Of course,” Honey said.

“Do you mind if I search the house?” Harrison asked.

Honey stiffened. “Go ahead. I’m not hiding anything.”

His stormy gaze met hers, then he carried the ribbon to his SUV and returned with a flashlight.

Honey’s phone buzzed just as he stepped back inside.

Her business partner, Jared.

She couldn’t stand to watch Harrison comb through her father’s house and her own personal childhood belongings, so she stepped outside to answer the phone.

“I have to take this,” she said as he started to search her father’s dresser drawers. She said a prayer he wouldn’t find anything else belonging to Chrissy as she rushed outside to the front porch.

“How are things?” Jared asked.

“Not good.” Honey bowed her head and fought the panic setting in.

“What happened?”

She hadn’t shared her past with Jared, and she didn’t want to now. “I just don’t like being in my father’s house.”

He murmured that he understood. “When will you be back?”

A heaviness weighed on her. She’d felt trapped here as a teenager. She felt trapped now.

She couldn’t leave until she had answers, until she knew who’d murdered her father.

Until she knew if he was a killer.

Chapter Five

An hour later Harrison met Honey on the porch. “I’d like to come back during the day and look around the property.”

Honey paled. “You think my father killed Chrissy and buried her here?”

Harrison shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, Honey. But considering you found one of her ribbons, it’s possible.”

Honey clenched her hands together. She couldn’t argue that point. “All right. Just let me know what time.”

“I will.” He studied her for another moment. He wanted to comfort her, but he had to do his job and it involved investigating her father. That was reality.

Just as reality meant that he had to talk to his family. Tonight.

For both their sakes, he hoped her father hadn’t buried Chrissy on the Grangers’ property.

He climbed into his SUV and cranked up the air as he drove toward the county lab. He dropped the ribbon off with instructions to send the results to his office ASAP.

Dark had set in as he drove through the entrance to Hawk’s Landing. His father had first been drawn to the land because of the birds of prey that flocked to the south end. He claimed it was a sign that this land was meant to belong to him and that he was meant to build a family ranch on the property. He had insisted they keep a section as a natural habitat and sanctuary for the birds.

When he was a kid and needed time alone, Harrison used to ride his horse out to the corner of the property and watch the hawks soar. After Chrissy’s disappearance, he’d found himself out there a lot.

His father had a huge wooden sign carved with the emblem of a hawk and had hung it over the gate to the ranch as a reminder of the birds.

Harrison checked his watch as he parked in the drive to his mother’s Georgian home. He was half an hour late. His mother wouldn’t be happy.

He wasn’t happy, either.

Memories of playing on the property drifted back—fishing in the creek out back with his brothers, building the tree house with his father, playing horseshoes and baseball in the backyard.

So long ago.

All those fun times had ended abruptly when Chrissy disappeared. The house hadn’t felt like a home but a tomb. The quiet had resounded with fear and grief. His mother had become a zombie. His father, angry all the time.

He’d shut down and his brothers had each retreated into their own rooms, silent and worried and alone.

Their vehicles were here now, though. When their father left, they’d formed an unspoken bond, knowing it was their job to take care of their mother. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d survived.

Surviving was a long way from being whole, though.

Flowers filled the beds in front of the house, the roses climbing the trellis on the side a reminder that his mother loved gardening. It had become her therapy and filled her time.

He walked up the stone path to the door, his nerves on edge as he buzzed the doorbell. He didn’t bother to wait for his mother to answer, though. He pushed open the door, slipped inside and removed his Stetson.

Voices sounded from the dining room, and he crossed the foyer, passed the living room and stepped into the dining room.

Lucas, Dexter and Brayden had gathered at the highboy, each with a drink in hand. Lucas had joined the FBI, Dexter had opened his own detective agency and Brayden was a lawyer.

He might need their help on the case. Maybe he could explain before he talked to their mother.

She bustled in a second later, her arms laden with food, and gave him a pointed look. “It’s about time you got here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s been a busy day.”

She set a plate of roast on the table, then mashed potatoes and gravy, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I guess it has. I heard you found Waylon Granger dead at the bluff.”

