Rancher’s Redemption

Beth Cornelison

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

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

Copyright

Beth Cornelison started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received a bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.

Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romantic suspense and has won numerous honours for her work, including the coveted Golden Heart award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, travelling, Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.

She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 52505, Shreveport, LA 71135-2505, USA, or visit her website at www.bethcornelison.com.

To my family – you mean everything to me.

Thank you to my critique partner, Diana Duncan, for

her input and encouragement.

Thank you to Heath at Cooper Veterinary Clinic for

answering my questions about equine diseases.

Thank you to Brenda Mott for her help answering

ranching questions.

Thank you to Wally Lind and the crime scene writers

listserve for answering CSI questions.

Thank you to Marie Ferrarella, Justine Davis,

Caridad Piñeiro, Carla Cassidy and Linda Conrad, who

collaborated on THE COLTONS: FAMILY FIRST,

for making this series such fun to work on!

And thank you to Patience Smith and the rest of

the editors who worked on this continuity for the

opportunity to write Clay and Tamara’s story.

Chapter 1

He had a trespasser.

Clay Colton narrowed a wary gaze on the unfamiliar blue sedan parked under a stand of mesquite trees. This corner of the Bar None, Clay’s horse ranch, was as flat as a beer left out in the Texas sun, and he’d spotted the car from half a mile away.

He tapped his dusty white Stetson back from his forehead and wiped his sweaty brow. Finding a strange sedan on his property didn’t sit well with him—especially in light of the recent trouble his sister, Georgie, had endured. He still got sick chills thinking how a woman had broken into his sister’s home, stolen from her, passed herself off as Georgie.

A shiver crawled up Clay’s spine despite the scorching June heat. Esperanza, Texas, his home for all his twenty-six years, had always been a safe place, no real crime to mention. He clicked his tongue and gave his workhorse, Crockett, a little kick. His mount trotted forward, and as he neared the car, Clay saw that the Ford Taurus had crashed into one of the mesquites, crumpling the front fender. A fresh sense of alarm tripped through him.

“Hello? Anyone there?” Clay swung down from Crockett and cautiously approached the car. Visions of an injured, bleeding driver flashed through his mind and bumped his blood pressure higher. “Is anyone there?”

He peered into the driver’s side window. Empty. The car had been abandoned.

Removing his hat, Clay raked sweaty black hair away from his eyes and circled to the back of the sedan. The trunk was ajar, and he glimpsed a white shopping bag inside. Using one finger to nudge open the trunk, Clay checked inside the bag.

His breath caught.

The bag was full of cash.

Intuition, combined with fresh memories of Georgie’s recent brush with identity theft, tickled the nape of Clay’s neck, making the fine hairs stand up. A wrecked and abandoned sedan with a bag of money meant trouble, no matter how you added it up. He stepped back and pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. He dialed his friend Sheriff Jericho Yates’s number from memory.

“Jericho, it’s Clay. I’m out on the southwest corner of my land near the ravine, and I’ve come across an abandoned Taurus. The car hit a mesquite and banged up the front end, but I don’t see any sign of the driver.”

Sheriff Yates grunted. “You don’t see anyone around? Maybe the driver tried to walk out for help.”

Clay scanned the area again, squinting against the bright June sun from under the rim of his Stetson. “Naw. Don’t see anybody. But it gets better. There’s a bag of money in the trunk. A lot of money. Large bundles of bills. Could be as much as a hundred grand.”

He heard Jericho whistle his awe then sigh. “Listen, Clay. Don’t touch anything. Until I determine otherwise, you should consider the car and everything around it a crime scene.”

“Got it.”

“Read me the license plate.”

Clay rattled the numbers off.

Through the phone, Clay heard the squeak of Jericho’s office chair. “Thanks. I’ll run a check on this plate, then I’ll be right out.”

Clay thanked the sheriff and snapped his cell phone closed.

Gritting his teeth, he gave the abandoned sedan another once-over. This was the last thing his family needed. After returning his cell to his hip, Clay climbed back on Crockett and headed toward his original destination—the broken section of fence at the Black Creek ravine. Regardless of where the car and money came from and what the sheriff determined had happened to the driver, Clay had work to do, and the business of ranching waited for nothing.

Several minutes later, the rumble of car engines drew Clay’s attention. He looked up from the barbed wire he’d strung and spotted Jericho’s cruiser and a deputy’s patrol car headed toward the abandoned Taurus. He laid his wire cutters down and shucked his work gloves. Grabbing a fence post for leverage, he climbed out of the steep ravine and strode across the hard, dry earth to meet the sheriff.

Even after all these years, it felt odd to call Jericho “sheriff.” Growing up together, he and Jericho had spent hours fishing and hanging around the local rodeo stables where Clay worked whatever odd jobs he could get. Though they’d never spoken much about it, Clay and Jericho had shared another bond—single-parent homes. Jericho’s mother had left his family when he was seven.

Though Clay had known of his father, Graham Colton, the man had been an absentee father throughout Clay’s childhood. When his mother died, Clay had finished raising his brother and sister while working odd jobs on neighboring ranches. The success both Jericho and Clay had achieved as adults was a testament to their hard work and rugged determination.

Jericho met Clay halfway and extended a hand in greeting. “Clay.”

Shaking his friend’s hand, Clay nodded a hello. “Afternoon, Hoss. So what did you learn about the car?”

Jericho swiped a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s a rental from a little outfit up the road. Reported stolen a few days ago.”

Clay arched a thick eyebrow. “Stolen?” He scowled. “Guess it figures. So now what?”

Jericho squinted in the bright sun and glanced toward the stolen Taurus where one of his deputies was already marking off the area with yellow police tape. “Chances are that money didn’t come from someone’s mattress. Heaven only knows what we could be dealing with here. I’ll call in a crime scene team to do a thorough investigation. Probably San Antonio. They’d be closest.”

A crime scene team.

The words resounded in Clay’s ears like a gong, and he stiffened.

Tamara.

He worked to hide the shot of pain that swept over him as bittersweet memories swamped his brain.

Clay had two regrets in life. The first was his failure with Ryder—the brother he’d helped raise, the brother who’d gone astray and ended up in prison.

