Rancher's Redemption. Beth Cornelison

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      She snapped a startled blue gaze up to meet his. “I—No. I’ll be fine.” She furrowed her brow as she studied her notes, clearly ruffled by his offer. “Um… You didn’t touch the car otherwise?”

      “No.”

      After several more minutes of her rapid-fire questions, he turned and strolled over to where Crockett waited patiently. Flipping open the saddle pouch across Crockett’s hind quarters, Clay dug out the small tube of sunscreen he carried with him but rarely used.

      Tamara followed him over to Crockett and reached up to stroke the gelding’s nose. “Hey, Davy Crockett. How ya doin’, boy?”

      Crockett snuffled and bumped Tamara’s hand as if he remembered her.

      Still patting his horse, she asked, “Do you have any knowledge of who might have left the car here?”

      “No.” Clay uncapped the sunscreen and squeezed a dab on his thumb.

      She consulted her notes again. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?”

      “No, I don’t.” He stepped closer to Tamara, close enough to smell the delicate herbal scent of her shampoo, and she raised her gaze.

      “When did you first find the—”

      He reached for her, smearing the dab of sunscreen on her nose.

      She caught her breath and stumbled back a step. “What are you doing?”

      “Sunscreen. You’re burning.”

      She grunted and gave him a perturbed glower. “Clay, I don’t—”

      He reached toward her again, and she backed away another step. With a resigned sigh, she rubbed the dab of cream over her nose and cheeks, then wiped her fingers on her jeans. “There! Okay? Now I have a job to do. Will you please just answer the questions?”

      He tucked the sunscreen back in his saddle pouch. “Is all this really necessary? I’ve already told Jericho everything I know.”

      Her shoulders sagged with impatience and a hint of chagrin. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t necessary.”

      She may have been referring to her job duties, but the underlying truth of her statement hit him like a slap in the face. Nothing had changed. Tamara wanted no part of him and his lifestyle.

      He braced his hands on his hips and kicked a clod of dirt. “You’ve made that pretty clear.”

      Tamara closed her eyes and released a slow breath. “Clay…”

      “Forget 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, СКАЧАТЬ