Surprise made him stiffen. He glanced at his brothers but they looked at him stoically.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” his mother said. “I’m just glad that man is dead.”

* * *

THE QUESTIONS AND worry needling Honey made her feel restless and on edge. She stared at her father’s house with a knot in her stomach.

Even exhausted, there was no way she could sleep right now.

She dug into the cabinet, grabbed some garbage bags and dived into cleaning out the closets. She started in her room and made two piles—one for trash and the other for donations to the local church.

There were very few toys, except for a few stuffed animals and a couple of dolls, so she dusted them off and placed them in the donation bag. The clothes she’d worn as a teenager were plain but someone might be able to use the jeans and flannel shirts. Everything else was either ragged or so frayed that she put them in the trash.

She stripped the gingham bedspread and sheets, then the ratty curtains, and stuffed them into the donation bag. Washed, they could be reused. But if she did anything with this house, she would gut it and stage it with new things to make it look more appealing.

When her room was bare, she moved to her father’s room and did the same. His clothing was old and worn and reeked of smoke. Unable to salvage anything, she shoved everything into trash bags. Work boots, overalls, jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, belts—she didn’t bother to even look at them. No one would want the outdated, threadbare items.

The faded chenille bedspread was marked with cigarette burns and stains, as were his sheets. She rolled the items up and added them to the trash.

She collected all the soda cans, liquor bottles and other trash and carried it to the garbage can outside. The refrigerator reeked of soured milk and several containers of molded food. She cleaned everything out, including the condiments, which had probably been in the fridge for ages.

Thankfully she found a bottle of cleaner beneath the sink so she wiped out the refrigerator and counters, then scrubbed the Formica table.

The small bathroom came next. Shaving cream, used soap and other toiletries went into the trash, along with the nasty shower curtain. If she sold the place, the bathroom would be gutted, too.

But if she was going to stay here until her father’s murder was settled, she had to make the place livable. Even though the bathroom tiles and flooring were outdated, she scrubbed the toilet, sink, tub and walls until they smelled like cleaner.

Her shoulders and muscles ached as she piled the donation bags into her van. She pushed the garbage can to the curb for pickup, then piled the other trash bags beside it.

Tired but needing to get rid of the donation bags, she grabbed her purse and drove to town. She dropped the bags off first, then stopped by the discount store and stocked up on more cleaning supplies, a cheap shower curtain, sheets and a pillow for her bed. She added some scented candles to help alleviate the smoky smell, picked up a case of bottled water, coffee, cereal and milk for breakfast, then headed to the café for dinner.

An older couple had owned it when she lived here, but now it was named Cora’s Café so it had changed owners. Did her former friend Cora own it now?

She was surprised to see that the place had been renovated. It still sported a Western theme, but the oak tables looked new, as did the sky blue curtains. Bar stools jutted up to a counter for extra seating, and country music echoed through the room, a backdrop to the chatter and laughter. A chalkboard showcased a handwritten menu with the specials for the day.

Customers filled the booths and tables, evidenced by the number of cars outside. The scent of fried chicken and apple pie made her stomach growl.

A woman about her age with auburn hair in a pixie cut greeted her. “Honey, I heard you were back in town. I’m sorry about your father.”

She smiled, grateful to see her old friend “Hi, Cora. I was thinking about you today. So you own the café now?”

Cora handed her a menu. “I bought it a couple of years ago and did a makeover. Guess cooking for the family all those years paid off.”

“It looks good.”

“Thanks.” Cora blushed, and Honey smiled, grateful she seemed happy.

She noticed a booth to the far right and started toward it. Suddenly the room grew quiet, though, and an uneasy feeling prickled her spine.

She glanced around and noted several people looking at her.

She’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. When a stranger visited, everyone knew that, too.

She offered them a tentative smile, but memories of being the hub of gossip made her want to run.

* * *

HARRISON GRITTED HIS teeth at the questioning looks from his brothers and his mother. Maybe he should have called and given them a heads-up.

“You didn’t think to tell us before everyone in town knew?” Dexter asked.