His second was his failed marriage. Five years ago, his high-school sweetheart had walked away from their three-year marriage to follow her dream of becoming a crime scene investigator. Clay blamed himself for her leaving. If he’d been more sensitive to her needs, if he could have made her happier, if he could have found a way to—

“Clay? Did ya hear me?” Jericho’s question jolted Clay from his thoughts.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked if you’d altered anything on or around the car before you called me. Say opening a door or moving debris?”

Clay shook his head. “I nudged the trunk open. One finger, on the edge of the trunk hood. Didn’t touch anything else.”

Jericho jerked a nod. “Good. I’ll let the CSI team know. Be sure to tell your men this area is off-limits until we finish our investigation.”

“Right.” Removing his Stetson, Clay raked his fingers through his unkempt hair. “Guess I’m just on edge considering what Georgie’s been through with that Totten woman.”

“Understandable. But there’s no reason at this point to think there’s any connection.”

“Yates.” The deputy who’d arrived with Jericho approached them.

The sheriff turned to his officer and hitched his chin toward Clay. “Rawlings, this is Clay Colton. Clay, my new deputy, Adam Rawlings.”

“Hey.” Clay nodded to the neatly groomed deputy and shook his hand.

“Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff, but I found something. Thought you should take a look.”

Jericho faced Clay, but before he could speak, Clay waved a hand. “Go ahead. I need to get back to work, too.”

Pulling his worn gloves from his back pocket, Clay strode back toward the ravine where his fence had been damaged and got busy stringing wire again. He had a large section to repair before he went back to the house, and all the usual chores of a thriving ranch to finish before he called it a day. Unfortunately, though fixing the damaged fence was hot, hard work, it didn’t require any particular mental concentration. So Clay’s thoughts drifted—to the one person he’d spent the past five years trying to get out of his head.

His ex-wife.

If he knew Tamara, not only had she achieved her dream of working in investigative law enforcement, but she was likely working for a large city department by now, moving up the ranks with her skill, gritty determination and sharp mind. Once Tamara set her sights on a goal, little could stand in her way of reaching it.

Except a misguided husband, who’d foolishly thought that ranching would be enough to fill her life and make her happy.

A prick of guilt twisted in Clay’s gut.

Why had he thought that his own satisfaction with their marriage and the challenge of getting the Bar None up and running would be enough for Tamara? Ranching had been his dream, not hers.

Why hadn’t he listened, truly heard her, when she spoke of her hopes for leaving Esperanza and her dream of working in law enforcement? Because of the newlywed happiness in other aspects of their relationship, he’d too easily dismissed signs of her discontent and her restless yearning to achieve her own professional dreams. Soon even the honeymoon stars in her eyes dimmed, and her unhappiness began eroding their marriage.

He’d ignored the warning signs until the night they’d argued over the right course of treatment for a sick stud, and he’d returned from the quarantine stable to find her packing her bags. His heartache over having to put down his best breeding stallion paled beside the pain of seeing his wife in tears, pulling the plug on their life together.

Renewed frustration burned in Clay’s chest. Failure of any kind didn’t sit well with him, but failure in his personal life was especially hard to accept. His broken marriage was a blemish in his past that marred even the success of the Bar None. His single-minded dedication to building the ranch was what had blinded him to the deterioration of his relationship with Tamara. Until it was too late.

He gave the barbed wire a vicious tug. His grip slipped, and the razor-sharp barb pierced his glove.

“Damn it!” he growled and flung off his glove to suck the blood beading on the pad of his thumb.

Stringing wire might not take much mental power, but letting his mind rehash the painful dissolution of his marriage didn’t serve any purpose. Tamara was gone, and no amount of regret or second-guessing could change that. Besides, he was married to his ranch now. Keeping the Bar None running smoothly was a labor of love that took all his energy, all his time. He’d scraped and saved, sweated and toiled to build the Bar None from nothing but a boy’s youthful dream.

But today the sense of accomplishment and pride that normally filled him when he surveyed his land or closed his financial books at the end of the day was overshadowed by the reminder of what could have been.

Clay squinted up at the blazing Texas sun, which was far lower in the sky than he’d realized. How long had he been out here?

Flipping his wrist, he checked his watch. Two hours.

Crockett snorted and tossed his mane.

“Yeah, I know, boy. Almost done. I’m ready to get back to the stables and get something to drink, too.”

Like Jack Daniel’s. Something to help take the edge off. Revived memories of Tamara left him off balance and had picked the scab from a wound he’d thought was healed.

He snipped the wire he’d secured on the last post and started gathering his tools.

“Clay?”

At first he thought he’d imagined the soft feminine voice, an illusion conjured by thoughts of his ex-wife. But the voice called his name again.

He shielded his eyes from the sun’s bright glare as he angled his gaze toward the top of the ravine. A slim, golden-haired beauty strode across the parched land and stopped at the edge of the rise. “Clay, can I talk to you?”

Clay’s mouth went dry, and his heart did a Texas two-step. “Tamara?”

Chapter 2

Clay climbed the side of the ravine in three long strides and jerked his Stetson from his head. “What are you doing here, Tamara?”

His ex-wife raised her chin a notch and flashed a stiff smile. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to today, but…I have questions I have to ask. About the crime scene.”

An odd déjà vu washed over him as he stared at her. She looked just as beautiful as the woman he’d married, fought with, made love to, and yet…she’d changed, too. Her cheeks and jaw were thinner, more angular. She’d grown her hair longer, the honey-blond shade sporting fewer highlights from the sun, and a hint of makeup shaded her blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones—a vanity she’d never bothered with when she worked beside him on the ranch.

He stood there, so absorbed by the shock of her presence and her beauty that it took a moment for her comment to sink in.

She had questions about the crime scene. Not questions about how he’d been, about their divorce, about the five years that had passed since they’d last seen each other, sitting at opposite ends of a table like two strangers in her lawyer’s office.

He blinked. Scowled. “You’re here with the CSI team from San Antonio.”

The instant the words left his mouth, Clay kicked himself mentally. Brilliant deduction, Captain Obvious.

Tamara gave him a patient grin, apparently knowing she’d surprised him and cutting him some slack. If she were rattled by their meeting, she didn’t show it. But she’d had time to prepare.

“I’ve been with the department in San Antonio since I finished my forensics training. Jericho—” She paused and lifted a hand. “That is, Sheriff Yates—called us out to sweep the scene. I need to ask you a few things. This a good time?”

