Redemption At Hawk's Landing. Rita Herron

know,” Harrison said.

      “How did he die?” Honey asked.

      “Cause of death was head trauma,” Dr. Weinberger said.

      “So he was drunk and fell?” Honey said, disgusted.

      A tense second passed. Harrison cleared his throat. “He didn’t simply fall, Honey. It looks like he was struck by a rock then pushed over the edge.”

      Shock bolted through Honey. “You mean someone murdered him?”

      “I’m sorry,” Harrison said. “But yes, it looks that way.”

      Now she understood the odd looks between the men.

      Her mind began to race. Her father hadn’t had any friends in town. A lot of people didn’t like him, but no one hated him enough to kill him.

      Except...

      Her gaze met Harrison’s. Except for his family.

      * * *

      HARRISON SAW THE wheels in Honey’s mind turning. She was jumping to the same conclusion that everyone else would—that one of his family members might be responsible.

      “Do you know who pushed him?” she asked, tactfully avoiding an accusation.

      He didn’t have the answer to that question.

      “Not yet.”

      He would find the truth, though. That was his damn job.

      “Would you like a few minutes alone?” Dr. Weinberger asked.

      Another tense heartbeat passed. Honey twisted her hands together, looking fragile for a moment, then she gave a slight nod.

      “Let us know if you need anything,” the ME said.

      For some reason, Harrison was reluctant to leave her alone. She’d grown up in a house filled with turmoil. Had suffered at the hands of her mother and father. Had left nearly two decades ago.

      And now she’d traveled back here alone to say goodbye to the man who’d failed her.

      Compassion for her made him reach out and squeeze her arm. “Are you okay?”

      A sad smile curved her mouth. “Of course. I’ll just be a minute.”

      Harrison nodded, then followed the medical examiner into the hallway. Worried about her, he turned and watched her through the window in the door, unable to leave.

      “She seems to be handling it okay,” Dr. Weinberger said in a low voice.

      Either that or she was good at acting. He had a feeling Honey Granger had done a lot of that over the years—pretending the rumors and gossip hadn’t hurt her. But deep-seated pain colored her eyes.

      He had the sudden need to make things right for her. To strip her of the anguish she was suffering.

      But he didn’t have a clue as to how to do that.

      Besides, she would probably leave town as soon as she handled the details surrounding her father’s death, the cremation and possibly the sale of his house. Unless she decided to move back and live in it.

      A sardonic chuckle rumbled in his throat. He didn’t see that happening. Ever.

      “Did you find any forensics?” Harrison asked.

      Weinberger crossed his arms. “Slivers of rock and dirt were embedded in the back of Granger’s head where he was struck. My guess is that he was hit with a rock from the bluff.”

      Harrison shifted. “That would imply the murder wasn’t premeditated, that something happened on that ledge that triggered the other party to attack.”

      He’d have to go back to the bluff, look for that rock, see if there were fingerprints on it.

      “Anything else?” Harrison asked.

      “Dirt under his fingernails and a short brown hair.”

      Harrison gave a nod. “Send it to the lab. That hair may belong to our killer.”

       Chapter Three

      Her father had been murdered.

      That fact echoed in Honey’s head as if someone was pounding the words inside her skull.

      Who had killed her father? And why?

      Emotions welled in her chest as she studied his cold body. Eighteen years had aged him, but the alcohol had intensified the process, adding another ten years. The bruises and contusions on his face looked stark beneath the lights. His skin was a sallow yellow, lips a bluish purple, eyes closed as if...as if he was at peace.

      Maybe he finally was. She’d never understood the reason he drank so heavily, why his moods changed erratically, and she’d blamed herself. He missed her mother... He hadn’t wanted a child... He didn’t know how to raise a daughter, especially alone... She’d been a bad kid.

      On a more rational level, as an adult, she realized he’d battled inner demons that she knew nothing about; that alcoholism was a disease. But his behavior and his rejection had hurt.

      Tears pricked at her eyes, and she ached with a sudden longing to go back in time. To a time when she was little, and he’d carried her fishing at the pond. He’d surprised her that day by packing a picnic and taking her on a canoe ride. For a couple of hours she’d felt like she had a real family. He’d taught her how to cast a fishing rod and laughed when she’d been squeamish over baiting her own hook with worms.

      Yet that precious memory had been ruined when he’d pulled out a bottle of whiskey, consumed most of it and passed out in the sun. She’d fished alone and played at the edge of the water and pretended everything was okay. She’d gotten good at pretending.

      But then night set in and the wilderness had seemed vast and lonely and...creepy. She’d been terrified as darkness encroached and the howl of coyotes had echoed around her. She’d shaken him to wake him up so they could go home, but he’d been belligerent, cursed her then backhanded her for crying.

      He’d also been so inebriated that he’d woven all over the road and nearly crashed into another car head-on. He’d blamed that on her, as well.

      She shivered. When they’d finally made it home, she ran into her bedroom, locked the door and hid there all night and half of the next day, too afraid to come out and face his wrath.

      Honey straightened, banishing the memory to the attic of her mind with the other troubling ones that she’d packed away. No use dwelling on them. You had to play with the cards you’d been dealt.

      She’d accepted her father for what he was long ago, but a sliver of hope had remained that one day he might change and she’d have the loving, caring father she’d always wanted.

      Now any chance of that was lost forever.

      Resigned and swallowing back tears, she placed her hand against his cheek. His skin felt leathery, rough, cold in death. She had an insane urge to kiss his cheek, but refrained.

      Instead she whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy,” and left the room, shutting out this image and the pain as the door closed behind her.

      * * *

      HARRISON CONTEMPLATED HIS conversation with the ME. If they identified Granger’s killer, he could solve this case quickly. Then Honey could leave and take her tempting, pretty little butt with her.

      Harrison phoned the crime scene investigator and spoke with the lead CSI, Roger Watkins. “Did you find any forensics at the bluff where Waylon Granger’s body was discovered?”

      “Nothing on the ledge. No definitive footprints, either. We did collect a button. Looks like it came from a flannel shirt. Not Granger’s and no print on it.”

      “Hell,