Speed Trap. Patricia Davids

left him about a year ago.”

      An interesting bit of information. “Did you know her?”

      “I picked her up for possession of meth right after she moved out of his place. She pleaded out for community service, never did any time. She left town after that. I never heard anything more about her.”

      “What about the ex-husband?”

      “I seem to recall they were both busted on drug charges down in Oklahoma a few years ago. I’d have to look it up. He hasn’t stepped out of line in this county—that I know of—but I never did trust him.”

      “Why?”

      “He’s got a funny way of looking at you. Like he’s looking through you. It ain’t right.”

      “Emmett says the car was deliberately run off the road.”

      Fred handed back the book. “According to those skid marks she was heading away from his ranch not toward it. Maybe her visit with her ex didn’t go so well.”

      “I’m thinking the same thing. What else do you know about him?”

      “Not much. He lives by himself. I see his truck and trailer going through town at least once a week.”

      “He doesn’t happen to drive a dark-colored Ford, does he?”

      Fred nodded. “Come to think of it, he does.

      Mandy watched as the coroner’s hearse pulled up behind the squad cars. “Fred, notify the Highway Patrol. I’d like them to process the car.”

      “You think I can’t do it? I’ve been working accidents since before you were born.”

      Rather than take offense, she chose to mollify him. “That’s why I want you to stay and see that it gets done right. You know as well as I do we’ll get the crime scene reports back faster if we let the KHP assist us on this.”

      “And what are you gonna to be doing?”

      “I’m going to get cleaned up, then I’m going to pay Mr. Bowen a visit. He wouldn’t be the first ex-husband to settle a marital score with murder.”

      Mandy knew that all to well.

      Garrett pulled a bent nail from the pouch at his waist and laid it on top of the wooden fence post. With careful taps of his hammer, he straightened it. Using his elbow to brace the next board against the post, he hit the nail, hoping it wouldn’t bend. It went in straight and sure.

      “See that, Wiley? All it takes is finesse.” He glanced at the shaggy black-and-white mutt sitting near his feet. Wiley cocked his head to one side and wagged his crooked tail.

      Garrett straightened another rusty nail, but it bent like a wet noodle when he tried to hammer it in. He tossed it into a nearby bucket of similar failures. The dog dashed over to nose the contents.

      “Laugh at me, Wiley, and you’ll go to bed without supper.”

      The dog leaped to his hind legs and pawed the air as he turned in an excited circle and yipped. The words breakfast, lunch or supper all brought about the same reaction. Wiley had a thing about food.

      “Just kidding, buddy.” Having suffered that punishment more times than he could count as a boy, Garrett would never inflict it on Wiley. He and the little stray had a lot in common. They both knew what it was to be beaten, hungry and abandoned.

      “I may not have enough money for new lumber, but I reckon I can afford kibble.”

      Garrett stared at his half-finished corral. For now, he had to make do with used boards and nails salvaged from an old shed, but with a little luck and hard work, next year would be different. His herd of Angus cows might be small, but they were producing some fine calves this spring and prices were good.

      Careful saving and the extra money he’d started earning as a cattle buyer would let him add to his herd in the coming months, but there wouldn’t be cash left over to fix up the place.

      He didn’t mind waiting.

      Pushing his hat back, he paused to lean both arms on the post and survey the green rolling grassland sweeping toward the horizon. Someday, these hills would hold hundreds of fat black cows with calves at their sides, all wearing his brand.

      It was the one dream he held on to.

      The month before Garrett turned eighteen, his alcoholic father died of a stroke. Garrett had inherited a nearly worthless house, two hundred and fifty acres of pasture and a mountain of debt. He’d had nowhere to go and no reason to stay—except that he loved the land.

      Nothing about the prairie was closed up or shut in.

      He loved the wide sweep of the horizon and the way the wind sent ripples dancing through the long grass. He loved the smell of newly mown hay and the sight of cattle knee-deep in the emerald green pastures. He loved the freedom the wide sky offered. The land asked for nothing, promised nothing. It just was.

      After ten years of scrimping and saving he’d been able to buy back most of the land his father had sold off. He owned almost a thousand acres now. With the right stock, Garrett knew he could build up a breeding program to be proud of. He had a good start, but there was still a lot to be done.

      It was a dream Garrett hoarded carefully. Too many of his dreams had been squashed by people he’d trusted. Like his father and his mother. Like Judy.

      It’s better not to wish for too much. Better not to trust at all.

      Garrett pushed away from the post. Self-pity wouldn’t finish his fence. He glanced at the sun nearly straight overhead. Judy should have been here by now.

      He still wasn’t sure how he felt about her impending visit. Why was she so adamant about seeing him? Why now?

      Still pondering the question, Garrett walked to his truck. Pulling a board from the bed, he eyed it to make sure it was straight. Wiley barked twice, then raced off down the gravel lane.

      In the distance, Garrett recognized the sheriff’s white SUV approaching. A feeling of unease settled like a rock in his stomach. Pulling a red kerchief from his hip pocket, he wiped the sweat from his face, then settled his hat low on his head and waited until the vehicle rolled to a stop a few yards from him.

      There was no mistaking the woman behind the wheel. Miss Mandy Scott—big-city cop turned small-town sheriff—slowly opened the truck door. Garrett fought to quell the churning in his gut as old memories rose to the surface.

      His mother had called the police a few times, but their visits had only made matters worse. When the cops were gone, his father made her pay dearly for her audacity. Garrett had been too young and too frightened to help her.

      His mother took her husband’s abuse as long as she could. Then one day, she just left.

      The slamming of the truck door yanked Garrett back to the present. He waited as Sheriff Scott approached.

      She wasn’t tall, maybe five foot five or six, but the way she carried herself made her seem taller—as if she were looking down on him instead of up at a man who had a good six inches on her. Her honey-blond hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her mouth was pressed into a tight line.

      Everything about her from the mannish cut of her blue uniform to the shine on her black boots seemed to shout that she was a woman in charge.

      She would be pretty if she smiled. Not that she was homely—just intense.

      “Afternoon, Mr. Bowen.” Her tone was all business. Pulling off her sunglasses, she let her gaze sweep over him. He forced himself to remain still, but his gaze slid to the house.

      Shame clawed at his gut. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

      Mandy wanted the man to take off his hat. He was a person of interest in his ex-wife’s murder. She wanted to see his eyes. The bright noon sun and the wide brim of his battered Stetson