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Excerpt
Marcie Browder might have despised her miserable father, but she
didn’t kill him. Now, is she falling in love with the man who did?
She married a guy just like her
dear old dad. Drunk. Abusive. Unfaithful. So she divorced him and returned home
to her family’s ranch in West Texas to heal. Her hopes for peace vanish when she
has a confrontation with her father—and later, he’s found dead. Murdered. The
new ranch foreman, Tucker McGee, a man who unsettles her in ways she doesn’t
want to admit, is the prime suspect.
Marcie soon learns the people
she trusted most—family and friends—are hiding secrets that will change her
life, forever. And they know something they’re not telling her about Tucker
McGee. He sits a horse well—very well—but he's no cowboy. Marcie’s reluctant to
accept his help, but he’s hard to resist . . . in more ways than one. Is Tucker
her only ally, or is he just another dangerous man with the power to hurt her?
Ken Casper is the author of more
than 25 novels, including AS THE CROW DIES, book one of The Jason Crow West
Texas Mystery Series. He and his wife raise horses on a small ranch in Texas.
Coming soon.
CHAPTER ONE
Following
the dune buggy’s tracks, Marcie had the eerie, nape-tingling sensation that
someone, something, was watching her. She reined in her horse at the
barbed-wire fence that used to separate the Lazy B from the Green Valley ranch
and scanned the area. In the long shadows of the afternoon, the craggy hills
beyond the fence line looked secretive and forbidding. Her eye caught ground
movement, but it was so fast, so distant, she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it.
Was it man or beast?
She sighed. Maybe she wasn’t the only nervous rancher
scouting around. Missing cattle had everyone alert, unsettled. A disappearing
parent didn’t help.
Marcie had known her father to rush off half-drunk before,
and this certainly wasn’t the first time Mason Browder had stayed out all
night. His behavior, however, was becoming worse. He’d struck Carlinda and
tried to hit Marcie, then he’d nearly started a fistfight with Dustin at the
Beer Bucket Saloon a few hours later. Not that arguing with her brother was
unusual, either. Father and son were too damn much alike to get along. But the
old man’s charging off in Dustin’s stupid dune buggy worried her. He’d never
done that before.
She had to find him and try to repair the damage she’d done
yesterday. Maybe if she could get him to talk, she would understand why he’d
allowed himself to degenerate into an abusive, alcoholic bully, and why he’d
built a chasm between them that had grown wider and deeper with time.
From hunting with him years ago, she knew better than to
concentrate on the exact spot where she thought she’d seen the fleeting
movement. Expanding her view to take in the whole hillside, she spied a break
in the fence a hundred-and-fifty yards down the line.
She urged Sparkle to a slow walk. The breach, she realized
upon getting to it, wasn’t the result of ordinary deterioration. The shiny ends
of freshly sheared barbed wire glistened in the bright sunlight. Someone had
intentionally cut the fence and folded it back. Who? And were they still
around?
Experience in tracking animals had taught her to examine the
surrounding ground. There were hoof-prints as well as the marks of a wheeled
vehicle crossing the line. The dune buggy? What would her father be doing up
here?
She ignored the quiver of apprehension that coiled down her
spine. Keeping her mare in an easy jog, she advanced through a narrow ravine
toward the sun-bathed hills across the vale. The cool springtime breeze that
met her whispered something, but the message took a moment to register. Cattle.
She could smell the mild pungency of cattle. She paused and listened.
For several months now, someone had been rustling small
numbers of their livestock. If this was where they were being kept, she should
be able to hear them. Yet the gentle wind brought no sound but its own as it
wafted through stunted oaks and salt cedar. The tremor of danger grew stronger.
Despite it, she moved on.
The ravine was a short one that served as a gate to a
depressed valley. Jagged, rocky peaks surrounded it like the rim of a chipped,
cracked bowl. Pausing, she looked down. There, beside a muddy water hole, a man
was inspecting a dune buggy, or rather, rifling through it. Even from this
distance, she knew the man was Tucker McGee. Her father had hired him as their
new foreman two weeks ago. Marcie had met him the previous Saturday when she’d
come home to the ranch from Houston. Lean and hard, he exuded a raw strength
that, even now, disquieted her, making her feel slightly self-conscious and not
in control.