Clay drew a deep breath, swiped perspiration from his forehead with his arm and jammed his hat back on his head. “Sure. Shoot.”

Tamara pulled a small notepad from the pocket of her black jeans and wet her lips.

Clay’s gaze gravitated to her mouth and froze on the hint of moisture shimmering in the sunlight. Heat that had nothing to do with the summer day flashed through his blood.

A picture of Tamara from high school flickered in his mind’s eye. Sitting on a corral fence rail at the rodeo where his mother had been riding. Her silky hair tucked behind her ears. Her blue eyes shining at him. Pure joy glowing in her face. He’d captured her cheeks between his hands and leaned in to steal his first kiss from her. She’d been startled at first. But soon after, her smile had widened, and she’d returned his kiss in kind. The first of thousands of sultry kisses they’d shared.

Yet now, gawking at her mouth like a schoolboy, he felt as awkward and uncertain as he had that day at the rodeo. But she wouldn’t welcome a kiss today the way she had back then. He’d lost the right to kiss Tamara years ago.

Warmth flared in her eyes before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. “When was the last time you were out on this corner of the ranch?”

Clay shook himself from the unproductive nostalgia and focused on her question. “Earlier this week. Maybe Monday. I ride the perimeter to check fences and survey the property every few days. You know that.”

She stopped scribbling on her pad and gave him a penetrating glance. “Assume I know nothing and answer the questions as honestly and completely as you can.”

Gritting his teeth, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Have you disturbed anything on the scene from the way you found it?”

He shifted his weight and cocked his head, studying the pink flush of heat on her cheeks. She never could take much sun on her porcelain skin without burning. “I opened the car’s trunk. One finger on the edge of the hood. I already told Jericho all of this.” He hesitated. “You want to wear my hat until you finish out here? Your face is starting to burn.”

She snapped a startled blue gaze up to meet his. “I—No. I’ll be fine.” She furrowed her brow as she studied her notes, clearly ruffled by his offer. “Um… You didn’t touch the car otherwise?”

“No.”

After several more minutes of her rapid-fire questions, he turned and strolled over to where Crockett waited patiently. Flipping open the saddle pouch across Crockett’s hind quarters, Clay dug out the small tube of sunscreen he carried with him but rarely used.

Tamara followed him over to Crockett and reached up to stroke the gelding’s nose. “Hey, Davy Crockett. How ya doin’, boy?”

Crockett snuffled and bumped Tamara’s hand as if he remembered her.

Still patting his horse, she asked, “Do you have any knowledge of who might have left the car here?”

“No.” Clay uncapped the sunscreen and squeezed a dab on his thumb.

She consulted her notes again. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?”

“No, I don’t.” He stepped closer to Tamara, close enough to smell the delicate herbal scent of her shampoo, and she raised her gaze.

“When did you first find the—”

He reached for her, smearing the dab of sunscreen on her nose.

She caught her breath and stumbled back a step. “What are you doing?”

“Sunscreen. You’re burning.”

She grunted and gave him a perturbed glower. “Clay, I don’t—”

He reached toward her again, and she backed away another step. With a resigned sigh, she rubbed the dab of cream over her nose and cheeks, then wiped her fingers on her jeans. “There! Okay? Now I have a job to do. Will you please just answer the questions?”

He tucked the sunscreen back in his saddle pouch. “Is all this really necessary? I’ve already told Jericho everything I know.”

Her shoulders sagged with impatience and a hint of chagrin. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t necessary.”

She may have been referring to her job duties, but the underlying truth of her statement hit him like a slap in the face. Nothing had changed. Tamara wanted no part of him and his lifestyle.

He braced his hands on his hips and kicked a clod of dirt. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”

Tamara closed her eyes and released a slow breath. “Clay…”

“Forget it. Just ask your questions, Officer Colton.” He glanced at her name badge and another jab stabbed his gut. “Sorry, Officer Brown. You went back to your maiden name, huh?”

“Clay…” She studied her notepad as if it held the secrets of the universe, and the silence between them reverberated with a hundred unspoken words and years of regret.

Finally Clay took his work gloves from his back pocket and slapped them on his leg. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your job.” He turned and stuffed the gloves in his saddle pouch.

Tamara didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Clay took a sip of water from his canteen. Hesitated. “I’m happy for you, Tamara. Glad to see you’ve accomplished what you wanted.”

When she glanced up at last, suspicious moisture glinted in her eyes. But she quickly schooled her face and sucked in a deep breath.

“I—” She stopped herself. Glanced away. Flipped her notepad closed. “I’d better get back to work.”

As she started back across the dry field toward the abandoned Taurus, Clay watched her long-legged strides, the graceful sway of her hips, the shimmer of sunlight on her golden hair. His chest tightened with an emotion he dared not name. Admitting he’d missed his ex-wife served no purpose, helped no one.

Giving Crockett a pat on the neck, he grabbed the reins and planted a foot in a stirrup. And hesitated.

He angled his gaze toward the scene where Jericho and his deputy stood while Tamara’s team combed the area. Tamara pulled her hair back into a rubber band then tugged on a pair of latex gloves. Curiosity got the better of Clay.

He gave the gelding’s neck another stroke. “Sorry, Crockett. I think I’ll wait a bit before heading back to the stables.”

Shoving his Stetson more firmly in place, Clay headed over to the stand of mesquite trees to watch his ex-wife work.

Tamara took out an evidence bag and tried to steady her breathing. She’d known returning to the Bar None and seeing Clay again would be difficult. But nothing had prepared her for the impact his espresso-brown eyes still had on her.

While working in Clay’s stables early in their marriage, she’d been kicked by a mare that was spooked by a wasp. The powerful jolt of that mare’s hoof had nothing on the punch in the gut when she’d met the seductive lure of Clay’s bedroom eyes today. How could she have forgotten the way his dark gaze made her go weak in the knees?

Nothing about Clay had changed, from his mussed, raven hair that always seemed in need of a trim to the muscular body he’d earned riding horses and doing the hard work ranching required. He still wore the same dusty, white Stetson she’d given him their first Christmas together, and he radiated a strength and confidence that hummed with sex appeal.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to calm the buzz of bees swarming inside her. When she drew a deep breath for composure, she smelled the sunscreen he’d smeared on her nose, and a fresh ripple of nervous energy sluiced over her. A full day in the sun couldn’t have burned her more than the heat of his touch when he’d dabbed the cream on her. She had far too many memories of his callused hands working their magic on her not to be affected by even such casual contact.

