Rawhide Ranger. Rita Herron

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СКАЧАТЬ seized her, and she pushed against him to escape. But another bullet zoomed within inches of them, bouncing off the boulder, and he rolled her sideways until they were near the bat cave, and hidden by the thorny brush.

      “Stay down!” he growled in her ear.

      Jessie heaved a breath, wishing she had the gun in her saddlebag. “Do you see the shooter?”

      The Ranger lifted his head, bracing his Sig Sauer to fire as he scanned the horizon. She raised her head as well, searching and struggling to crawl out from under him. The big damn man was smothering her.

      He jerked his head toward his SUV. “Get in my Land Rover, lock the doors and stay down. I’m going after him.”

      Without waiting on her reply, he jumped up, ducking behind brush and trees as he ran toward her horse, vaulted onto it and sent the palomino into a gallop toward the woods where the shots had come from.

      “No!” She launched after him. No one rode Firebird but her. The nerve of the arrogant bastard. This was her land—she had to protect it.

      But she wasn’t a fool either. He had just ridden off with her weapon and she couldn’t chase the shooter on foot.

      Another shot skidded by her ear, nearly clipping her, and she realized she had no choice. It was the bat cave or his Land Rover, and she didn’t intend to tangle with the bats.

      She crouched low and sprinted toward his Land Rover, furious, and hoping he caught the man.

      Firebird’s hooves pounded the ground, and the shots faded as she climbed in the Land Rover, locked the doors and crouched on the seat. Tension thrummed through her body as she waited and listened. She felt like a sitting duck and lifted her head just enough to peer out the window to watch in case the shooter snuck up on her.

      Her temper flaring, she checked for the keys to the vehicle. She’d drive it back to the house and leave the surly Ranger just as he had left her. But of course, the keys were missing.

      Probably in his damn pocket.

      Steaming with anger, she folded her arms and tapped her snakeskin boots on the floor while she waited.

      Ever since her father had purchased that land, their lives had fallen apart.

      When they’d first discussed the deal, he’d been excited about the prospects of expanding his operations. She’d still been in college, but she’d grown tired of following her mother around from one man to another. So, she’d finished her degree and decided to come back to the ranch, reunite with her father and join his operation.

      But when she’d returned, she’d immediately sensed something was wrong with him. Although the cattle operation was successful, her father had made some other poor investments. Odd, since he was usually such a shrewd businessman.

      After reviewing the books, she’d realized they had to increase their cash flow, so she’d added boarding and training quarter horses to the cattle operation. With even bigger ranches than the Becker one around needing working horses, she’d struck a deal to train them and had increased their cash flow within months, enabling him to pay off the debts he’d accrued and steer the ranch back on track.

      But her father’s behavior had worried her.

      At first, she couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong, but little things had seemed out of sync, and she feared his memory had been slipping. He’d complained of seeing things on the land, of hearing voices and bad things happening. Lights flickering on and off. Shadows in the house. Cattle missing. A watering hole that had dried up when they had had torrential rains. Fences broken. A small barn fire that had nearly spread out of control which could have been dangerous for the livestock and ranch hands.

      And now these murders.

      Sergeant Navarro’s warning about danger from the spirits taunted her, but she blew it off. Spirits didn’t fire guns or start fires.

      Whoever had killed Marcie and the others was obviously still lurking around. And they didn’t want her or the Rangers asking questions.

      CABE KICKED THE PALOMINO’S sides and they galloped up the hill, scouring the wooded area where the shooter had disappeared. Another bullet soared near his head, and he ducked, then fired off a round with his Sig Sauer. The horse protested, whinnying and backing up, but he gave the animal a swift kick to urge him forward.

      Another shot whizzed by his shoulder, and Cabe cursed and coaxed the horse around another bend of trees, but the shadow was gone, and the trees were too thick to maneuver the horse through, so he brought the animal to a stop, jumped off and ran into the copse of oaks.

      He spotted a shadow moving ahead—the tzensa—then jogged to the east where the road lay, in case the shooter had a car ahead. Another bullet pinged off the oak beside him, the bushes to his right rustling as the man dashed through them. Cabe raced toward him, but a rattler suddenly lurched from the bushes in attack.

      “Easy,” he said in a low voice. Not wanting to kill the diamondback, he froze, aware any sudden movement would bring it hissing at him.

      In the distance, an engine roared to life. He cursed. He was losing the shooter.

      Furious, he grabbed a stick, picked the snake up and whirled it away, then jogged toward the sound of the car. The wind ruffled the mesquite as he made it to the clearing. The creek gurgled, water rippling over jagged rocks, and a vulture soared above, its squawk breaking the silence.

      But the car disappeared into a cloud of dust so thick that Cabe couldn’t detect the make of the vehicle or see a license plate. Dammit.

      He’d never catch the car on foot, or horseback for that matter.

      Stowing his gun in his holster, he turned and sprinted back to where he’d left the palomino, climbed on it, then rode back to the crime scene. He had to protect the evidence. Then there was the problem of Jessie Becker.

      Mentally, he stewed over the identity of the shooter, considering their current suspects. Her father for one.

      Jonah Becker was a ruthless businessman, but to chance hurting his own daughter—would he stoop that low?

      The sun was rising higher in the midmorning sky and blazing hotter by the time he reached the crime scene, his senses honed. What if the shooter had been a distraction to mess with the crime scene? What if he’d had an accomplice and he’d gotten to Jessie Becker?

      Slowing the palomino as he approached, he scanned the area. The original graves that had held the body of the antiquities broker and activist were still roped off with crime scene tape. Still keeping his gun at the ready, he dismounted, then checked the gravesites to verify that nothing had been disturbed. Everything appeared to be intact.

      In two quick strides, he reached his crime kit, and examined it to verify that the evidence he’d collected was still inside. A lawyer could argue that it had been left, unguarded, and could have been compromised.

      Hell. He didn’t want to lose the case on a technicality. Maybe Jessie could tell him if she’d seen anyone else around.

      Sweat beaded on his neck as he strode over to his Land Rover. But when he reached for the door handle and looked inside, Jessie was gone.

      His heart stuttered in his СКАЧАТЬ