"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Texas Ranger
Lieutenant Wyatt Colter slammed the door of his Jeep Liberty
and crossed the limestone road in three long, crunching strides.
It had taken him longer than he'd intended to get here.
Jonah Becker's spread was huge—as big as Comanche Creek,
Texas, was small. Becker had twelve thousand acres. The
entire city limits of Comanche Creek would fit in the
southeast corner of the spread.
Right now, though, Wyatt was much more concerned with the
northwest corner, where human bones had been unearthed by
the road crew, which Becker had fought so hard to keep off
his land.
This small piece of real estate was Wyatt's crime scene,
and the owners of the two mud-spattered SUVs had breached
it. Where in hell was the deputy assigned to guard the scene?
Just as he drew in breath to yell again, the growl of a
generator cut through the damp night air. A large spotlight
snapped on with an almost audible whoosh. He headed toward it.
"Ben, hit your light!" a kid yelled. His long-billed
baseball cap sat askew on his head, and his pants looked as
if they were going to fall off any second.
A second light came on. Now that there were two lights,
Wyatt could see more people. He had to get this under
control now, or his crime scene would be totally contaminated.
"Hey!" Wyatt grabbed the kid's arm.
"Ow, dude. Watch the shirt."
"Where's the deputy sheriff?"
"I don't know." The kid shrugged and peered up
at Wyatt from under his cap. "What's the
nine-one-one?"
"The nine-one-one is you're stomping on my crime
scene. Who the hell authorized you to be here?"
"My boss the hell did, dude."
Wyatt tightened his fist in the boy's shirt.
"I'm not dude. I'm Lieutenant Wyatt
Colter, Texas Ranger. Now, who authorized you to be here?"
The kid's eyes bugged out. "I, uh, I'm an
anthropology major. This is part of my Forensics 4383
course. If we're lucky, we'll see signs of murder on
the bones."
Wyatt's anger skyrocketed. He twisted his fist in the
kid's shirt, showing him he didn't appreciate his
comment.
"Those are human beings," he growled. "Show some
respect."
"Y-yes, sir."
Forensics course. He should have guessed. The
students were from Texas State. They were here with Dr.
George Something, the head of the Forensics
Department. He'd been called in by Wyatt's captain.
And without asking, he'd brought a bunch of ghoulish
kids with him.
No way was Wyatt going to allow students to stomp all over
this scene. He had a very good reason for wanting to make
sure nothing—and that meant nothing— went wrong.
This time.
As the head of the Texas Rangers Special Investigations
Unit, Wyatt hadn't been surprised when he was assigned
to investigate a suspicious shallow grave containing badly
decomposed remains. What had surprised him was that his
assignment was in this town.
The last time Wyatt had seen Comanche Creek, it had been
through a haze of pain and the stench of failure as he was
loaded into an ambulance two years ago.
The idea that he was here now, to possibly identify the body
of the woman he'd failed to protect back then, ignited a
burning in his chest. He absently rubbed the scar under his
right collarbone.
"Where's your boss?" he snapped.
"Over there."
Wyatt looked in the general direction of the kid's nod.
There was a group of people standing inside the tape, right
in the middle of his crime scene. He caught flashes of light
as one of them took pictures.
"Which one?"
"In the hoodie."
Wyatt raised his arm an inch, nearly lifting the kid off his
feet. All three had on hooded sweatshirts. "Try again."
"Ow, dude! I mean, sir. The black hoodie. Taking
pictures."
Wyatt let go of the kid and turned on his heel.
So the forensic anthropologist was going to be his first
problem. He was the only member of the task force that Wyatt
knew nothing about. He'd been appointed by the captain.
Wyatt had chosen the rest of the team. He'd picked Reed
Hardin, the sheriff of Comanche Creek, and Jonah
Becker's daughter Jessie, because of their familiarity
with the area. He had hopes that Ranger Sergeant Cabe
Navarro's presence would ease the tension between the
Caucasian and Native American factions in town.
He'd never worked with Ranger Crime Scene Analyst Olivia
Hutton, but she had an excellent reputation, even if she was
from back East.
It was the captain's idea to use an anthropologist from
Texas State University. "They have one of the premier
forensics programs in the United States," he'd told
Wyatt.
"And besides, the governor's looking for positive
press for the new forensics building and body farm Texas
State just built."