Her heart contracted with longing. No one had ever held such a powerful sway over her senses as Clay had. Not one of the men she’d dated since her divorce from Clay could hold a candle to the fiery attraction she felt for her first love. Her cowboy lover. The man she’d thought she’d grow old with.

Tamara sighed. She had to focus, get a grip. Emotion had no place in crime scene investigation, and she had work to do. She stepped over to where the team photographer was clicking shots of the Taurus’s trunk. “You finished up front, Pete?”

“Yep. All yours. Do your thing.”

Tamara pulled out her notepad and circled to the front of the stolen sedan. She noted a small scrape on the side panel and called it to Pete’s attention.

“Saw it. Got it,” the photographer called back to her.

Tamara moved on. She scoured the ground, the hood, the windshield, the roof and the driver’s side before she opened the car door to case the interior with the same careful scrutiny. Any scratch, stain, dent, hair or foreign object had the potential of being the clue that cracked the case. Nothing was overlooked or dismissed.

As she collected a sample of fibers from the carpet, she heard a familiar bass voice and glanced toward the perimeter of the scene where Jericho Yates and his deputy stood observing.

Clay had joined his friend and was watching her work with a keen, unnerving gaze. Tamara’s pulse scrambled, and she jerked her attention back to the carpet fibers. Sheriff Yates made another quiet comment, and Clay answered, his deep timbre as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. Tamara remembered the sound of Clay’s low voice stroking her as he murmured sexy promises while they made love. Just the silky bass thrum could turn her insides to mush.

Her hand shook as she bagged the fibers and moved on to pluck an auburn hair from the passenger’s seat. She huffed her frustration with herself. She had to regain control, forget Clay was watching her and get back to business. She closed her eyes and steeled her nerves, steadying her hands and forcing thoughts of Clay from her mind.

“What you got?” said Eric Forsyth, her superior in the CSI lab, as he bent at the waist to peer through the open driver’s door.

Tamara bagged the hair and labeled it. “Not much. I’ve never seen such a clean car. It’s odd.”

Eric shrugged. “Not surprising. It’s a rental car. A company typically washes and vacuums the cars after every customer.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m not finding fingerprints or stray threads. No footprints or tire tracks around the car. Not much of anything.”

Eric scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “What’s more, anything we do find is gonna be hard to pin to whatever happened here. God knows how many people have been in this car in the past month.” He motioned to the bag in her hand. “That hair could belong to a schoolteacher from Dallas who rented the car two weeks ago.”

Tamara sighed. “Exactly why it doesn’t feel right. Even with the rental agency’s regular maintenance, we should be finding at least traces of evidence. I think someone wiped the scene.”

“You’re sure?” Her boss adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

“The evidence—or lack of evidence—seems to point that way.” She frowned. “Which tells me something bad happened here. Something someone doesn’t want anyone to know about.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. Well, keep looking. Maybe whoever wiped the scene missed something.”

Tamara nodded. “Got it.”

Clay tensed as the lanky man with glasses who’d been speaking with Tamara walked up to Jericho and shrugged. “My team isn’t getting much for you to build a case on, Sheriff. In fact, our professional opinion is the scene has been wiped clean.”

Jericho furrowed his brow and stroked his mustache. “Nothing?”

Clay turned his attention back to Tamara as he listened to the exchange between the crime scene investigator and the sheriff.

“Well, we found a partial print on the trunk. A hair on the front seat. A scratch on the front fender—but it looks old. There’s already a little rust formed.”

“No signs of foul play or a struggle?” Jericho asked.

“Not yet. But we’re still looking.”

Clay watched Tamara comb the Taurus with a calm, methodical gaze. She moved like a cat, her movements graceful, strong and certain as she inched through the interior, pausing long enough to bag tiny bits of God-knows-what and securing the evidence. Her professionalism and confidence as she processed the scene was awe-inspiring.

He remembered her awkwardness during her first weeks on the ranch as she learned to use the equipment and handle the horses. Though she soon picked up the finer points of ranching—he didn’t know of much Tamara couldn’t do once she set her mind to it—she’d never had the passion for the daily workings of the Bar None that he’d hoped.

Today, as she scoured the stolen car, her love for her job was obvious. She had been flustered when she questioned him, but seeing her again after five years had thrown him, too. Despite the awkwardness, she’d rallied and fired her questions at him like a pro.

“I did an initial survey of the area and didn’t find much either,” Rawlings said.

“Have you found anything that’d tell us what happened to the driver? Tracks of a second car for a getaway? Footprints leaving the scene? The fact that the money is still here bothers me.” Jericho shook his head. “Who’d leave that much money behind unprotected?”

The crime scene investigator with the wire-rimmed glasses gave Clay a wary look then glanced to Jericho. “Good point. And, no. No footprints or tire tracks.”

“It’s been too dry,” Clay volunteered. “Only rain we’ve had in weeks was a couple nights ago. A squall passed through. Hard and short. Any surface impressions that might have been left in the dust would have been washed away.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the investigator asked, sending Clay a skeptical frown.

Clay offered his hand, choosing to ignore the man’s churlish tone. “Clay Colton. You’re on my ranch. I found the car. Reported it.”

The man shook his hand. “Eric Forsyth. San Antonio CSI. I believe you already met my assistant, Tamara Brown?”

“Yep. Met, married and divorced.” He gave the man a level stare. “She’s my ex.”

Forsyth arched an eyebrow. “Oh? She failed to mention that.”

Clay quickly squashed the disappointment that plucked him. Apparently she’d cut him cleanly out of her new life. Setting his jaw, he angled his gaze to watch Tamara again. She was giving the driver’s door a thorough go over, her jeans hugging her fanny as she squatted to study the contents of the map pocket. “She had no reason to mention it. It has no bearing on anything related to this case.”

“We’ll see about that.” Forsyth turned to the sheriff, effectively dismissing Clay.

Clay ground his teeth and did his best to ignore the affront.

“Colton is right,” Sheriff Yates said. “About the dry weather and the brief rain on Tuesday night. Whatever slight impressions might have been around before that storm were almost certainly lost to the rain.”