She nudged the horse into a careful walk down the sloping
trail. From the way Tucker’s body tightened and he squared his shoulders, she
knew he’d heard her. She thought she saw him slip something into the hip pocket
of his snug jeans as he straightened to face her. He put space between his
scuff-booted feet as he watched her advance. The arrogant stance irritated her.
"I wish you hadn’t come,” he told her by way of greeting.
"I have every right to be here, Mr. McGee,” she informed him.
The slanting sun burnished the bronze features below the rim of his western
hat. "This is Browder land, after all. But what are you doing here? I didn’t
think we were working this section.”
"I’m not disputing your right to be here, Ms. Browder. I’m
just sorry you chose now to exercise it.”
The words were spoken politely enough, but she saw wariness
in his sea-green eyes. He was hiding something. "I see you’ve found the buggy.
Where’s my father?”
She dismounted and walked toward him, but when she started to
approach the vehicle, he stepped in front of her and put out his arm. She
looked down at the rolled-back sleeve, at the sinewy muscles of his forearm and
its fine sheen of curly dark hair.
"Get out of my way.” She placed a hand on his wrist to brush
past him. His flesh was firm, his pulse thick and measured. She could feel the
heat emanating from the closeness of his brawny torso. For a moment, her heart
raced.
"Wait.” He shifted, giving her a view of the off-road
vehicle. Beside it lay Mason Browder.
Her face grew hot in spite of the chill that suddenly infused
her bones. Whether it was at the sight of her father sprawled on the damp
ground, or the warmth of this man’s solid arm, or the unexpected tenderness of
his voice so close to her ear, she wasn’t sure.
"I didn’t want you to see him like this.”
She almost laughed. She’d seen her father spread-eagled on
his back before—on his bed and occasionally on a floor. Dead drunk. It had
taken years for her to suppress the disgust and revulsion, the shame and anger,
his behavior provoked. But the emotions were still there, festering. The most
powerful one was an overwhelming feeling that she was somehow responsible for
what he had become. Her love had not been accepted—she’d been inadequate, a
disappointment.
She stared at the still form on the ground.
"He’s dead,” McGee said softly.
At first the words made no sense, had no meaning. She glanced
up at the tall man, aware of his sun‑tanned complexion, the cleft in his chin,
the hint of lines bracketing his full mouth. But they made little impression,
until she looked once again at his eyes. The sadness in them jolted her.
"Dead?” she finally whispered, only vaguely aware when Tucker
lowered his arm.
Later, no doubt, she’d experience all the normal reactions
associated with death—sorrow, loss, regret. Right now she felt numb disbelief
and a detached curiosity about why the man who had given her life had come here
to die. She moved toward him.
"Don’t,” McGee said, not loudly, but with authority.
"Why the hell not?” she flared, her voice shaky. "He’s my
father.”
She could see the breeze rippling the shiny shoots of new
grass. Why couldn’t she feel it?
"There’s nothing you can do for him now,” McGee said. "He’s
long gone. Best not to mess up the scene of the crime any more than it already
is.”
"Crime?” She looked again at the figure a few feet away. Only
then did she see it—the dark brown stain in the middle of the burgundy-and-gray
western shirt. "What happened?”
"He’s been shot. I’m sure he died instantly, if that’s any
consolation.”
She inhaled and exhaled. She didn’t like the man her father
had become, hadn’t had reason to for a long time. More recently she’d even come
to fear him. But she’d never wished him ill. She wouldn’t want him to have
suffered. Physical pain could never compensate for or erase the mental anguish
he’d caused. Nothing could. Yet, for no perceptible reason, she thought of how,
long ago, he’d held her on his knee, read her bedtime stories and told her she
was the prettiest little girl in all of Texas. No. She wouldn’t have wanted him
to suffer.
"Have you called anyone?” Marcie managed to inquire, her
words thick.
"Not yet.”
She wanted to ask him why not, but didn’t trust her voice.
McGee said he’d gotten here a few minutes ago. Was he the flitting shadow she’d
observed? Why had he been going through the dune buggy?