Great. Politics. That was what Wyatt had thought at
the time. And now his fears were realized. The professor was
trying to take over his crime scene.
"Well, Dr. Mayfield," Wyatt muttered. "You might
be the head of your little world, but you're in my world
now."
As he strode over to confront the professor, he took in the
circus the guy had brought with him. Two spotlight holders,
plus four other students milling around. Add to that three
rubberneckers drooling over his crime scene, and it equaled
nine people. And that was eight— nearly nine, too many.
He stopped when the scuffed toes of his favorite boots were
less than five inches from the professor's gloved hand
and toeing the edge of a shallow, lumpy mud hole.
"Hey, Professor."
The guy had hung his camera around his neck and was now
holding a high-intensity pocket flashlight. He shone it on
Wyatt's tooled leather boots for a second, then aimed it
at a white ruler with large numbers on it, propped next to
what looked to Wyatt like a ridge of dirt.
"Okay," Wyatt muttered to himself, pulling his own
flashlight out and thumbing it on. En garde. He
crossed the other man's beam with his own. "Hey.
Excuse me, Professor?" he said loud enough that
heads turned from the farthest spotlight pole.
Wyatt heard drops of rain spattering on the brim of his
Stetson as the guy thumbed off the flashlight and pushed his
hoodie back. Wyatt spotted a black ponytail. Oh, hell.
This was no gray-haired scholar with a tweed jacket and
Mister Magoo glasses. He was a long-haired hippie type.
Just what he needed, along with everything else. He hoped
the guy didn't have a cause that could
interfere with this investigation.
The professor rose from his haunches and lifted his head.
"Hey to you." The voice was low and throaty.
Low, throaty and undeniably feminine. Wyatt blinked. It
matched the pale, oval, feminine face, framed by a
midnight-black crown of hair pulled haphazardly back into a
ponytail.
He'd heard that voice, seen that face, wished he could
touch that hair, before.
"Oh, hell," he whispered.
"Yes, you already said that."
Had he? Out loud? He clamped his jaw.
She turned to look at the kid with the spotlight.
"Let's get that canopy back up. It's starting to
rain."
Then she gestured to the two standing beside her. "Help
them. No. Leave my kit here."
Then she tugged off her gloves and wiped a slender palm from
her forehead back to the crown of her head. The gesture
smoothed away the strands of hair that had been stuck to her
damp skin, along with several starry droplets of rain.
Wyatt wasn't happy that he remembered how hard she had
to work to tame that hair.
"I have to say, though, I'm really fond of hey.
You're just as eloquent and charming as I
remember," she said.
He felt irritation ballooning in his chest. He could show
her eloquent and charming.
No. Screw it. She didn't deserve to see his
charming side. Ever.
"The name listed on the task force was George Mayfield,
from some university. Not Nina Jacobson," he
informed her.
Her lips, which were annoyingly red, turned up. "Texas
State. And that's right. It was supposed to be George
Mayfield. Think of this as a last-minute change."
"I'm thinking of it as a long, thick string being
pulled. Where's Spears?"
"Who?"
"The deputy who's supposed to be guarding my crime
scene."
"Oh. Of course. Kirby." She smiled. "He's
very helpful. I told him he could leave."
"And he did?"
She nodded.
He was about two seconds away from exploding. He lowered his
head, and water poured off the brim of his Stetson, onto her
pants.
"Oh!" she cried, brushing at them. "You did that
on purpose."
"I wish," he said firmly, working hard not to smile.
"I want these people out of here."
"No."
"What? Did you just say no?"
"That's right. No. I need them here.
It's already started to sprinkle rain. If we're not
careful, we're going to lose evidence."
That reminded him of what she had said about the canopy.
"You took down the canopy? Have you totally contaminated
the scene?"
"The canopy was collapsing. It was about to dump gallons
of water right into the middle of the site."
He glowered at her. "Well, I'm not having a bunch of
college brats stomping all over my crime scene. This is not
a field trip. It's serious business. More serious than
you may know."
Nina's pretty face stiffened, as did her sweatshirt-clad
shoulders and back. "I am perfectly aware of how serious
this find is. You, of all people, should understand just
how aware I am."
Now his eyes were burning as badly as his chest. He squeezed
them shut for a second and took a deep breath, trying to
rein in his temper. "Get them out of here," he said
slowly and evenly.