Forsyth crossed his arms over his chest and grunted. “Yeah. There’s a puddle of water in the trunk with the money. If the hood of the trunk was ajar, we can assume it’s rainwater that leaked in.”

“Which helps establish a time frame. If the car sat out here in the rain, we’re looking at events that happened before Tuesday night.” Jericho rubbed his jaw as he thought. “The car was reported missing Wednesday morning when the first shift arrived at the rental place and checked the inventory.”

“I’ll call the rental agency and ask them to send copies of the images from their security cameras for Tuesday. Maybe the theft was caught on tape,” Deputy Rawlings said.

“Good thinking,” Jericho said.

“You oughta talk to my neighbor, Samuel Hawkins, too.” Clay crossed his arms over his chest as he spoke to Rawlings. “He came out here Tuesday evening to investigate a commotion he’d heard and found one of his longhorns tangled in that fence I was working on.”

“Could the commotion have been something besides the steer?” Rawlings asked.

Clay shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“Why didn’t your neighbor see the car when he was out here?” Forsyth asked.

“It gets mighty dark out here at night.” Clay poked his thumbs in his back pockets and shifted his attention from his ex-wife’s sultry curves and confident investigative technique to Eric Forsyth.

“The moon would have been behind the clouds, making it even blacker. He was on the lower side of that ravine—” Clay hitched his chin toward the steep drop-off a few hundred yards away “—with his hands full, tending an injured and agitated longhorn. Not surprising he didn’t notice anything.”

The crime scene investigator narrowed his eyes on Clay, but before he could reply, Tamara called out.

“Eric! Sheriff! I found something.”

Clay whipped his gaze back to his ex. She lay on her back studying the underside of the driver’s door.

Jericho, Rawlings and Forsyth all trotted closer to the abandoned vehicle. Clay hesitated only a moment before ducking under the crime scene tape and following.

“What do you have?” Forsyth asked, squatting beside Tamara.

“Hand me a swab.” She extended her hand and wiggled her fingers.

Forsyth fished a clean cotton swab from the toolbox-like kit on the ground a few feet away and handed it to Tamara. With meticulous focus on her task, Tamara swiped a spot on the door. After rolling out from under the door and sitting up, she held the swab up to the sunlight and squinted closely at the sample she’d gathered.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmured, then tipped her head back to meet the expectant gazes of the men circled around her. “Our first sign of foul play, gentlemen. This is blood.”

Chapter 3

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

Blood.

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

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

But not before she took care of one last item.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was married to him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why can’t we even try—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still runs. Why should I get rid of it?

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

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

Her smile dimmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chances were, she’d never know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Numbers. Safe, unemotional numbers.

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

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

For Clay, ranching had been about the numbers.

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

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

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

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

“You get a match?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She squelched the thought before it fully formed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You still in Esperanza?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, you got anything yet?”

She sighed. “Nothing that looks promising.”

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

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

Suddenly the earth gave way beneath her.

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

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

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

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

She shuddered and quickly shoved aside the chilling thought.

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

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

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

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

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

Foreboding rippled through her.

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

And screamed.

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

Chapter 4

Tamara struggled to regain her composure, find her professional detachment. She’d seen enough corpses through her job to stomach the grisly sight and even tolerate the smell to an extent. But the shock of finding the body so unexpectedly, the eerie shadows her key-ring light cast, having nearly fallen on top of the dead man…

She swallowed the sour taste that rose in her throat. Clenching her teeth to endure the sharp pain, she pulled herself to her feet. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase to climb out of the pit. By using the toes of her shoes to dig footholds, she managed to pull herself out of the sinkhole, one excruciating inch at a time.

Overwhelmed by the pain, the stench of death, the horror of what had happened to her, she braced on shaky hands and knees and retched—which sent fresh paroxysms of pain through her chest. The unforgiving Texas sun beat down on her and made her head swoon. Common sense warned her she had to get to her car, had to get out of the heat, had to get help for her injuries.

She had to report finding the dead man.

She shuddered.

A body.

The driver of the stolen car? Maybe. But if so, who put him down in that hole?

After struggling to her car, holding her aching ribs as still as possible, Tamara drove slowly toward the ranch’s main house. The idea of facing Clay again hurt almost as much as the jarring bumps and jolts of the uneven pasture and pothole-riddled driveway.

She blasted her horn as she approached the house. Within moments, two irritated ranch hands stalked toward her car, shouting for her to quit honking. Others looked on, clearly curious about what she wanted. She scanned the approaching ranch workers, looking for the one man she wanted most to see and yet dreaded facing.

Finally she spotted Clay, hurrying through the front door of the white house and crossing the wide porch. A familiar beagle rose from his nap on the porch and romped across the yard at Clay’s feet.

Tears of relief pricked her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to force them down. She swore to be strong in front of Clay if it killed her. Gaze fixed on her ex-husband, she waved off the ranch hands when they opened her door and offered her help.

The moment Clay realized who was behind the wheel of the Accord, his gait faltered for a second. His irritated scowl morphed into a look of shock then concern. He sprinted the remaining distance to her driver’s side door.

Pushing aside one of his workers, he squatted in the V of the open car door. “Tamara, what’s wrong? Why—”

“I fell…into a sinkhole. Out by the ravine.” She closed her eyes and waited out a new wash of pain.

Clay mumbled a curse. “How bad are you hurt? Can you walk?”

Before she could answer, he shoved to his feet and leaned in to check her. Taking her chin in his fingers, he swept her face with his gaze, then touched a scrape on her temple.

Wincing, she grabbed his wrist to stop his ministrations. “I found a body.”

Clay’s thick eyebrows dipped, his dark eyes homing in on hers. “A body? Where?”

“In the pit. A man. He’s been dead at least a couple days, judging from the stink.”

Clay stiffened at the news, barely brushing her chest, but the contact sent a fiery spasm through her. She gasped and gritted her teeth.

“Where are you hurt?” he demanded, snatching his hands away from her.

A prick of self-consciousness filtered through her haze of discomfort. She must look frightful, scratched, bleeding and covered in grime. And after baking in the heat for hours, wallowing in a dirt pit, then dragging herself to her car, she had to be ripe.