She marched over to her horse, reached into the saddlebag and
removed her cellular phone. There was no use calling 911. This wasn’t a
life-or-death situation. Not anymore. Death had already won. She punched in a
longer set of digits. Her father’d had enough run-ins with the law that even
after eight years of being away she remembered the number of the sheriff’s
office by heart.
She made her report concise and businesslike, answered a few
questions, then broke the connection. Immediately, she hit an automatic dial
button. Her mother answered on the second ring.
"Hello... hello?”
"Mom... I found Dad.”
Carlinda heaved an audible, long-suffering sigh. "Where is he
this time? In a bar or a ditch?” When Marcie didn’t reply, Carlinda added, "He
is all right, isn’t he?”
Marcie’s stomach knotted, and she hesitated.
"What’s wrong, honey?” her mother asked more softly. "Did he
land in jail this time?” Then after another moment’s pause. "You didn’t...
find him with someone?”
"No,” Marcie answered, relieved she could at least spare her
mother the indignity of learning her husband was shacked up with some bimbo
again.
"Is he hurt? Did he have an accident? How bad is it?”
"Mom... I’ll tell you when I get back.”
"Don’t play games with me, Marcie,” her mother snapped. "Tell
me what’s happened.”
"It’s not good news, Mom. I’m afraid...
Mom, Dad’s dead.”
There was total silence at the other end. Marcie tried to
imagine what her mother was feeling at that moment. Was she numb, too? Marcie
didn’t doubt there would be pain and sorrow. But after nearly twenty-eight
years of putting up with Mason Browder’s moods, his abuse, his infidelity,
irresponsibility and chronic alcoholism, maybe there was also an awareness of
the inevitable and a sense of relief.
When Carlinda spoke, it was a simple quiet, "Oh.” Then a
moment later, a fragile, "What happened?”
"He was shot, Mom. Somebody killed him.”
"My God!” Carlinda cried, her voice tremulous. Then a new
anxiety. "Marcie, are you all right? Where are you?”
"Up at the bowl on the Green Valley place. Mr. McGee is here
with me. I’ve called the sheriff.”
"Green Valley? What was he doing there?”
"I don’t know.”
"Who did it, Marcie? Who killed him?”
"I don’t know that, either, Mom.”
"But...” Carlinda began, and let the word
trail off.
"We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
"Be careful,” her mother warned.
"I will. Mom, are you all right?”
"Just hurry home. I need to know you’re safe.”
Clicking the phone closed, Marcie placed it back in her
saddlebag and, leading her bay mare, followed Tucker to a jumble of boulders
where he’d left his horse. They could sit and wait for the sheriff there in the
slanting evening shade. A justice of the peace would be coming as well to
formally declare the rancher and one-time politician dead. Spring County, like
most Texas counties, didn’t have a medical examiner or a coroner. JPs
proclaimed people officially deceased and decided if circumstances warranted
further investigation.
Marcie sat on a coarse limestone shelf. The last of winter’s
chill seeped from its depths. She welcomed the bracing coolness. Tucker leaned
against a boulder a few yards away, facing her, his long legs stretched out
straight, his arms folded across his chest.
"You didn’t answer my question,” Marcie reminded him. "What
are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWO
"I got a call
from Fletcher Doggitt, the foreman over on the Prudhomme ranch.”
"I know who he is,” she said.
"They lost fifty more head the night before last. I thought I
might find a trail.”
"You were looking for their cattle on our ranch? Are you
accusing us of stealing Prudhomme livestock?”
"I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” Tucker responded
easily. "But someone has been corralling cattle here.”
He was right, of course. She could see tracks and cow patties
everywhere. The lingering odors indicated they had been here very recently,
too.
"What are you doing up here?” he asked.
I don’t have to answer him, she told
herself. He’s not my father or my husband. He works for us. But the
nearness of her father’s corpse somehow compelled her to keep talking. "I was
looking for Dad. He didn’t come home last night.”
"Word around the ranch is, that wasn’t unusual. What made you
come looking for him this time?”