Harrison took a deep breath before he responded. “I came here as soon as I could. I don’t know how word leaked. It shouldn’t have.”

“Well, it did.” His mother pushed her bangs off her forehead with a smile. The fact that the hair found at the crime scene was short and brown didn’t escape him. His mother’s hair was short and brown.

Lucas lifted his drink glass in a gesture of offering. “Fix you one and then we’ll toast.”

“What are we toasting?” Harrison asked gruffly.

“That Waylon Granger is dead,” his mother said. “Tumbleweed is better off without him.”

Harrison’s patience was wearing thin. It had been a long damn day. “How can you say that, Mother? Granger was a crappy father, but we don’t have proof he did anything else.” Honey’s face flashed in his mind. She didn’t deserve any of this.

His mother patted his shoulder. “You always were the diplomat, Harrison. But we know, at least I know, that that damned man hurt our Chrissy.”

Harrison glanced at his brothers to see if they were in agreement. Lucas sipped his drink, his expression neutral. Dexter slipped an arm around their mother as if to offer support. Brayden poured himself another drink, then fixed Harrison one and offered it to him.

Harrison took it, struggling to think of a way to defuse the situation. And how to subtly ask his family when they’d last seen Granger.

He sipped the whiskey, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat. “Do any of you have evidence to prove that Granger did something to our sister?”

“Not yet,” Lucas said.

Dexter cleared his throat. “I talked to Waylon’s neighbors but no one remembered seeing Chrissy that night. They couldn’t say he was at home all night, either.”

“When did you talk to them?” Harrison asked.

“As soon as I got my PI license. But three of the families who lived in that neighborhood had already moved.”

Brayden’s look turned dark. “Have you found anything to incriminate him?”

Harrison bit his tongue. He didn’t want to reveal what he’d found or learned; not yet. People would convict Granger—and he wanted the truth, not a vigilante situation.

But his family deserved answers.

“Let’s sit down and eat before dinner gets cold.” His mother ushered them to their usual chairs and for a few minutes, the discussion was put on hold as they served themselves from the platters of roast beef, potatoes and gravy and green beans.

Although Harrison wanted to gulp down his whiskey, he forced himself to eat instead. He still had work to do.

“How did Granger die?” Dexter asked as he forked up a bite of roast.

Harrison studied his family, searching for any sign that one of them already knew the truth. Emotions strained everyone’s faces, as if just mentioning Granger’s name stirred up the horrid memories of the night Chrissy disappeared.

His mother had been near hysterical when she and his father arrived home from their party and discovered Brayden and Chrissy weren’t home.

Harrison had felt sick to his stomach—it was his fault they’d sneaked out. His fault they’d been at the bluff because they’d followed him.

Brayden had raced in on his bike with his ankle swollen, ready to fuss at Chrissy for not sending help, then realized she hadn’t made it back to their house. Fear had ignited tempers, and a lot of screaming and yelling had ensued.

His parents had frantically called Chrissy’s best friends but both of them had been home in bed and hadn’t seen or talked to Chrissy.

His mother dropped her fork with a clatter. “What aren’t you telling us, Harrison?”

His brothers stopped chewing and stared at him as if they, too, realized there was more to the story. Damn.

Harrison took another swig of his whiskey. “Granger didn’t die of natural causes.”

“What?” His mother gasped.

His brothers gave him questioning looks. “What’s going on?” Dexter asked.

Harrison swallowed hard. “He was murdered.”

His mother clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, then lifted her glass of wine. “Well, he got what he deserved.”

Harrison agreed with her. But he still had to find out who killed the man. A silent prayer formed on his lips that his family had nothing to do with it.

* * *

HONEY SLIPPED INTO a booth, hoping to avoid attention. A teenager wearing tattered jeans and a denim shirt appeared, an order pad in her hands. Black square glasses framed a thin, pale face. A sadness radiated from the girl as if she had problems bigger than a teenager should.

Honey felt a kinship with her. At fifteen she’d worked at the Dairy Barn to make money so she could leave town. Did this girl have problems like she’d had? Did she have any family who cared about her?

Had Cora hired her because she wanted to help?