By contrast, even breathing shallowly as she was to avoid pain, the aroma of sunshine and leather clung to Clay and filled her nose. Her heart gave a hard thump. So many precious memories were tied to his seductive scent. Memories that now left her emotionally raw.

“I…may have cracked…a rib or two. I can hardly…breathe. It hurts…every time I move—”

“Can you walk or should I carry you inside?”

Just getting to her car had hurt like hell. She was tempted to let him carry her, but she hated to seem needy. “I can walk.”

“Hobo, get back,” he told the beagle, who stuck his nose inside the car to greet the ranch’s visitor.

Tamara smiled through her pain at the sight of the mutt, her old friend. She held her fingers out for him to sniff and scratched his head. “Hi, boy.”

Clay placed a hand under her elbow to steady her as she rose slowly, stiffly from the car. New aches from the tumble into the pit assaulted her. Muscles cramped, joints ached, scrapes throbbed.

She hobbled a few steps and couldn’t stop the groan that escaped her dry lips.

“That’s it,” Clay said and carefully lifted her into his arms.

She clutched the shirt at his shoulder when pain ripped though her chest. “No, Clay, I—I’m okay.” She stopped to suck air in through her teeth. “Really. L-let me down.”

He scoffed. “You can barely stand, much less walk.”

“But if I move slowly, I can—”

“Don’t argue.” His penetrating espresso gaze silenced her.

Cradling her ribs, she rested her cheek on the soft cotton of his shirt. Being this close to him again stole her breath. Feeling the power of his arms around her, hearing the thud of his heart left her a bit dizzy. With Hobo barking excitedly at his feet, he strode with smooth quick steps, mindful not to jostle her, and soon had her in the blissful air-conditioning of his house.

He bypassed the living and dining rooms, heading straight down the long hall, through the kitchen and into the family room at the back of the house.

“Marie!” Clay called as he settled her on a cool leather couch.

A Mexican woman came out of the laundry room and appeared in the kitchen. “Sí, Mr. Clay?”

“I need the hydrogen peroxide and a damp cloth.”

Tamara met the woman’s startled expression and gave her a strained smile.

The woman pressed a hand to her cheek and hurried closer. “Oh, my! What happened?”

“I fell in some kind of sinkhole…out in the south pasture.” She opted to leave out the detail about the dead body until the sheriff had a chance to investigate.

Clay made quick introductions between Tamara and his housekeeper. If the woman found it odd that Clay’s ex-wife had been hanging around one of his pastures, she hid it well.

Tamara winced as she tried to find a more comfortable position.

Marie waved a hand toward her. “Mr. Clay, she needs to see a doctor. She’s hurting.”

Clay unclipped his cell phone and started dialing. “I know. I’m calling Doc Mason right now.”

The older woman shook her head. “But Doc Mason is not here. He went on vacation, I heard.”

Clay scowled and closed his phone. “Vacation? Doc never takes vacation. It’s hard enough to get him to take off a day to go fishing.”

Marie shrugged then hurried toward the hall bathroom.

“Clay, we have to call Jericho…about the body I found,” she whispered so Marie wouldn’t overhear.

“I will. First I need to make sure you’re okay. If Doc is out of town, I’ll have to call an ambulance, but the nearest one could still take almost an hour to get you to a hospital.”

He stroked his stubbled cheeks, and the scrape of his callused palms on the bristles slid over her like a lover’s caress. She knew so well the sandpapery scratch of his unshaven chin against her skin, gently abrading her during lovemaking. The sensation was tantalizing, thrilling.

Tamara took a deep breath to clear the erotic memories from her head and was rewarded with a sharp stab from her battered ribs.

Her grunt of discomfort darkened Clay’s concerned stare to the shade of midnight. “Try not to move.”

She quirked a grin. “Ya think?”

Her attempt at levity bounced off his tense jaw and stress-tightened muscles. He began to pace.

When Marie returned with the cloth and antiseptic, she sat on the edge of the couch and began dabbing the scrapes on Tamara’s face. “Call the clinic,” she said. “There is a doctor filling in for Doc Mason, I think.”

Clay’s eyebrows lifted, and hope lit his eyes.

His housekeeper nodded. “That’s what I heard at Miss Sue’s. Everyone was as surprised as you.”

The mention of the local diner brought a smile to Tamara’s face. “Gossip central. Is the pecan pie there still as good as it used to be?”

Clay gave Tamara a worried frown, as if her interest in the best pie in Texas were a sign of head injury. Flipping open his cell, he punched redial. His concern for her both touched her and chafed her independence. In their marriage, Clay’s take-charge, assume-all-responsibility mode of operation had always been a mixed blessing.

Once arrangements had been made to meet the doctor on call at the Esperanza clinic and Clay had her settled in his pickup, Tamara shifted her attention once more to what she felt was a more pressing issue.

The dead man on Clay’s property.

She borrowed Clay’s phone as he drove her to town and called Sheriff Yates.

After Jericho assured her he’d start an immediate recovery and investigation of the body, she inquired what he’d learned about the money.

“Nothing yet. The serial numbers didn’t turn anything up,” Jericho said. “None of the banks in the area have a record of a withdrawal of that size or any other unusual activity. I’m checking the rest of the state now, but so far that money’s proving a dead end.”

The truck hit a bump, and she inhaled sharply.

Clay winced. “Sorry. No way to miss ’em all on this road.”

“Tamara, is something wrong?” Jericho asked.

“Did I mention how I found the body?” She explained about her fall and that Clay was taking her to the medical clinic in town.

“Ouch. Broken ribs are a bear. Sorry ’bout that.” She heard another voice in the background, heard Jericho reply. “Well, we’re headed out to the Bar None now. I’ll keep you posted.”

“For the time being, you’ll have to reach me on Clay’s cell.” She gritted her teeth as they lurched over another pothole. “But if you find my cell at the scene, I’d appreciate getting it back.”

“Sure thing. Take care, Tamara.”

When they reached Doc Mason’s clinic in Esperanza, Clay helped her out of his truck and into the wheelchair a nurse brought out. He parked the wheelchair in the waiting room and walked up to the desk to check her in.

Tamara was grousing to herself about take-charge Clay’s latest crusade when the clinic door opened and a familiar blond-haired man walked in from the street. He slipped off his sunglasses and headed straight for the front desk.

“Billy? Billy Akers?” Tamara asked.