Nina's eyes met his and widened. To her credit, she
lifted her chin. But she also swallowed nervously, and her
hand twitched. She showed great control in not lifting it to
clutch at her throat.
But then, she'd always showed admirable control, unlike
her best friend, Marcie. It had baffled him how the two of
them—so completely different—had ever become so close.
He held her gaze, not an easy task with those intimidating
dark eyes, until she faltered and looked away.
He'd gotten to her, and he was glad. Last time
they'd seen each other, she'd had the final word.
It's your fault. My best friend could be dead, and
it's all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.
She stepped past him with feminine dignity and walked over
to the kid whose pants were still drooping.
He heard him say, "Yes, ma'am." Then he heard
her say, "Okay, guys. Let's put this equipment away.
We're done for the night. We'll get started again in
the morning."
Wyatt turned and found Nina staring at him. "They're
done, period, Professor."
This time her chin went up and stayed up. "We'll see
about that tomorrow, Lieutenant. And I'm not a
professor. I'm a fellow."
Wyatt felt a mean urge and acted on it before his better
judgment could stop him. He shook his head. "No,
Professor, you're definitely not a fellow. I
can attest to that."
"Go to hell," she snapped.
"Charming," he muttered.
She turned away, so quickly that her ponytail almost slapped
her in the face, and followed the students to the SUVs.
Wyatt took off his hat and slung the water off the brim, ran
a hand through his hair, then seated the Stetson back on his
head. The rain had settled into a miserable drizzle, the
drops falling just fast enough to seep through clothes and
just slow enough to piss him off.
He went back to the Jeep and got a roll of crime-scene tape.
Obviously one thickness of yellow tape around the perimeter
wasn't warning enough. Not that twenty thicknesses would
actually keep anyone from getting to the newly discovered
grave, but the tape, plus the deputy, who was supposed to be
here by midnight and guard the scene until morning, would be
a deterrent.
At least for law-abiding folks.
By the time he was finished retaping the perimeter, three
times over, most of the equipment was gone from the site and
the two SUVs had loaded up and left.
He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. An hour until
Sheriff Hardin's second deputy arrived. He debated
calling Hardin and reaming him and his deputy for leaving
the crime scene unguarded. But he could just as easily do
that tomorrow morning.
He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene. At least the
rain had stopped for the moment. He took off his hat again
and slapped it against his thigh, knocking more water off
the brim, then seated it back on his head.
Propping a boot on top of a fallen tree trunk, he stared
down at the shallow, jagged hole in the ground, his mood
deteriorating.
The rain had released more odors into the air. The fresh
smell of newly turned earth was still there, seasoned with
the sharp scent of evergreen and the fresh odor of
rain-washed air. Still, he couldn't shake the sensation
that he could smell death. Even if he knew bones didn't
smell.
A frisson of revulsion slid through him, followed
immediately by remorse. He propped an elbow on his knee and
glared at the hole, as if he could bully it into giving up
its secrets.
Are you down there, Marcie?
So now he was talking to dead people? He reined in his
runaway imagination sharply. If the remains unearthed here
were those of his missing witness, Marcie James, at least
her family and friends would have closure.
And he would know for sure that his negligence had gotten
her killed. As always, he marveled at his unrealistic hope
that somehow Marcie had survived the attack that had nearly
killed him. Still, he recognized it for what it was—a
last-ditch effort by his brain to protect him from the truth.
She was dead and it was his fault.
He heard the voices arguing with his, like they always did.
His captain, assuring him that the Rangers' internal
investigation had exonerated him of any negligence. The
surgeon who'd worked for seven hours to repair the
damage to his lung from the attacker's bullet, declaring
that he ought to be a dead man.
But louder than all of them was the one low, sexy voice that
agreed with him. The voice of Nina Jacobson.
My best friend is gone. She could be dead, and it's
all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.
He rubbed his chin and tried to banish her words from his
brain. He needed to put the self-recrimination and regret
behind him. Whether or not Marcie James's death was his
fault wasn't the issue now.
Identifying whoever was buried in this shallow hole was. For
a few moments, he got caught up in examining the scene. This
was the first time he'd seen it. The kids had erected
the canopy, so the area underneath was dark.
But Wyatt could imagine what had happened. The road crew
that was breaking ground for the controversial new state
route that cut across this corner of Jonah Becker's land
had brought in its bulldozer. It had dug into this rise and
unearthed the bones.