Murder And Mistletoe. Barb Han
Eleven
The normally pitch-black night was lit up with swirling red-and-white bursts. At half past midnight, the normally empty gravel lot teemed with law enforcement and emergency personnel. Dalton Butler’s heart fisted as he approached the scene in his sport utility, thinking how much of a contrast the activity was to the normally sleepy town of Cattle Barge. An ominous feeling settled over him. This was the spot where his high school girlfriend’s life had ended on a cold winter night fourteen years ago.
As Dalton drove toward the scene, the air thinned and his chest squeezed. A rope hanging from the same tree came into view. Emotions he’d long ago buried stirred, as the unsettled feeling of history repeating itself enveloped him. A shot of anger surfaced and then exploded with rage inside his chest. He white-knuckled the steering wheel as he navigated onto the side of the lot, watching the flurry of activity in disbelief. Why this spot? Why this night?
He parked, lowered his gray Stetson on his forehead and turned up the collar of his denim jacket to brace against the bitter temperatures. A cold front had blown in during the last hour, welcoming the month of December with a blast of frigid temperatures and freezing rain.
Dalton blocked out the image of a young life hanging from that rope as he shouldered his door open against the blazing winds. A gust blew his hat off before he could react. He retrieved it and held it in his hands. The entire scene unfolding before him tipped him off balance as memories crashed down around him like an angry wave tackling a surfer, holding him under and twisting his body around until he didn’t know up from down anymore.
A foreboding feeling settled around his shoulders, his arms, tightening its grip until his ribs felt like they might crack. Not even a sharp intake of air eased the pressure. Fourteen years was a long time to hold on to the burden of guilt that he could’ve saved her if he’d shown up to this spot.
The sheriff stood inside the temporary barricade that had been set up around the perimeter of the tree, a somber expression on his face. Sheriff Sawmill’s shoulders were drawn forward as he listened to one of his deputies. Cattle Barge had been overrun with news crews since the end of summer when Dalton’s father—the wealthiest man in the county—was murdered on the successful cattle ranch he’d built from scratch. Maverick Mike Butler’s rise to riches was legendary. He’d won his first cattle ranch in a gambling match, lost his first wife to alcohol and his bad luck ended there. In death as it was in life, the man always seemed to have another card up his sleeve.
“Sir, you can’t be here,” Deputy Granger said, extending his arms to block Dalton.
“I need to speak to the sheriff.” He had every intention of walking past the man, and there wasn’t anything Granger could do to stop him short of arresting him.
Granger seemed to know it, too. He called for Sawmill but kept his arms outstretched.
The sheriff glanced over and did a double take. Stress shrouded him as he made a beeline toward Dalton, stopping behind Granger’s arms.
“I appreciate what you’re going through and how personal this may seem, but I can’t let you walk onto my crime scene and destroy evidence.” The middle-aged man looked like he hadn’t slept in months. His eyes had the white outline of sunglasses on tanned, wrinkled skin. Hard brackets bordered his mouth and deep grooves lined his forehead. The tight grip he had on his coffee mug outlined the man’s stress level. He was on high alert and had been since Maverick Mike’s murder, a high-profile case he had yet to solve.
“Tell me what happened.” Dalton needed to know everything.
“We haven’t established cause of death.”
Most of his family might get along with the sheriff now but Dalton would never forget the way he’d been treated after Alexandria Miller’s death. He’d barely been seventeen when he’d been picked up in the middle of the night and hauled to the sheriff’s office. Sawmill had spent the next twenty-two hours interrogating Dalton, suspecting him of murder and treating him like a criminal.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you found her hanging from that tree.” Dalton bit back the frustration that was still so ready, so available. He’d go through it all again willingly if Alexandria’s murderer would be brought to justice. If her family could have answers. If there could be closure.
Sawmill tilted his head. “Doesn’t mean it was the cause of death, and I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian and you know it.”
“Who is she?” Dalton asked anyway.
“I didn’t say the victim is a woman.” The sheriff was trying to sell the idea that this had no connection to the past. Without proof, Dalton wasn’t buying it.
“No. You didn’t. She’s a girl, not a woman.” Déjà vu struck as Dalton glanced at his watch. At around the same time fourteen years ago, Alexandria was being cut down from that exact tree.
“Out of respect for you and your family, for what you’re going through, I won’t threaten to arrest you, Dalton. But make no mistake that you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation and I can’t allow that, either,” the sheriff warned.
Again, Dalton noticed the sheriff’s word choice. He didn’t mention murder.
“Another suicide in that tree fourteen years to the day and around the same time?” Dalton folded his arms and planted his boots in the unforgiving earth. “What are the odds?”
“They’re high, actually.” The sheriff blew out a sharp breath and threw his hands up. “All these reporters drudging up the past, digging into everyone’s personal lives. Every story they run increases the odds of a copycat from some crime in the past.” There hadn’t been many criminal acts in Cattle Barge leading up to this past summer. “There’s no respect for the families involved. The people who suffered through losing a loved one and now are being forced to relive the pain as news is being blasted across the internet. They deserve peace, not this.”
“There can be no peace without justice. I think we both know that,” Dalton shot back. From his peripheral, he saw a woman stalking toward them, so he turned to look. Her face was set with determination, her gaze intent on the sheriff. She had on dark jeans and a blazer. She was tall and beautiful with chestnut wavy hair loosely pulled back in a ponytail that swished back and forth as she walked. An inappropriate stir of attraction struck. Dalton shoved it to the back burner. Charging toward them, she took the kind of breath meant to steel nerves. She clutched something tightly in her left hand as her right fisted and released a couple of times. She was young, early thirties if Dalton had to guess. As she neared, he could see concern lines ridging her forehead.
The sheriff followed Dalton’s gaze, which admittedly had been held a few seconds too long toward