Her longtime family friend and former neighbor turned, and when he spotted Tamara, his face lit with an effusive grin. “Well, I’ll be! Tamara the Brat! How are you?”

She smiled at his use of the nickname he and her older brother had given her growing up. Billy, who still had the build of a linebacker from his high-school days, hurried over to her and bent to give her a hug.

Tamara held up a hand to stop him. “Oh, uh…don’t squeeze.” She winced and pointed to her midriff. “Possibly broken ribs.”

Scrunching his freckled nose, Billy made an appropriately sympathetic face. “Yikes. What happened?”

She waved his question off. “Long story. Gosh, it’s good to see you. It’s been years. How are your parents?”

Billy’s face fell. “Well…not so good. Mama’s been diagnosed with ALS…Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Oh, no!” Grief for the woman who’d been like a second mother to her and her brother plucked Tamara’s heart.

“Seeing her suffering has been hard. Especially on Dad.”

Tamara took Billy’s hand in hers and squeezed it. “I can imagine. Oh, Billy, please give her my best. Tell her I’ll be praying for her.”

“I will.” He hitched a thumb toward the front desk. “In fact, I’m here to refill one of her prescriptions.” When he spotted Clay at the counter, a speculative gleam sparked in Billy’s eyes. “Are you here with Clay? Does this mean you two are—” He wagged a finger from Clay to Tamara.

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

When she saw her denial hadn’t satisfied his curiosity, she tried to work out the simplest explanation that would stave off the rumormongers. “I was on his property when I fell, and his house was the closest help.”

“Why were you on his property? I thought you lived in San Antonio now.”

“I do. I—” She sighed, then gave him a watered-down version of the truth. Knowing this town, word had probably already spread about the Taurus being found at the Bar None. “So I was looking around his south pasture and…boom, fell in a sinkhole. Thus the possibly broken ribs.”

A bit of the color leeched from Billy’s face. “You fell in a hole?”

She flashed a chagrined smile. “Klutzy me.”

Clay strolled over and stuck out his hand toward Billy. “How ya doing, Akers?”

Billy shook hands with Clay. “I’m…uh, fine. You?”

“Good.” Her ex shifted his gaze to her. “They’re ready for you.”

Billy excused himself, promising to give her regards to his parents and offering well wishes for Tamara’s speedy recovery.

As Clay rolled her to the exam room, Tamara grinned. “That’s a small town for you. Can’t go anywhere without running into a neighbor or a lady from church or your parents’ bowling partners.”

“Which is why we always drove away from town for our dates in high school.”

“Dates? You mean when we went parking.” She wished she could recall the words as soon as she said them. No point reminding Clay of the car windows they’d steamed…or the first time they’d made love.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant.” His voice had a thick seductive rasp that told her those memories still affected him. Her pulse stuttered. Maybe he hadn’t totally wiped her from his life after all.

Doc Mason’s nurse, Ellen Hamilton, stuck her head into the hall from an exam room a couple doors down. “Right in here, Ms. Brown.” After Clay wheeled Tamara into the exam room, the petite gray-haired woman laid out a sheet and a paper gown. “Would you like help changing out of your clothes, honey?”

Tamara tried to push herself out of the wheelchair and fiery needles stabbed her chest. She muffled a moan. Instantly Clay tucked his arms under hers, lifting her and helping her to the exam table.

Tamara glanced to the nurse. “Yeah. I think I’ll need help.”

“Fine.” Ellen turned to Clay, her expression patient.

Unmindful of the nurse’s stare, Clay took Tamara’s foot in his hand and unlaced her shoe. After sliding it from her foot, he moved to the next shoe.

Tamara was so stunned at his presumptuousness that she could only gawk. When he gave her foot a soft rub, her breath snagged in a hiss of surprise.

Foot massages after a full day tending the ranch had been one of Tamara’s greatest pleasures when they were married, a relaxation treat that often led to full body contact, clothes shed, lusty appetites sated.

Clay’s eyes locked with hers, and he grimaced. “Sorry. I was trying to be gentle.”

She started to tell him the gasp hadn’t been one of pain, but the nurse cleared her throat.

“I meant that I’d help her change.” Now her expression was challenging. She lifted a sculpted eyebrow and tipped her head toward the door.

Her ex-husband wasn’t stupid and wasn’t easily cowed. He straightened his spine and set his jaw in a manner that Tamara knew well. He had no intention of backing down.

Tamara almost laughed at the standoff, until she realized that Clay thought he still had a right to be in the exam room with her, that it was natural for him to help her change into the hospital gown. A warm swirl of nostalgia flowed through Tamara followed closely by a shot of irritation.

Clay had lost any claim to such marital intimacies when he signed their divorce papers without blinking, without so much as a tremble of his hand. She, on the other hand, had been shaking so badly she barely recognized the signature she’d scratched as hers.

And now he wanted those privileges of familiarity back? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Would you please step outside, Mr. Colton?” Ellen Hamilton asked.

A muscle in Clay’s jaw twitched. He raised his chin, his eyes determined.

“Clay.” His name squeezed past the lump of regret that clogged her throat.

He snapped his rich coffee gaze to hers, and the stubborn glint faded, replaced by a wounded expression, a chagrined acceptance that plucked at her heart. He hid it well. Someone who didn’t know Clay and his take-no-prisoners attitude, his stubborn cowboy pride, would have missed it. But Clay had been her husband, half the blood and breath that made her whole. An ache wholly unrelated to her injuries pulsed through her chest.

He ducked his chin in a quick jerky nod of understanding and concession that broke Tamara’s heart. “I’ll be in the waiting room when you’re ready to go.”

He left without a backward glance, and the room seemed infinitely colder and more lifeless with him gone.

A moment later, a lean man in his late forties with thinning dark hair stepped into the room and shook Tamara’s hand. “Ms. Brown, I’m Frank O’Neal, Dr. Mason’s fill-in. I hear you took a nasty tumble.”

“You heard right.”

The doctor flashed a polite smile. “Well, let’s see about getting you all fixed up.”

Over the next hour, Dr. O’Neal X-rayed and examined Tamara from head to heel. He taped her ribs, gave her injections for pain and to relax her cramping muscles, all of which made it far easier for her to move unassisted. While the X-rays developed, she redressed by herself, though the process wore her out.

