Rancher's Redemption. Beth Cornelison

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