Needle points of irritation stiffened her spine. Just because
he’d witnessed her confrontation with her father, he’d concluded she wasn’t
concerned about him, that she didn’t care. She resented his assumption. With
all Mason’s faults and failings, all the disappointments, she’d never
completely lost affection for him. Of course, he’d never know that now. She
took a deep breath.
"He had some sort of argument with my
brother at the Beer Bucket Saloon yesterday afternoon—” after I threatened
to kill him, she reminded herself "—and stormed off in Dustin’s dune buggy.
He generally has... had no trouble driving his pickup drunk,
and he didn’t always come straight home. But when he didn’t show up at the
house by this afternoon, I got worried he might have had an accident. As far as
I know, he’s never even ridden in Dusty’s contraption before, much less driven
it.”
"Then why did he take it this time?”
Pure pigheadedness, she was tempted to say. "He told Dusty
the truck was almost out of gas, and he didn’t want to stop and fill up.”
"But why come here? And what was so important that it couldn’t
wait?”
The questions had been gnawing at her, too. She shrugged. "Your
guess is as good as mine. Dad didn’t always make a whole lot of sense,
especially when he was drinking.”
"Which, from what I hear, was most of the time,” Tucker
added.
"I don’t think you have any right to condemn,” she erupted,
surprising herself at the sudden urge to defend the man whose behavior she’d
come to despise. "You didn’t know him. Besides, he was your employer. That
should be enough to warrant at least a semblance of respect.” She expelled a
chestful of air. "Anyway, he’s dead. What he did doesn’t make any difference
now.”
He gazed at her, his eyes never wavering. "Doesn’t it?”
"What’s done is done,” she declared. "It’s
over.” He’s dead and the last thing I said to him wasn’t that I loved him
but that I’d kill him. "What’s yet to be settled is his murder. I don’t
care what you or anyone else thought of my father, Mr. McGee. No one had the
right to take his life. Someone murdered him. I’m going to find out who.
Justice won’t bring him back, but—”
Her words were interrupted by the fluttering drone of a Texas
Ranger helicopter overhead. The sheriff had arrived.
Leaving the horses to nibble fresh green sprouts among the
boulders, they moved back to the clearing. The chopper landed on a flat spot a
hundred feet on the other side of the dune buggy. Tucker watched Marcie raise a
slender arm to hold her western hat against the whirlwind of dust that rushed
at them. The blast rippled her plum-colored shirt, outlining the generosity of
her breasts. Discretion dictated that he be circumspect, but the male in him
refused to look away. He’d experienced the same physical tug toward her on
their first meeting and remembered all too clearly the tantalizing sensation of
her hand slipping into his in greeting.
He tried to gauge her mental state. From what the ranch hands
had told him about Mason Browder, the dead man had long since abdicated any
right to his family’s affection, but Tucker wondered about his daughter’s
tearless calm. Was she as cool as she seemed?
He replayed in his mind the scene she’d had with her father
the day before. At the time, Tucker had had no doubt about the intensity or
sincerity of her reaction, but he also hadn’t taken the death threat literally.
Should he have? Marcie Browder wouldn’t have been the first woman to oppose
violence with deadly force.
Maintaining his objectivity about this woman, with her
light-brown hair and enchanting blue eyes, wasn’t going to be easy. She was
hanging tough now. No tears. No wringing of hands. No faltering speech. But she
didn’t fool him. He’d glimpsed, in the firm set of her mouth and unfocused
stare, a deeply scarred sensitivity beneath her hard shell, detected the
vulnerability she didn’t want him to see. The emptiness she was feeling right
now probably shocked her.
Death, he could have told her, always brought surprises, even
when it was expected as a result of advanced age or long illness. But sudden,
violent death robbed loved ones of even that preparation time.
Unbidden, he pictured Beth and little
Ruth. His throat tightened. He didn’t want to think of the family he’d lost.
Not now. Not here. They filled his nights with an ache that could never be
relieved. He couldn’t let it torture his days as well. Keep busy, active,he scolded himself. Think other thoughts.
Two men emerged from the Jet Ranger’s cabin and ran, hunched
over, toward them. The older man, white haired, in loose-fitting jeans and
khaki shirt with the six-pointed sheriffs star pinned on the left breast
pocket, came to them. The younger man, middle-aged, balding and toting a camera
and videocam, went directly to the body.