She sat in the exam room alone, remembering Clay’s earlier hurt expression, when the sound of raised voices filtered through the door left cracked open.

Concerned that something was wrong, Tamara strained to hear the exchange between Ellen Hamilton and Dr. O’Neal.

“How long…—azine…missing…” Dr. O’Neal groused.

“I don’t know.” The nurse who’d stood up to Clay sounded shaken.

“…your job to…any idea…hell we could catch if…missing?”

“…well aware…accounting of…narcotic. Doc Mason always…himself.”

“Have any…—peared before?”

The nurse’s answer was too quiet for Tamara to make out.

The scuff of hard-soled shoes drew closer then hesitated just outside the exam-room door. Tamara looked up, and through the narrow opening, she met the doctor’s shaken gaze. The man’s brow furrowed, and he rubbed a hand over the nearly bald spot on his head. Appearing agitated, he glanced away for a moment before schooling his expression and entering the exam room.

He plunked two bottles of pills on the exam table and gave Tamara a tight grin. “I want you to take one of these every four to six hours when you need them for pain. The other is a muscle relaxant. Since people react differently to this medicine, it’d be wise for you to have someone stay with you while you recuperate.”

She studied the bottle of pills. “I occasionally get migraines. These won’t trigger a headache, will they?”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t. This is one of the best pain meds on the market. However some people report getting sleepy, some get loopy, some feel a little dizzy.”

Clearly the man didn’t want to acknowledge that she’d overheard his heated discussion with his nurse. Tamara took the hint and dismissed the issue.

Dr. O’Neal shoved his hands in his lab coat’s pockets. “Do you have a roommate?”

“No. I live alone in San Antonio.”

A knock sounded on the door before it was opened. Clay peered into the room. “Ms. Hamilton said to come back, that you were ready to go?”

The doctor nodded. “I was just telling Ms. Brown that the prescription I’ve given her for pain could make her sleepy or one of several other side effects. She needs to get plenty of rest and to have someone with her for the next couple days until she knows how her body reacts to the meds.”

Clay nodded. “She can stay with me.”

Tamara shot him a startled glance. “No, Clay, I couldn’t… I—”

“I could admit you to the hospital for observation if you’d rather.” Dr. O’Neal gave her a teasing grin, but also arched an eyebrow, telling her the threat wasn’t idle.

“No, I—”

“Good. Make sure she takes it easy,” Dr. O’Neal said with a nod to Clay. “And I’d like to check in with you again in a couple days to see how you’re doing.”

Holding his Stetson, Clay fiddled with the brim. “When do you expect Doc Mason back?”

The doctor glanced up from scribbling a note on Tamara’s chart. “Not sure. He didn’t give us a time frame. Just said he needed to get away for a while.”

Clay cocked his head. “Well, good for the Doc. He’s sure earned a vacation. Can’t say I remember the last time he took off longer than an afternoon to fish.”

The nurse bustled in with Tamara’s X-rays and clipped them on the light board.

Dr. O’Neal stepped over to study the images. “Well, I don’t see any fractures. All in all, I’d say you were quite lucky to walk away from a fall like that with no more than bruised ribs and some superficial lacerations. If you take it easy over the next few days, limit your activity and take your muscle relaxants, you should make a full recovery in a couple weeks.”

Tamara thanked the doctor, paid the bill, and soon she and Clay were headed back to the ranch.

Staring at her hands as they drove, she considered Clay’s invitation to recover at the Bar None. He hadn’t so much asked her as declared that was how it would be. Did he really want her there? Or was he motivated by guilt and responsibility because she’d fallen on his property? Either way, sharing the same roof with Clay, even if just for a few days, would be awkward at best.

“Clay, I—” When his dark brown eyes met hers, her argument drowned in their fathomless depths. She fought the mule-kick loss of breath. “I…think I’ll be fine at my place in San Antonio. I appreciate the offer, but—”

His brow lowered. “You have someone in the city who can stay with you?”

“Well, no.”

“You heard the doctor. You need rest and someone to keep tabs on you.”

“I know, but—”

Clay’s cell trilled, cutting her off.

“Hello? Hey, Jericho.” Clay glanced at Tamara. “Yeah, she’s with me. We’re headed home from Doc Mason’s clinic. Why?” When he frowned, Tamara’s pulse kicked up. She didn’t need more bad news.

“Maybe. Let me ask her.” Clay held the phone against his chest. “Feel up to a short side trip by the south field? Jericho is out there with Deputy Rawlings, and they haven’t found the body you saw. They need you to show them where it is.”

The injection she’d gotten for pain at the doctor’s office was already making her drowsy, but she had a duty to her job and to the deceased man’s family. She stroked a hand over her taped ribs. “Sure. I can manage.”

Ten minutes later, she and Clay were standing with Jericho and Deputy Rawlings beside the sinkhole. The sheriff shook his head. “We’ve been down with searchlights. Turns out this hole is an offshoot cave from the old tunnel Clay and I used to play in when we were kids.”

“A tunnel? For what?” Tamara asked.

Clay shrugged. “Don’t know what it used to be, but the tunnel’s been there for decades. When I bought the ranch, I put barbed wire across the entrance of the tunnel so none of my horses would wander in there and get stuck.”

“The point is, ma’am,” Rawlings said, narrowing a look at Tamara that suggested he thought she’d lost her mind. “Sheriff and I have been all up and down the passages of the tunnel, and there’s no body in there.”

All three men turned toward her. She bristled. “I saw the body myself! I touched it, not more than four hours ago!”

She shuddered at the memory.

The sheriff looked skeptical. “Did you hit your head when you went down?”

“There was a body, Jericho!” Nausea swirled in her gut. Did they think she was lying? Or hallucinating?

“I’m sure you were in shock,” Jericho said. “Maybe—”

“No maybes, Jericho.” His shoulders squared and stiff, Clay took a step closer to her side. “If Tamara says there was a body, there was a body.”

Her protest stuck in her throat. She turned to Clay, wide-eyed, her mind reeling, her heart full. They’d been on opposite sides of so many issues in the final months of their marriage, she’d grown used to butting heads with this stubborn man. Having him back up her story, believe her on something as important as this, touched her deeply, warmed her soul.

Suspicion furrowed tiny creases at the corner of Clay’s eyes. “The only real questions here are who moved the body…and why.”

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