“How can there be a lynching if there isn’t a suspect?”
“You know these hotheaded cowboys. One nod in the wrong direction and they’re ready to unload their frustrations and their ammunition on the closest available target.”
Unfortunately, Trace did know. All too well.
He watched as the sun sank below the horizon. Funny how it seemed to hang mercilessly in the sky all day long, then within seconds it was gone.
He looked at Brody. “Wasn’t there a similar attack, say, six months or so ago?”
The sheriff finished off his beer and dropped the bottle in the case of empties nearby. “Yeah, there was. Out in Barncart. Same MO.”
“Think it’s the same guy?”
Brody shrugged and put his hat back on. “Hard to tell. Word of the first one got around, so this might be a copycat.”
“My father used to tell me there was no such thing as coincidences.”
Brody grinned. “Which is why a copycat would have a greater chance at success, seeing as everyone out this way feels the same.” He hiked up his pants. “Your father was a wise man, but matters like these are better left to professionals.”
Trace tightened his grip on the railing. “Hope you get the guy soon.”
“Oh, I will. You can rest assured of that.” The sheriff navigated the stairs. “Thanks for the beer. Tell Vern good-night for me.”
“I will.”
THE MAIN HOUSE had pretty much remained unchanged since Trace’s parents had been killed in a flash flood almost seven years earlier. Neither he nor Eric had ever issued orders to maintain it, but Alma, their longtime housekeeper, seemed content to keep everything the way it was. Sometimes Trace thought the older woman missed his parents almost as much as he did. He’d catch her dusting the picture frames on the large stone mantel above the fireplace, a sad look on her soft, brown face. He supposed it was only natural, since she had known his parents longer than he had. She’d hired on at the house when his older brother was born, to help his mother take care of the growing family. And had become much like family herself, even though she lived in a small house a couple of counties away, where she’d raised her own family.
She’d left lights on in the front room and the kitchen tonight, and a plate of TexMex food for him in the refrigerator. Trace looked it over as he reached in for a beer, fresh from his shower. Though he had clean jeans riding low on his hips, his T-shirt was draped over the back of the couch in the main room. Despite the heat, he hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, preferring open windows and ceiling fans and the sound of cicadas over the hiss of the machine and the feeling of being shut off from the world around him.
Still, he lingered in front of the open refrigerator for a few moments.
He finally closed the door and walked toward the main room, sitting down on the couch and switching on the large screen television. He flipped through the channels and then settled on the news out of Odessa. Weatherwise, it was more of the same, with a chance of isolated thunderstorms late tomorrow. He and the men would have to keep an eye to the sky while they were out. Thunderstorms were nothing to be casual about, not in this neck of the woods.
He took a long pull from his cold bottle and then reached over to check his answering machine, which was blinking three messages.
“Hey, little bro, it’s Eric.” Trace rested his head against the back of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about wanting to expand…and, well, I’m sorry for going off on you.” There was noise at the other end of the line. “That’s it. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to call again before I come home this weekend.”
The apology did little to ease the knot of tension that had formed between Trace’s shoulder blades. The ranch had been left to them equally, and although Eric had run off and joined the marines post 9/11, Trace had left things the way they were on paper. Which meant he needed his brother’s okay whenever he made any changes. An okay that was always slow in coming. Despite being over five thousand miles away in the Middle Eastern desert, Eric liked to think he was in charge, simply because he was a year older. But the truth was he hadn’t run the ranch in any capacity for the past six years, no matter how much he wanted to think differently.
And while Trace was glad his brother was coming home from a dangerous war, his feelings were mixed about what would happen when Eric’s boots hit the Texas dirt again. This time for good.
The next message was from Alma, telling him his dinner was in the refrigerator, and reminding him that she had an appointment in the morning and wouldn’t be there until after eleven.
He wondered if it was a doctor’s appointment. Alma wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. He made a note to return early from the range tomorrow so he could talk to her, see how she was doing.
The third was from the woman who should be starring in his wet dreams instead of the hardheaded Jo.
“‘Evening, Trace. It’s Ashleigh. I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. If it’s not too late, give me a call. It would be nice to hear your voice before your brother’s welcome-home barbecue Saturday night.”
He glanced at the clock. Ten wasn’t too late, but he didn’t feel like calling Ashleigh just now.
He reached for the remote and surfed ESPN. Baseball. He left it on a Rangers game and settled back into the couch. He no sooner got comfortable than a knock sounded on the front door.
Damn. Vern, the foreman, would have come around back. And Trace hadn’t heard a car pull up.
He frowned, hoping it wasn’t Ashleigh. Not that she was known for showing up unannounced, but lately she’d been doing some strange things. Like popping up a couple of Sundays ago with a packed picnic basket, and enticing him out for brunch.
Another knock sounded.
He put his bottle on the table as he got up, grabbing his T-shirt as he went. He pulled it over his head and then opened the door.
But it wasn’t Ashleigh standing on his front porch. It was Jo.
“No need putting any clothes on for me, cowboy.” She opened the screen door and came in without being invited. “You’re just going to have to take them off again in a minute…”
Chapter Three
TRACE ARMSTRONG LOOKED better than any man had a right to.
Jo stood in the open doorway, gripping the jamb. The sexy ranch owner towered over her by at least five inches, which was saying a lot, since she topped out at five foot eight. She wondered if the rest of him was in proportion, and smiled, taking in the snug cotton of his faded navy-blue T-shirt, checking out the swell of muscles as she went. Her gaze drifted down to his jeans. No belt buckle. Just a handful of metal buttons.
Yes.
She moved to step inside and then hesitated, surprising herself. But just for a moment. For two hours she’d been building up momentum to come over to the house. She wasn’t about to turn tail and run back to the bunkhouse now.
She finally brushed past Trace, breathing in the scent of something tangy. His soap? Seemed likely. It sure wasn’t cologne.
He looked out the door and then closed it.
“Nobody saw me,” she said. “I hiked here from the bunkhouses, and most everyone is either asleep in front of the television or in their bunks.”
“Vern?”
“Left a little while ago. Probably running into town for something.”
Trace turned toward her and crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “What