Rancher's Redemption. Beth Cornelison

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СКАЧАТЬ with him—especially in light of the recent trouble his sister, Georgie, had endured. He still got sick chills thinking how a woman had broken into his sister’s home, stolen from her, passed herself off as Georgie.

      A shiver crawled up Clay’s spine despite the scorching June heat. Esperanza, Texas, his home for all his twenty-six years, had always been a safe place, no real crime to mention. He clicked his tongue and gave his workhorse, Crockett, a little kick. His mount trotted forward, and as he neared the car, Clay saw that the Ford Taurus had crashed into one of the mesquites, crumpling the front fender. A fresh sense of alarm tripped through him.

      “Hello? Anyone there?” Clay swung down from Crockett and cautiously approached the car. Visions of an injured, bleeding driver flashed through his mind and bumped his blood pressure higher. “Is anyone there?”

      He peered into the driver’s side window. Empty. The car had been abandoned.

      Removing his hat, Clay raked sweaty black hair away from his eyes and circled to the back of the sedan. The trunk was ajar, and he glimpsed a white shopping bag inside. Using one finger to nudge open the trunk, Clay checked inside the bag.

      His breath caught.

      The bag was full of cash.

      Intuition, combined with fresh memories of Georgie’s recent brush with identity theft, tickled the nape of Clay’s neck, making the fine hairs stand up. A wrecked and abandoned sedan with a bag of money meant trouble, no matter how you added it up. He stepped back and pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. He dialed his friend Sheriff Jericho Yates’s number from memory.

      “Jericho, it’s Clay. I’m out on the southwest corner of my land near the ravine, and I’ve come across an abandoned Taurus. The car hit a mesquite and banged up the front end, but I don’t see any sign of the driver.”

      Sheriff Yates grunted. “You don’t see anyone around? Maybe the driver tried to walk out for help.”

      Clay scanned the area again, squinting against the bright June sun from under the rim of his Stetson. “Naw. Don’t see anybody. But it gets better. There’s a bag of money in the trunk. A lot of money. Large bundles of bills. Could be as much as a hundred grand.”

      He heard Jericho whistle his awe then sigh. “Listen, Clay. Don’t touch anything. Until I determine otherwise, you should consider the car and everything around it a crime scene.”

      “Got it.”

      “Read me the license plate.”

      Clay rattled the numbers off.

      Through the phone, Clay heard the squeak of Jericho’s office chair. “Thanks. I’ll run a check on this plate, then I’ll be right out.”

      Clay thanked the sheriff and snapped his cell phone closed.

      Gritting his teeth, he gave the abandoned sedan another once-over. This was the last thing his family needed. After returning his cell to his hip, Clay climbed back on Crockett and headed toward his original destination—the broken section of fence at the Black Creek ravine. Regardless of where the car and money came from and what the sheriff determined had happened to the driver, Clay had work to do, and the business of ranching waited for nothing.

      Several minutes later, the rumble of car engines drew Clay’s attention. He looked up from the barbed wire he’d strung and spotted Jericho’s cruiser and a deputy’s patrol car headed toward the abandoned Taurus. He laid his wire cutters down and shucked his work gloves. Grabbing a fence post for leverage, he climbed out of the steep ravine and strode across the hard, dry earth to meet the sheriff.

      Even after all these years, it felt odd to call Jericho “sheriff.” Growing up together, he and Jericho had spent hours fishing and hanging around the local rodeo stables where Clay worked whatever odd jobs he could get. Though they’d never spoken much about it, Clay and Jericho had shared another bond—single-parent homes. Jericho’s mother had left his family when he was seven.

      Though Clay had known of his father, Graham Colton, the man had been an absentee father throughout Clay’s childhood. When his mother died, Clay had finished raising his brother and sister while working odd jobs on neighboring ranches. The success both Jericho and Clay had achieved as adults was a testament to their hard work and rugged determination.

      Jericho met Clay halfway and extended a hand in greeting. “Clay.”

      Shaking his friend’s hand, Clay nodded a hello. “Afternoon, Hoss. So what did you learn about the car?”

      Jericho swiped a hand through his hair and sighed. “It’s a rental from a little outfit up the road. Reported stolen a few days ago.”

      Clay arched a thick eyebrow. “Stolen?” He scowled. “Guess it figures. So now what?”

      Jericho squinted in the bright sun and glanced toward the stolen Taurus where one of his deputies was already marking off the area with yellow police tape. “Chances are that money didn’t come from someone’s mattress. Heaven only knows what we could be dealing with here. I’ll call in a crime scene team to do a thorough investigation. Probably San Antonio. They’d be closest.”

      A crime scene team.

      The words resounded in Clay’s ears like a gong, and he stiffened.

      Tamara.

      He worked to hide the shot of pain that swept over him as bittersweet memories swamped his brain.

      Clay had two regrets in life. The first was his failure with Ryder—the brother he’d helped raise, the brother who’d gone astray and ended up in prison.

      His second was his failed marriage. Five years ago, his high-school sweetheart had walked away from their three-year marriage to follow her dream of becoming a crime scene investigator. Clay blamed himself for her leaving. If he’d been more sensitive to her needs, if he could have made her happier, if he could have found a way to—

      “Clay? Did ya hear me?” Jericho’s question jolted Clay from his thoughts.

      “Sorry. What?”

      “I asked if you’d altered anything on or around the car before you called me. Say opening a door or moving debris?”

      Clay shook his head. “I nudged the trunk open. One finger, on the edge of the trunk hood. Didn’t touch anything else.”

      Jericho jerked a nod. “Good. I’ll let the CSI team know. Be sure to tell your men this area is off-limits until we finish our investigation.”

      “Right.” Removing his Stetson, Clay raked his fingers through his unkempt hair. “Guess I’m just on edge considering what Georgie’s been through with that Totten woman.”

      “Understandable. But there’s no reason at this point to think there’s any connection.”

      “Yates.” The deputy who’d arrived with Jericho approached them.

      The sheriff turned to his officer and hitched his chin toward Clay. “Rawlings, this is Clay Colton. Clay, my new deputy, Adam Rawlings.”

      “Hey.” Clay nodded to the neatly groomed deputy and shook his hand.

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