Roping Ray Mccullen. Rita Herron

first thought.

      Another siren wailed, and an official fire department-issued SUV barreled down the road. A sheriff’s car followed. Deputy Whitefeather had probably been notified by his 911 call.

      Both vehicles careened to a stop, the deputy climbing out followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a uniform.

      Introductions were quickly made. The arson investigator’s name was Lieutenant Garret Hawk.

      “What happened?” Lieutenant Hawk asked.

      “When I got home, I saw smoke and found the barn on fire,” Ray explained. “I called for help, then ran in to rescue the horses. That’s when I smelled gasoline.”

      Lieutenant Hawk acknowledged the other firefighters with a flick of his hand. “It looks like you lost one barn and part of another.”

      Ray nodded. “Thanks to your men and their quick response, or it could have been so much worse.”

      “You think someone set the fire?” Deputy Whitefeather asked.

      “Our builders certainly didn’t have gasoline out here,” Brett said. “But I don’t know who would sabotage us this way.”

      Ray bit the inside of his cheek. The first person that came to mind was their half brother. If Bobby was ticked off and thought he’d been left out of the inheritance, maybe he wanted revenge.

      Then again, if Bobby expected to inherit a share of the ranch, why would he want to damage any part of it? Destroying buildings would only lower the value of the property. And if he was caught, he’d face charges and go to jail.

      Lieutenant Hawk moved closer to the edge of the burning embers. Ashes, soot, burned wood and leather covered the ground. He knelt and used a stick to push aside some debris. A cigarette butt lay in the pile.

      “Any of you smoke?”

      “Not me or Brett,” Ray said.

      “How about ranch hands?” Lieutenant Hawk asked.

      Ray and Brett and both shrugged. “It’s possible,” Ray said. “But they know better than to smoke around the hay.”

      Deputy Whitefeather walked around the edge of the embers then went inside the second barn.

      “Did your father have any enemies?” Lieutenant Hawk asked.

      Brett shook his head, but Ray didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t ready to divulge the truth about his father’s indiscretion to a stranger, especially when Maddox and Brett were still in the dark.

      He would investigate the half brother himself. If he’d tried to hurt them by setting this fire, Ray would make sure he never saw a dime of the McCullen money or any piece of the land.

       Chapter Six

      Scarlet jerked awake to the sound of the wind whistling through the small house. Startled, she sat up and scanned her bedroom.

      Outside a tree branch banged at the window, and she shivered, still shaken by Bobby’s visit. Cool air brushed her skin, causing goose bumps to skate up her arms.

      Wondering why the room felt so drafty, she tiptoed to the hall, but she froze at the sight of the open doorway leading to the back deck.

      She had locked that door before she’d gone to bed.

      Scarlet eased back into the bedroom and retrieved her gun from her nightstand. She checked the safety, then gripped it with clammy palms as she inched to the doorway.

      She paused, cocked her head to the side and listened for sounds of an intruder. The wind ruffled the papers from the file on her desk in the corner, scattering them across the floor.

      She scanned the small kitchen, but everything looked in place. Everything except the open doorway.

      Her house only had the one bedroom and bath, and that bath opened both to the hallway and her bedroom. No one was inside.

      The only hiding place would be the coat closet. Nerves on edge, she braced herself with the gun and inched to the closet. Her hand shook as she closed her fingers around the doorknob and twisted it. Holding her breath, she pulled it open, the gun aimed.

      Relief flooded her. It was empty.

      A noise sounded behind her and she spun around, gun still braced, but the sound was coming from outside.

      She hurried to the door and searched the woods behind the house. Dogs barked, and a figure darted through the trees, but it was so dark it was impossible to see who it was.

      Had that person been inside?

      Shaken, she slammed the door, then knelt to examine the lock, but the lock was intact, not broken.

      She locked it again and made a mental note to buy dead bolts, even a second lock for the top of the door.

      Still, tension rippled through her. Why had someone broken into her house?

      Her confrontation with Bobby taunted her, and she gritted her teeth. Tormenting her with scare tactics fit his sick, twisted style.

      How many times when she was a teenager had he hidden in the closet or under the bed to frighten her? Once he’d even snuck into the back of the car and hidden. When she’d gotten in to drive to the store, he’d jumped up and acted as if he was going to choke her.

      Shivering at the memory, she clenched the gun to her side, went to the kitchen and made a cup of hot tea. She couldn’t go back to sleep now, not with her heart still racing.

      But as she passed through the room, she stooped to pick up the papers scattered on the floor.

      It was a work file, one that had landed on her desk just last week. She’d been called to a domestic violence scene and had been forced to pull the two-year-old little girl, Sandy, from her home. The mother was deceased, and the father, Lloyd Pullman, had been entertaining a girlfriend. Both had been drunk and an argument had escalated into a physical altercation.

      The neighbors had called to report the screams coming from next door. When she’d arrived after the police, the baby was soiled and crying, the woman bruised with a black eye. The father was in a drunken rage and in cuffs.

      When she’d taken custody of the baby, he’d threatened to kill her.

      She stacked the papers back in the folder with a frown. Was he out of jail now? If so, had he broken in to frighten her into giving him back his child?

      * * *

      THE NIGHT DRAGGED on as the firefighters finished work and watched to make sure the wind didn’t reignite the fire. They had started searching the debris for evidence of foul play and had found a gasoline can a few feet from the barn, tossed into a ravine.

      “He probably wore gloves, but we’ll still check for prints,” Lieutenant Hawk said. “Hopefully we can pull some DNA from that cigarette butt.”

      Ray made a mental note to find out if Bobby Lowman smoked.

      “Can you think of anyone who’d want to do this?” Deputy Whitefeather asked Ray and Brett.

      Brett raked a hand through his hair. “Not really. Although we might have ticked off the competition. Jebediah Holcutt started up an equine business last year. Breeds quarter horses and trains them.” Brett blew out an exasperated breath. “But this is big ranch country. It can easily support two ranches offering lessons and training.”

      Ray considered the possibility. “True, but you’re a celebrity, Brett. Given the choice between lessons from you or Jebediah, who are people going to choose?”

      Brett shrugged. His brother might be a celebrity, but he was humble. He’d even talked about setting up a camp for kids with problems, a therapeutic horse camp. His wife, Willow, had actually suggested the idea because her son, Brett’s little boy,