Rita Herron - Rawhide Ranger

She stomped up the steps to the porch, determined to protect her own. The ranch and her father were her life. And now that life and her family’s future and good name were in jeopardy.

Her head ached from anxiety, and her shoulders were knotted and sore. She shoved open the door to the scent of freshly baked cinnamon bread, coffee and bacon, but her stomach churned. She couldn’t eat a bite.

Lolita, the cook who had been with her father for years, loped in with a smile. “You hungry, Miss Jessie?”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. Is Dad downstairs yet?”

Lolita gave a short nod, but concern darkened her brown eyes. “In his private study. I took him coffee, and he’s resting in his easy chair.”

Good, at least he had an alibi. Not that Lolita wouldn’t lie for him, but Jessie hoped to clear the family with the truth. “Did he have a hard night?”

Lolita nodded. “I heard him pacing the floor until near dawn.”

“I’ll check on him now.” She swung around to the right, then knocked on her father’s study door. He had insisted on maintaining a small private space for himself, so she and Trace shared a connecting office next door.

Expensive, dark leather furniture and a bulky credenza gave the room a masculine feel. An ornately carved wooden box sat on his desk where he kept his pipe tobacco, and built-in paneled bookcases held his collection of leather-bound historical journals and books.

A portrait of his father, William Becker, hung above the brick mantel, a testament to the man who’d bought the small parcel of land that had been the beginnings of the Becker ranch. He’d named it the Big B because of his drive to make it one of the biggest spreads in Texas, and first brought in the Santa Gertrudis which they still raised.

Her father didn’t answer, so she knocked again, then cracked the door open. “Dad?”

He glanced up from his newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, his brows furrowed. “Jessie?”

She breathed a sigh of relief that he recognized her. Twice lately, he’d called her by her mother’s name. She’d think he was still grieving for her, but they’d divorced years ago. “Yes. We need to talk.”

He twisted the left side of his handlebar mustache, a familiar habit. “Come on in.”

She moved into the room and settled on the leather love seat across from him. “Dad, another Ranger was here today, a Native American named Sergeant Cabe Navarro.”

Worry knitted his brows together, and he tapped his pipe and lit it. “They brought in an Indian.”

Jessie worked her mouth from side to side. “Yes, he’s a Comanche, and you should show him some respect. Besides, this one is a Texas Ranger. He’s sworn to uphold the law.” And he’d probably had to overcome severe obstacles and prejudices to achieve his goals.

That realization roused admiration in her chest.

“Those Rangers need to leave us alone,” her father spat.

“I know it upsets you, Dad, but they’re not leaving until these murders have been solved and the issue of the land is resolved.”

“Hell, I thought Billy Whitley admitted to the murders before he killed himself.”

“The Rangers think the suicide/confession note might have been bogus, that someone might have forced Billy to write it, or that it was forged.”

“Good God Almighty.” Her father coughed and leaned back in his chair, looking pale and weak. “So what does that mean?”

“That Billy may have possessed evidence proving he doctored that paperwork on the land deal.” Which meant the Native Americans were right. They deserved the land, and her father had made an illegal deal.

Protective instincts swelled inside her, and she clenched her teeth. He was a ruthless businessman, but he wouldn’t have knowingly agreed to an illegal deal, would he?

No … He’d been acting oddly lately, not himself, his memory slipping. He’d undergone every test imaginable since her return, and the doctors could prove nothing. So why was her father’s health deteriorating?

She might suspect guilt or grief was eating at him, but she didn’t believe him capable of murder. And grief for strangers was not something he would feel. He’d hardened himself against loving anyone, had shut himself off from friendships and close relationships after her mother had run off with a ranch hand. Instead, he’d focused all his attention on building his business empire.

“Dad, there’s more,” Jessie said softly. “Ranger Navarro discovered another body today, a Native American he believes was buried years ago.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Be honest with me, Dad. Did you know the property was a sacred burial ground when you bought it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father said, the strength in his voice reminding her of her old father, not the frail man he’d been lately, the man she’d feared might be suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s or dementia.

The man she tried to hide from the press and police.

If word leaked that Jonah Becker was seriously ill, especially mentally incapacitated, not only would the cops attack, so would the media and his competitors. Jonah’s business investors might also lose faith in him and drop their support.

“They can’t do that to us.” Her father slapped a shaky hand on the arm of his chair.

“Dad, the land is the least of our worries,” Jessie said. Not that she wanted her father arrested for a fraudulent deal, but murder was much more serious. “Daniel Taabe’s body was buried in a Comanche ritualistic style just as those other two were. The face was painted with red paint, paint which has human blood in it. The blood didn’t match Billy Whitley’s, so now the Rangers believe that Billy didn’t kill Marcie and Daniel, that someone forced him to confess to their murders, then killed him.”

“I don’t understand.” That confused look she’d seen the past weeks momentarily glazed his eyes. Releasing a weary sigh, he puffed on his pipe. A moment passed, then his lucidity returned.

“Someone else in this town killed them,” her father snapped. “A lot of people in Comanche Creek are jealous of us, Jessie. Jealous of me and my success.” He turned toward her, his eyes imploring. “Don’t you see? Someone is trying to frame me.”

Jessie squeezed her hand over her father’s. “You’re probably right,” she said with an encouraging smile. “I’ll find out who’s doing this, I promise, Daddy.”

Suddenly the door burst open, and her brother, Trace, stormed in. “What in the hell is going on, Jessie?”

She stiffened. “Calm down, Trace. What’s wrong?”

“I heard you were hanging out with that Comanche Ranger. What were you doing, trying to help him hang us out to dry?”

Hurt mushroomed in Jessie’s chest. Her brother had resented their mother for taking Jessie with her when she’d left and for leaving him behind. He also resented her return and any attention her father gave her now. He even hated the fact that the horse training she had arranged had garnered success.

And he looked sweaty and winded, panic in his eyes. Suspicions mounted in Jessie’s mind. Trace had arranged the deal with Jerry Collier, and would do anything to win his father’s favor and safeguard the family ranch.

She flinched, hating her own train of thought. Had Trace known the land was an ancient burial ground, that the papers giving ownership to their father had been doctored?

A sick feeling gnawed at her at the venom in his eyes. Had he killed Daniel or Marcie to keep his secrets and protect the business?

Was he the shooter who’d fired at her and the Ranger a few minutes ago and tried to kill them?

CABE PAWED THROUGH THE brush and dirt, examining trees and rocks for the bullets and casings. After several minutes, he finally located two bullets, one embedded in a shattered tree limb on the ground near where they’d crouched in hiding, the second a partial one that had hit the boulder, warped and landed on the ground a few feet from the grave he’d just discovered.