Rawhide Ranger

“You really believe in all this superstition?”

Cabe chewed the inside of his cheek. He’d hated the traditions, the way some of the Natives on the reservation refused to acclimate with the rest of the modern world. The animosity between the two sects in town and the old prejudices that refused to die.

But he couldn’t deny some of the things he’d seen and experienced growing up. And again today.

“Yes,” Cabe said. “And if you think the Native American faction in Comanche Creek is up in arms now, just try to dig up a sacred burial ground.”

Wyatt sighed. “So what do you suggest we do?”

“Inform the forensic anthropologist that we have to do everything we can to preserve the burial grounds, any artifacts here, and identify the bones.”

“Don’t worry. Nina would do that anyway. She’s very protective of her finds.”

“Good.” Cabe scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m going to call a meeting of the Town Council and the leaders of the Native American faction. A court injunction should stop any more use of the land by the Beckers until the matter is resolved. Hopefully that will soothe ruffled feathers long enough for us to sort things out and find our murderer.”

“I’ll arrange for Deputy Spears and some floating deputies to guard the land twenty-four seven,” Wyatt said. “Even though Deputy Shane Tolbert was cleared, I don’t want him near our crime scene. His past relationship with Marcie still poses a conflict of interest.”

“He strikes me as a hothead,” Cabe said.

“He is,” Wyatt agreed. “What about the Becker family?”

Cabe shifted and scrubbed dirt from his boots. “I’ll question Jonah and his son and get a warrant for blood samples from both of them. If one of their blood matches the paint from Daniel Taabe’s body, we’ll know who’s to blame.”

“What about the daughter? Do you think she’s covering for her father?”

Cabe hesitated. He wanted to believe that Jessie was innocent. But he’d hold off judgment until he fished around some more. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll keep an eye on her.”

For some reason, the thought of spying on her disturbed him.

And she’d felt downright sinful when he’d covered her body with his. Of course, she’d shoved at him to get off her. She’d obviously hated him touching her.

Yep. Jessie Becker was a hands-off case.

He absolutely couldn’t get involved with her. She and her family were his prime suspects.

And if she was covering for her father, he’d have to throw the book at her as an accessory.

Chapter Three

Jessie frowned as she rode back to the main house. If Billy Whitley hadn’t killed Marcie and the others, then who had?

Deputy Shane Tolbert’s father, Ben? He’d confessed to shooting at Sergeant Hutton and the sheriff, but he denied killing Billy, Marcie, Daniel Taabe, the antiquities broker and the Native American activist who first accused Jonah of the illegal land deal.

Instead of the investigation coming to an end, the situation was growing worse. The Rangers had only allowed her on their task force because she knew the lay of the land, and they trusted her more than they did her father or brother.

Then again, they had probably asked her to join them so they could watch her as a suspect.

Jessie tied the palomino to the hitching post, the sight of the Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes swaying in the breeze.

Spring was usually her favorite time of year, a time where life was renewed, the land blossomed with an array of colors, green leaves and flowers, and the beautiful blue of the Texas sky turned glorious shades as winter’s gray faded and the sun glinted off the rugged land.

She paused to inhale the scent of fresh grass filling the air, but the memory of the brittle skeleton bones she’d seen haunted her—instead of life thriving now, there was too much death on their land. Violence and suspicion had invaded her home like a dark cloud.

She stomped up the steps to the porch, determined to protect her own. The ranch and her father were her life. And now that life and her family’s future and good name were in jeopardy.

Her head ached from anxiety, and her shoulders were knotted and sore. She shoved open the door to the scent of freshly baked cinnamon bread, coffee and bacon, but her stomach churned. She couldn’t eat a bite.

Lolita, the cook who had been with her father for years, loped in with a smile. “You hungry, Miss Jessie?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. Is Dad downstairs yet?”

Lolita gave a short nod, but concern darkened her brown eyes. “In his private study. I took him coffee, and he’s resting in his easy chair.”

Good, at least he had an alibi. Not that Lolita wouldn’t lie for him, but Jessie hoped to clear the family with the truth. “Did he have a hard night?”

Lolita nodded. “I heard him pacing the floor until near dawn.”

“I’ll check on him now.” She swung around to the right, then knocked on her father’s study door. He had insisted on maintaining a small private space for himself, so she and Trace shared a connecting office next door.

Expensive, dark leather furniture and a bulky credenza gave the room a masculine feel. An ornately carved wooden box sat on his desk where he kept his pipe tobacco, and built-in paneled bookcases held his collection of leather-bound historical journals and books.

A portrait of his father, William Becker, hung above the brick mantel, a testament to the man who’d bought the small parcel of land that had been the beginnings of the Becker ranch. He’d named it the Big B because of his drive to make it one of the biggest spreads in Texas, and first brought in the Santa Gertrudis which they still raised.

Her father didn’t answer, so she knocked again, then cracked the door open. “Dad?”

He glanced up from his newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, his brows furrowed. “Jessie?”

She breathed a sigh of relief that he recognized her. Twice lately, he’d called her by her mother’s name. She’d think he was still grieving for her, but they’d divorced years ago. “Yes. We need to talk.”

He twisted the left side of his handlebar mustache, a familiar habit. “Come on in.”

She moved into the room and settled on the leather love seat across from him. “Dad, another Ranger was here today, a Native American named Sergeant Cabe Navarro.”

Worry knitted his brows together, and he tapped his pipe and lit it. “They brought in an Indian.”

Jessie worked her mouth from side to side. “Yes, he’s a Comanche, and you should show him some respect. Besides, this one is a Texas Ranger. He’s sworn to uphold the law.” And he’d probably had to overcome severe obstacles and prejudices to achieve his goals.

That realization roused admiration in her chest.

“Those Rangers need to leave us alone,” her father spat.

“I know it upsets you, Dad, but they’re not leaving until these murders have been solved and the issue of the land is resolved.”

“Hell, I thought Billy Whitley admitted to the murders before he killed himself.”

“The Rangers think the suicide/confession note might have been bogus, that someone might have forced Billy to write it, or that it was forged.”

“Good God Almighty.” Her father coughed and leaned back in his chair, looking pale and weak. “So what does that mean?”