Rancher's Redemption. Beth Cornelison
it. Just ask your questions, Officer Colton.” He glanced at her name badge and another jab stabbed his gut. “Sorry, Officer Brown. You went back to your maiden name, huh?”
“Clay…” She studied her notepad as if it held the secrets of the universe, and the silence between them reverberated with a hundred unspoken words and years of regret.
Finally Clay took his work gloves from his back pocket and slapped them on his leg. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your job.” He turned and stuffed the gloves in his saddle pouch.
Tamara didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Clay took a sip of water from his canteen. Hesitated. “I’m happy for you, Tamara. Glad to see you’ve accomplished what you wanted.”
When she glanced up at last, suspicious moisture glinted in her eyes. But she quickly schooled her face and sucked in a deep breath.
“I—” She stopped herself. Glanced away. Flipped her notepad closed. “I’d better get back to work.”
As she started back across the dry field toward the abandoned Taurus, Clay watched her long-legged strides, the graceful sway of her hips, the shimmer of sunlight on her golden hair. His chest tightened with an emotion he dared not name. Admitting he’d missed his ex-wife served no purpose, helped no one.
Giving Crockett a pat on the neck, he grabbed the reins and planted a foot in a stirrup. And hesitated.
He angled his gaze toward the scene where Jericho and his deputy stood while Tamara’s team combed the area. Tamara pulled her hair back into a rubber band then tugged on a pair of latex gloves. Curiosity got the better of Clay.
He gave the gelding’s neck another stroke. “Sorry, Crockett. I think I’ll wait a bit before heading back to the stables.”
Shoving his Stetson more firmly in place, Clay headed over to the stand of mesquite trees to watch his ex-wife work.
Tamara took out an evidence bag and tried to steady her breathing. She’d known returning to the Bar None and seeing Clay again would be difficult. But nothing had prepared her for the impact his espresso-brown eyes still had on her.
While working in Clay’s stables early in their marriage, she’d been kicked by a mare that was spooked by a wasp. The powerful jolt of that mare’s hoof had nothing on the punch in the gut when she’d met the seductive lure of Clay’s bedroom eyes today. How could she have forgotten the way his dark gaze made her go weak in the knees?
Nothing about Clay had changed, from his mussed, raven hair that always seemed in need of a trim to the muscular body he’d earned riding horses and doing the hard work ranching required. He still wore the same dusty, white Stetson she’d given him their first Christmas together, and he radiated a strength and confidence that hummed with sex appeal.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, hoping to calm the buzz of bees swarming inside her. When she drew a deep breath for composure, she smelled the sunscreen he’d smeared on her nose, and a fresh ripple of nervous energy sluiced over her. A full day in the sun couldn’t have burned her more than the heat of his touch when he’d dabbed the cream on her. She had far too many memories of his callused hands working their magic on her not to be affected by even such casual contact.
Her heart contracted with longing. No one had ever held such a powerful sway over her senses as Clay had. Not one of the men she’d dated since her divorce from Clay could hold a candle to the fiery attraction she felt for her first love. Her cowboy lover. The man she’d thought she’d grow old with.
Tamara sighed. She had to focus, get a grip. Emotion had no place in crime scene investigation, and she had work to do. She stepped over to where the team photographer was clicking shots of the Taurus’s trunk. “You finished up front, Pete?”
“Yep. All yours. Do your thing.”
Tamara pulled out her notepad and circled to the front of the stolen sedan. She noted a small scrape on the side panel and called it to Pete’s attention.
“Saw it. Got it,” the photographer called back to her.
Tamara moved on. She scoured the ground, the hood, the windshield, the roof and the driver’s side before she opened the car door to case the interior with the same careful scrutiny. Any scratch, stain, dent, hair or foreign object had the potential of being the clue that cracked the case. Nothing was overlooked or dismissed.
As she collected a sample of fibers from the carpet, she heard a familiar bass voice and glanced toward the perimeter of the scene where Jericho Yates and his deputy stood observing.
Clay had joined his friend and was watching her work with a keen, unnerving gaze. Tamara’s pulse scrambled, and she jerked her attention back to the carpet fibers. Sheriff Yates made another quiet comment, and Clay answered, his deep timbre as smooth and rich as dark chocolate. Tamara remembered the sound of Clay’s low voice stroking her as he murmured sexy promises while they made love. Just the silky bass thrum could turn her insides to mush.
Her hand shook as she bagged the fibers and moved on to pluck an auburn hair from the passenger’s seat. She huffed her frustration with herself. She had to regain control, forget Clay was watching her and get back to business. She closed her eyes and steeled her nerves, steadying her hands and forcing thoughts of Clay from her mind.
“What you got?” said Eric Forsyth, her superior in the CSI lab, as he bent at the waist to peer through the open driver’s door.
Tamara bagged the hair and labeled it. “Not much. I’ve never seen such a clean car. It’s odd.”
Eric shrugged. “Not surprising. It’s a rental car. A company typically washes and vacuums the cars after every customer.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m not finding fingerprints or stray threads. No footprints or tire tracks around the car. Not much of anything.”
Eric scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “What’s more, anything we do find is gonna be hard to pin to whatever happened here. God knows how many people have been in this car in the past month.” He motioned to the bag in her hand. “That hair could belong to a schoolteacher from Dallas who rented the car two weeks ago.”
Tamara sighed. “Exactly why it doesn’t feel right. Even with the rental agency’s regular maintenance, we should be finding at least traces of evidence. I think someone wiped the scene.”
“You’re sure?” Her boss adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.
“The evidence—or lack of evidence—seems to point that way.” She frowned. “Which tells me something bad happened here. Something someone doesn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. Well, keep looking. Maybe whoever wiped the scene missed something.”
Tamara nodded. “Got it.”
Clay tensed as the lanky man with glasses who’d been speaking with Tamara walked up to Jericho and shrugged. “My team isn’t getting much for you to build a case on, Sheriff. In fact, our professional opinion is the scene has been wiped clean.”
Jericho furrowed his brow and stroked his mustache. “Nothing?”
Clay turned his attention back to Tamara as he listened to the exchange between the crime scene investigator and the sheriff.
“Well, we found a partial print on the trunk. A hair on the front seat. A scratch on the front fender—but it looks old. There’s already a little rust formed.”
“No signs of foul play or a struggle?” Jericho asked.
“Not yet. But we’re still looking.”
Clay watched Tamara comb the Taurus with a calm, methodical gaze. She moved like a cat, her movements graceful, strong and certain as she inched through the interior, pausing long enough to bag tiny bits of God-knows-what and securing the evidence. Her professionalism and confidence as she processed