Rawhide Ranger. Rita Herron

long, intense look, and she barely resisted the urge to fidget—or turn tail and run. Normally his size and stare probably intimidated men and women, but she refused to allow him to rattle her. She lived in a man’s world, did jobs men did on the ranch.

      “You can take my prints if you want,” she said with a saccharine smile.

      A deep chuckle rumbled from within him. “If the lab turns up prints, I will.”

      She planted her hands on her hips. “So, what now, Sergeant?”

      She intentionally made his title sound like a four-letter word, and was rewarded when a muscle ticked in his jaw.

      “I’m going to look for the bullets and casings from the shooter, then make sure this crime scene and those burial sites are guarded around the clock.”

      She frowned, half wanting to stick around to see what else he discovered—and to watch him work. But she needed to check on her father and warn him about the Ranger. Hopefully her dad and Trace both had alibis for this morning. Her father had still been in bed when she’d stopped by for coffee, but Trace had already left the house. He was somewhere on the ranch.

      He’d been adamant about getting rid of the Rangers. Would he have shot at this one to try to run him off?

      Irritated, she turned and headed toward Firebird, but the Ranger called her name, his voice taunting.

      “Where are you going, Jessie? Running to warn Daddy that I found more damning evidence against him? That I intend to take a sample of his blood to see if it matches the red paint used in the ritualistic burials so I can nail him for murder?”

      She schooled her reaction, then offered him a sardonic look. “No, Sergeant. My father is innocent. Get a warrant and take your blood sample, and you’ll prove it.” She swung up into the saddle and glared down at him again. “And in spite of the fact that you’re trying to take away our land and destroy our reputation, I have a ranch to run.”

      The challenge in his dark eyes sent her stomach fluttering again, then his look softened, turned almost concerned. “Be careful, Jessie,” he finally said in a gruff voice. “Remember there’s a shooter out there, and he may still be on your property.”

      She patted her saddlebag where she kept her pistol. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.” Settling her hat more firmly on her head, she clicked her heels against the mare’s flanks, yanked the reins and sent Firebird galloping toward the main ranch house.

      But his warning reverberated in her head, and she kept her eyes peeled as she crossed the distance in case the shooter was still lurking around. Not only were the Native Americans incensed about the land deal, but other locals were jealous of her father’s success.

      One of them had shot at the Ranger and her today.

      She didn’t intend to end up dead like the others.

      A TIGHTNESS GRIPPED CABE’S chest as he watched Jessie disappear into the distance.

      She was undeniably the most stubborn, independent, infuriating, spunky, sexy woman he’d ever met.

      Even when she’d been hissing at him like a rattlesnake, his body had hummed to life with arousal. Unfortunately, the fact that she was so devoted to her family and defended her father to no end only stirred his admiration.

      And she could tame a wild horse. Damn he was sure of that. In fact, he’d like to climb in the saddle with her and tangle a time or two.

      He almost hated to take down her father and destroy her image of him. Or cause her any grief.

      But the wind whispered with the scent of death, the murder victims’ faces swam in his mind, the Native spirits screaming for justice.

      He’d do whatever was necessary to ferret out the truth.

      Jonah Becker and his son, Trace, had no scruples—that was the key to their success. Was it the key to Jessie’s rise in the ranching business as well? Was she really going back to work, or running to help her father cover his crimes?

      Remembering the hairs he’d found, the clay sample and the leather pouch, he punched in Lt. Wyatt Colter’s number. Wyatt had been the first Ranger working the case and the lead. “Navarro.”

      Wyatt cleared his throat. “Yeah?”

      Cabe explained about the evidence he’d collected and the attack.

      “If someone forged Billy’s suicide note or forced him to write it, then killed him,” Wyatt said, “they obviously don’t want us still poking around.”

      “Which means that Billy may not have killed the antiquities dealer, the activist, Marcie or Daniel Taabe. So the real killer is still at large and definitely wanted to scare me off.”

      “Maybe it was Jonah Becker or his son,” Wyatt suggested. “We still believe he obtained that land illegally.”

      “Could have been one of them, I guess, but Jessie Becker was with me. She could have been hit as well.”

      “Dammit, this case has been nothing but trouble. Someone’s been tampering with the evidence every step of the way.” A long, tense moment passed. “Keep the scene secure and make sure you follow the chain of custody. When we catch this bastard, we don’t want him to walk.”

      Cabe bit back a sarcastic remark. “I know how to do my job, Lieutenant. I’ll take the evidence to the sheriff’s office and have a Ranger courier pick it up to transport to the lab. But first, I’m going to search for the bullets and casings from the shooter.” A noise in the brush drew his eyes, and he turned to study the woods again, wondering if the killer had returned.

      “I also found a leather pouch with the initials LL on it. Jessie said it belonged to a horse groom named Linda Lantz who worked for her two years ago. Apparently Linda left the ranch about the same time Marcie faked her kidnapping and death.”

      “So she might have been involved?” Wyatt asked.

      “Or she could be a witness. We need to find out if she’s still alive. And if so, where she is now.”

      Wyatt mumbled agreement. “I’ll see what I can dig up on her.”

      Cabe cleared his throat. “One more thing. I discovered another burial spot. I’m sure this one is an old grave, a Native American female, but I’ll need the ME and Dr. Jacobsen for verification.”

      “We should excavate the entire area,” Wyatt suggested.

      “No,” Cabe said emphatically. “These last two bodies suggest that this is definitely a sacred burial ground. We can’t remove bodies or disturb the dead.”

      “But—”

      “I’m telling you we can’t,” Cabe said sharply. “Besides the legal problems, it’s too dangerous, Wyatt. The dead are already incensed over what’s been done to them here. If we start digging up the bodies and moving them, the spirits will be even more angry and dangerous.”

      “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.”