Tucker got through the introductions and preliminary report
without any indication that Sheriff Kraus recognized him. That didn’t mean he
didn’t, of course. Tucker had been warned that the soft-spoken gentleman was
more savvy than he looked, and as up-to-date on technology as the county’s
budget allowed. Not that Coyote Springs had much call for sophisticated
criminal investigative techniques. Drunken cowboys on Saturday night were still
the town’s biggest menace. There hadn’t been a murder in the county in nearly
six years. Until now.
"How’d you find him up here?” the sheriff asked.
"I was riding around, checking things out,” Tucker replied. "I’ve
been on the job only a couple of weeks and twenty-five sections is a lot of
territory to cover. This was my first trip into an area I hadn’t seen yet.”
"Did you touch the body?” Kraus asked in a West Texas drawl.
Tucker shook his head. "His neck, to be sure he wasn’t still
alive, though it was pretty obvious he was dead.”
"How about anything else?”
Tucker thought about when he first heard Marcie approaching.
Had she seen him going through the buggy? After verifying there was no pulse,
he’d put his leather gloves back on, so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints, but
it wouldn’t do any good to have her contradicting him, or for him to give her
doubts about himself.
"I checked the buggy,” Tucker admitted. "I wondered if the
gun might still be here.”
"Why?” Kraus’s gray eyes bore into him.
Tucker scratched the sandpaper stubble on his chin. "I know
this might sound a little goofy, Sheriff, but I wondered if he might have
killed himself, figured maybe the gun had flown out of his hand when he fired.
Seems pretty dumb, I guess. Don’t imagine too many people shoot themselves
through the heart.”
Tucker could tell the lawman was trying to decide if he was
giving him a con job. "A few do,” the old man commented as he regarded the body
sprawled out by the side of the dune buggy. He looked back at Tucker. "Did you
find a gun?”
"No, but I was here only a couple of minutes before Ms.
Browder showed up.”
Tucker used his peripheral vision to observe her. Had she
seen him slip the piece of paper in his pocket? If so, she wasn’t saying
anything.
The sheriff ambled away to confer with the JP, who’d finished
videotaping the scene. The police pilot had joined him, and they were
stretching out a black plastic bag beside the corpse. While Marcie backed away,
Tucker edged as close as he could to hear their conversation. He got only bits
and pieces. ". . . dead some time... rigor dissipating...
one shot... not self-inflicted...” Nothing
Tucker hadn’t already figured out for himself.
"Make sure you take plenty of pictures of the buggy and all
the footprints around here. People and horses,” Kraus concluded. "Some of them
have to belong to the killer, unless he was an angel of death who could hover
above the ground.”
Tucker watched Browder’s mortal remains being zipped into the
body bag. He’d seen it all before, helped package friends, enemies and the
scattered parts of both. It still brought a metallic taste to his mouth.
The sheriff came over to Marcie. "I’m afraid we don’t have
room to take you with us. If you want to wait, I can send the chopper back for
you.”
"Don’t bother. By the time it drops you off, returns here and
takes me home, I can be there on Sparkle.”
"You’re right. I just thought you might not feel like riding
under the circumstances.”
"Under the circumstances,” she repeated, "I think I’d rather
ride than wait.”
The sheriff nodded.
"What happens now?” she asked.
"We’ll be taking your daddy to the hospital morgue. They’ll
probably do an autopsy tonight. I might be able to give you preliminary results
in the morning.”
"Is there any doubt?”
"Not at the moment. But looks can be deceiving. I’ll go out
to your place and inform your ma as soon as I get back.”
"I’ve already called her,” Marcie told him.
The sheriff nodded. "I’ll just stop by and offer my
condolences, then.”
Tucker knew the lawman would have preferred breaking the news
himself. First impressions at the announcement of misfortune could be
revealing. Which raised a question. Did the sheriff suspect Carlinda Browder of
involvement in her husband’s death? There are two rules when investigating
death by violence. Find out who profits. Then look to the people closest to the
victim. Very often you’re looking at the same person. So who would profit by
Browder’s death?
