Susan Sleeman - Rodeo Standoff

Harley nodded as Braden joined them.

Still upset over the way he’d butted in where he had no business going, she ignored him. “I’ll take a look for the missing truck and trailer, then grab my supplies and process the crime scene before heading out.”

“Crime scene?” Harley’s voice squeaked high. “Now wait a minute, Tessa. There’s been no crime committed here.”

“Someone cut the lock at the gate and a stolen bull was left to stampede an innocent woman,” Braden said, his tone deadly serious. “Where I’m from, we call that a crime.”

* * *

Tessa stormed ahead of Braden. They’d been walking the blocks surrounding the arena, looking for the truck and trailer for some time now, and she didn’t hide her anger very well. He’d have to be an idiot not to see she was mad at him for taking her phone to talk to her father. He shouldn’t have done it, but come on. She needed someone to have her back right now, so he’d taken on that responsibility. If that meant invading her personal space and overstepping his bounds, so be it. Keeping her safe came first for him.

He planned to apologize. Just not at the moment. Now he needed to keep his eyes and ears open for any additional threats.

“Doesn’t look like we’re going to find the truck, so time to move on.” She spun and marched back toward the arena.

They passed the barn that would soon house contestants’ horses, then crossed the street to the large parking lot surrounding the building on three sides. On the backside, outdoor pens connected to gates leading to the chutes where bulls and broncs would enter the arena. A sign saying Danger Bulls, Stay Back hung from the fence. Tessa breezed right past it without a hitch in her step, but the irony wasn’t lost on him.

She stopped at a full-size pickup and reached into the jump seat to pull out a tote bag and a case that resembled a large fishing tackle box before returning to the chute still holding King Slammer.

Braden watched her for a moment as she squatted by the cut padlock dangling from a thick chain. He enjoyed the way she attacked her job with the same intensity he felt for his work. Her gaze didn’t seem to hold as many questions as it had in the past, and in the years, she seemed to have grown stronger. Even more attractive than her understated beauty.

He was drawn closer to her and would love to know more about her. For now, he’d stick with quizzing her about her job. “Do you always carry forensic items in your truck?”

“Basic stuff, yeah.” She flipped open the hard-sided case. “When I’m on call, I often need to go straight to a scene and don’t always have time to pick up the county vehicle.”

Braden nodded. He stayed on alert, his senses attentive to any unexpected noise or flash of light, but he let his eyes follow a soaring red-tailed hawk swooping over the open-air arena built in the 1930s. The bird’s terracotta-orange tail feathers glowed in the bright sun, beauty only God could create.

As a kid, Braden had often gone outside to take solace during his parents’ fights, and it was part of why he loved outdoor venues. With many of the PBR events now held in large indoor arenas, small venues run by volunteers were a breath of fresh air. Literally. Still, if this had been a big venue, they would have had paid security staff, thus preventing the threat to Tessa’s life.

“Which do you like best?” he asked her, wanting to hear one thing about her personal life. “Riding in an outdoor or indoor arena?”

“I grew up on outdoor ones, so that’s still my preference.” She snapped on latex gloves before opening the case.

“Mine, too. I love the connection to God.”

Their gazes connected, a hint of respect in hers, and he felt like the simple exchange cemented something between them far bigger than their preference in arena styles. She tilted her head to look at him, a look of interest darkening her chocolate-brown eyes. As quick as the look came, it evaporated. She clearly didn’t want to acknowledge her attraction. He had to admit her rejection stung. Was it because he rarely received rejections or was it because she was special?

He almost sighed, then stopped. He was letting his interest in her take over and that was a recipe for disaster. He took in a deep breath and let it out, hoping to clear his brain and move on.

Investigation. Think only investigation.

She started assembling a metal frame with a board at the base. Over the top, she placed a plastic bag.

“What’s that?” He bent down to take a better look.

She scooted back as if he carried the plague. Would she be reacting this way to any man or was it him? He got the feeling that it was him, but he didn’t know why.

“This is a portable fuming chamber,” she said, her tone filled with enthusiasm for her work. “I’ll place the lock inside the chamber with cyanoacrylate—otherwise known as superglue—and the fumes will adhere to the prints and change their composition to make them visible. I can then enhance them with powder and even photograph them.”

“I don’t know much about forensics, but wouldn’t you find the prints by dusting the lock right from the start?”

She eyed him for a moment, her expression tightening before she jerked her gaze away to stare off into the distance. “This way is more thorough. Someone put a bull up close and personal with me. I could have died. Not something I’ll ever forget, and I don’t want to miss a single print.”

Taking an extra step to find the person who tried to kill her was a good sign. Coupled with her earlier cautious awareness of her surroundings, he was glad to see that she wasn’t as willfully blind to the danger as she’d first led him to believe.

“Plus, fuming hardens to secure the fingerprint in place and stabilizes it for transport with minimal risk of destroying the print.” She poured water into a small bowl and placed it on the chamber base. She carefully removed the lock and balanced it upright next to the bowl, then ripped open a foil-lined envelope. “This is the fingerprint developer—the cyanoacrylate.”

“That word rolls off your tongue like you’ve been doing this for some time.”

“I have a Master’s in Forensic Science and have been County’s lead crime scene investigator for two years, so I’ve used the word quite a bit.” She hung the envelope from the top hook.

“But you’re still a deputy, right? I mean, you said you were a deputy when you told me to back off.”

“I hope you didn’t take any offense to that. It was just me being ornery—a knee-jerk response over the way my brothers and father try to coddle me. I don’t need someone else championing the same cause.” She met his gaze and held firm. “I really can take care of myself, and after you shake hands with Dad, you’re free to go.”

We’ll see about that. “You were explaining how you’re both a deputy and a crime scene investigator.”

“Right.” She started rolling the bag down the frame. “County requires all investigators to be sworn officers and work patrol for a minimum of three years. I always knew I wanted a forensics career, so I worked as a patrol deputy part-time while getting my degree. When I graduated, I’d fulfilled the time requirement and could move into the first investigator opening.”

“Sounds like you enjoy your job.”

“Enjoy...yeah, but the word doesn’t do justice to the way I feel about forensics.” She tucked the bag under the frame. “It’s my passion.”

“So is barrel racing, right?”

She frowned.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Since I’m retiring this year, it’s kind of a sore subject with me.”

“Right.” The urge to take her hand and offer comfort, something a deputy wouldn’t appreciate at all, almost took over his common sense. Almost, but he stifled it. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about Tessa the woman, not the deputy. Would she reject his comfort? With the way she’d scooted away from him a few minutes ago, he had to think she would.