“What can I get you?”

Her name tag read Sonya. “A turkey sandwich and a bowl of that vegetable soup.”

“Sure. What do you want to drink?”

Wine would be nice but the diner didn’t serve it. “Just water. Oh, and a cup of coffee. Decaf, please.” She didn’t need caffeine to keep her awake tonight. It would be hard enough to sleep in her father’s house anyway.

The girl nodded then made her way to the counter and dropped off Honey’s order. She returned a minute later with the coffee and water.

Honey stirred sugar into her mug then sipped it, her gaze scanning the room. Two older couples sat having coffee and pie while a group of teens chowed on burgers and fries at a table near the door.

Three gray-haired women were huddled around a table beside her sipping tea.

“Did you hear that Waylon Granger died at the bluff?” the curly-haired woman with glasses said.

The other two women’s faces expressed surprise.

The thin lady in a blue knit pantsuit leaned over the table, eyes wide. “Really?”

The curly-haired woman clinked her spoon on her teacup. “He sure did. My grandson was up there and found him. Waylon fell over that ridge.”

The third lady clacked her teeth. “Wonder what he was doing up there?”

“Probably drunk,” the thin lady said.

“He was always drunk,” the curly-haired one whispered. “Such a sorry excuse for a man.”

The third lady pushed her pie plate away, the pie half-eaten. “You know the Hawks always thought he killed their little girl, Chrissy?”

Honey averted her face so she didn’t have to look at the women, but their voices reached her anyway.

“I heard that, too,” the curly-haired one said. “He did have a temper.”

“He sure did. I always felt sorry for that girl of his. No wonder she left town.”

“I thought she left because she was pregnant.”

“Could have been.”

Honey sank down in the booth, hoping no one recognized her.

“I figured the Hawks ran her off,” the woman continued. “I heard Ava saying that Granger’s girl was white trash.”

“If you ask me, Ava shouldn’t have been pointing a finger.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the night their little girl went missing, the Hawks were at a party for the mayor.” She paused dramatically. “Steven accused Ava of having an affair.”

The other women gasped. “What?”

“No.”

“They were talking about Chrissy, too. Made me think that she wasn’t Steven’s baby.”

“What did Ava say?”

“I don’t know. They left in a huff.”

Honey tensed. She despised gossip because she’d borne the brunt of it.

But what if the Hawks’ marriage hadn’t been perfect like everyone thought? What if Ava Hawk had had an affair?

What if Chrissy wasn’t Steven Hawk’s child?

Chapter Six

Honey’s head reeled. Harrison’s father had left the family and town a few months after the investigation into Chrissy’s disappearance went cold.

Rumors surfaced then that he had something to do with his daughter’s disappearance. Others whispered that he’d left because the tragedy of losing his daughter had broken his heart.

She drummed her fingers on the table. Now she wondered—had he left because his wife had cheated on him?

The waitress appeared with her soup and sandwich, and Honey thanked her, then dug in. She hadn’t realized she was so hungry but hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was starved.

The women stood, gathering their purses and hats, and Honey sank lower in the booth, angling her face away from them in case they recognized her. The woman in the blue knit pantsuit paused and peered at her, but Honey looked down at her phone to avoid eye contact.

The bell on the door tinkled as it opened and they left, then a tall woman with sharp features entered, a big guy with an awkward gait beside her holding her hand. One of his eyes looked blurry, his mouth twitched and he made an odd, high-pitched sound.

“Let’s sit in that booth, Elden,” the woman said.

Honey straightened. Elden?

She’d known him. Elden Lynch was three years older than she was and mentally challenged. She’d felt sorry for him because the kids at school made fun of him. Worse, some of the parents had been afraid of him and had warned their children away from him. Not that he was mean or violent.

In fact, he was sweet and childlike and just wanted to make friends.

He shuffled past, rocking his head back and forth. It was him, the boy she’d known.

Honey was tempted to say something, but his mother glared at her.

Mrs. Lynch ushered him into a chair. “Stay put, Elden.”

The big woman stepped over to Honey’s booth. “I heard you were back in town.”