Tucker stood beside Marcie as the helicopter lifted off,
again swathing them in a blast of blade wash. He glanced over at the young
woman as she untied her mare. Beneath the black hat, her long chestnut hair was
gathered loosely with a blue ribbon. Involuntarily, he wondered what that fine
silk would feel like slipping through his fingers. An emptiness gnawed at his
insides, a hunger he had no right to satisfy.
The sun had sunk low enough in the sky now that evening’s
gloaming was spreading across the basin. He untied the thick flannel shirt
rolled up on the back of his saddle and handed it to her.
"I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted.
"You’re not dressed for a ten-degree drop in temperature. You’ve
also had a shock that would be enough to give anyone the shivers. Rattling your
bones with cold won’t help.”
She bit her lip, and he sensed she wanted to argue with him.
Then suddenly there was a hint of a smile. "Thanks,” she said as he held the
shirt for her to slip into.
Tucker let Marcie ride ahead of him, content for her to set
the pace. Her posture, erect, almost stiff, told him she was either unaware of
or indifferent to his being there.
She was still in shock, maybe even denial. The full impact of
her father’s death probably hadn’t hit her yet. A part of him wanted to soothe
her, to hold her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right,
that she had done her best, done what she had to do, that the time for
recriminations was over. Tucker McGee understood too well the pain and anguish
on the terrible sojourn in the shadow of death. The problem was that he didn’t
know how to relieve them.
How much did she know about what was going on? About him?
What would her reaction be when she found out?
He’d have to stay close to Marcie and her family without
giving himself away. His position as foreman should furnish him the cover he
needed, provided the new widow didn’t decide to terminate his services.
By the time they arrived at the ranch house, it would be
nearly dark, even at the quick lope Marcie was setting. The prospect of riding
under the stars had a certain romantic appeal, but it was also difficult and
dangerous on a moonless night over unfamiliar ground. Riding against time as
they were didn’t give them an opportunity to talk, to exchange ideas and get to
know each other.
When they reached the knoll overlooking the ranch house, she
stopped, and he moved up beside her. He should say something, reassure her she
wasn’t alone. But he didn’t know any adequate words. In the face of death, he
ruminated, all of us are alone.
She glanced over at him as if expecting him to speak; then,
before he had a chance, nudged her horse into an easy walk down the long slope
toward the sprawling stone-and-stucco house. Her mother stood on the brick
patio by the back door.
They reined in at the barnyard and dismounted. Carlinda
Browder looked tiny in the glaring floodlights as she ran a hand through unruly
brown hair, streaked with gray. Tucker noted the grim set of her mouth and the
blurred bruise along her jaw. Her posture was straight, almost stern, her
dark-blue eyes clear and dry as she held out her arms to Marcie.
Tucker called to a new ranch hand who was coiling a hose by
the barn and told him to take the horses, unsaddle them, feed and water them,
then clean the saddles before hanging them on their usual racks in the tack
room.
"Heard Mr. Browder got shot,” Jim Bob said in an undertone as
he grabbed the split leather reins.
So word of how the big man died was already public knowledge.
"Just take care of the horses,”
Tucker instructed the young man and marched to the house. Carlinda looked at
him askance as he slipped, uninvited, into the kitchen. Did you kill him?her glance seemed to question.
"Where’s Dusty?” Marcie asked her mother.
"He went into town this afternoon to see Calhoun. There was a
billing problem on one of the feed deliveries this week. I expected him back by
now. He probably stopped by the Beer Bucket as usual.” Carlinda’s expression
was one of resignation.
"Or he went over to spend some time with Lula,” Marcie
suggested.
Tucker suppressed a smirk. Dustin and his girlfriend, Lula
Crosby, were practically inseparable. No wonder. Her spandex pants and clinging
sweaters didn’t leave much to the imagination. The girl’s blatant sexuality,
however, had stirred no interest in Tucker. The feminine charm of the young
woman across the room leaning against the counter in rumpled jeans and his
oversized flannel shirt intrigued him in a way that was far more compelling.
Just then, they heard the low timbre of a sports car outside.
The two women said nothing as they stood in the middle of the room.
Dustin Browder came through the doorway. His face was gray
with shock.