Honey tensed at the vehemence in her tone.

“I don’t know if you’re staying around here,” Mrs. Lynch continued, “but if you are, keep away from my son. He doesn’t need any trouble.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Honey said, her voice firm. “I—”

“Then get your sorry daddy buried and leave town,” Mrs. Lynch barked. “Tumbleweed is better off without any of you Grangers.”

Hurt and anger bled through Honey. She wanted to defend her father and herself.

But an image of that yellow ribbon taunted her, and she kept her mouth shut.

When word about that surfaced, people would definitely condemn her father.

It shouldn’t bother her. He had been a sorry drunk.

Elden’s mother didn’t have to worry about her staying. She’d leave as soon as possible.

* * *

“MOTHER,” HARRISON SAID, measuring his words carefully, “I wouldn’t go around telling everyone how glad you are that Waylon Granger is dead.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Why not? I am glad he’s dead.”

“He was murdered,” Harrison said, hoping to drive home his point. “That means there has to be an investigation.”

Brayden’s lawyer instincts quickly kicked in. “He’s warning you not to incriminate yourself, Mother.”

She finished her wine then set the glass on the table with an eyebrow raise. “And you’re the sheriff so you’re going to find out who killed him?”

Harrison nodded. “That’s the way it works.”

“How was he murdered?” Dexter asked.

Harrison wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I don’t have an official statement from the ME, but it appears he was struck on the back of the head with a rock, then pushed over the edge of the ridge.”

Other than his mother’s eyes widening slightly, she showed no reaction.

“You find any forensics?” Lucas asked.

Harrison maintained a neutral expression. “I found a rock that might be the one that struck him. It’s at the lab now, being tested.”

“Anything else?” Brayden asked.

“CSI found a button in the bushes and a short brown hair that was caught on Granger.”

“The teenagers still go up there,” his mother said, ignoring the comment about the brown hair. “That button could be one of theirs.”

Harrison narrowed his eyes. Was his mother trying to cover for herself? “True. But it was close to the ledge, so we’ll test it for prints.”

She tore a roll in half and buttered it.

“Mother, where were you last night?”

Brayden laid his hand over their mother’s. “You don’t have to answer that.”

“Are you asking as my son or as the sheriff?” his mother said quietly.

Emotions clogged Harrison’s throat at the hurt in his mother’s voice. Her screams the night Chrissy went missing echoed in his head, resurrecting guilt and anguish.

How could he interrogate his own mother after what he’d put her through?

She squeezed Brayden’s hand. “It’s all right, Brayden. Actually I don’t mind answering. I was home all night.”

Brayden’s eyes went dark. “Was anyone here with you, Mother? Anyone who can corroborate your story?”

She stiffened. “It’s not a story, it’s the truth. And no one was here. I had one of my migraines so I took a pill and went to bed early.”

“How about phone calls?” Harrison asked.

She sighed. “Like I said, I took a pill and went to bed early. If the phone rang, I didn’t hear it.”

Harrison raked a hand through his hair. Dammit, he wanted her to have a rock-solid alibi.

“I’m not the only one who disliked Waylon Granger,” his mother said.

“But no one else had a motive to kill him,” Harrison pointed out.

“Harrison,” Lucas cut in, his voice hard. “You’re not accusing Mom of murder, are you?”

Harrison folded his arms. “No, but it’s my job to ask questions and find out the truth.”

“The truth is that the town is better off without that lowlife in it,” his mother said curtly.

“We have no proof that he hurt anyone,” Harrison said, testing the waters to see if one of his family members mentioned the ribbon.

“He hurt his own daughter,” Dexter said. “Everyone in Tumbleweed knew that but no one did anything to help her.”

Dexter was right. Someone should have stepped in and protected Honey.

“That girl wasn’t worth saving,” his mother said. “She was white trash just like her mama.”

“She was only a kid.” A trace of bitterness laced his voice. “She never did anything wrong.”

“My God, you’re defending her.” His mother gave him a lethal look. “She probably lied about that night, Harrison. Chrissy always tried to sneak over and see that girl. I bet she did that night but Honey lied to protect her old man.”

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