“How about a bet? If you don’t find the casing, you’ll tell me about your encounter with the delicious Miss Prescott.”
“And if I do find it? Forget the bet. There’s nothing I want.” Sky started with the place where Jasper’s ATV had wrecked and backtracked from there. Before shooting into the seep, the tire tracks zigzagged erratically in the dust, bouncing against rocks and flying over hollows. Twenty yards back, the tracks changed to form a controlled line. This, then, would most likely be where Jasper had been when the bullet struck him.
Sky studied the spot, calculating where the shot would have come from. The bullet had struck Jasper from the front, which would eliminate most of the area behind him and to the sides. Since Jasper claimed he hadn’t seen anyone, the shooter had probably hidden behind something—all guesswork, but if it led him to the casing, he would know he’d been right.
By now the sun was coming up, its rim a blinding streak above the plains. Jasper had gone out early. Had he been facing into the sun when he was shot? Shading his eyes, Sky scanned to the horizon. A big clump of mesquite stood within easy shooting distance. Sprinting toward it, he circled and came in from behind.
This had to be the place. There were plenty of tracks—the smaller, worn cowboy boots he’d noticed earlier and a larger pair that looked more like a motorcycle boot. There were motorcycle tracks as well. Sky studied the tread pattern, setting it in his mind. He thought about calling Beau over, but Beau was impatient to leave. He would look around for the casing and call it good.
Just behind the mesquite clump, he could see a cluster of tracks, as if someone had crouched there. Most of these tracks were made by the smaller boots. But the larger tracks were here, too. Had the shot been fired from this spot? Following Beau’s example, Sky used his cell phone to snap a picture.
At the base of a rock, the sunlight glinted on a bit of brass. It was the casing from the bullet. Sky photographed it in place, then picked it up with his clean handkerchief. Maybe he should have made that bet with Beau after all.
Only as he was turning to go did he notice another object, lying in the dust. As soon as he saw it, Sky realized what it was.
Without remembering to take a picture, he picked it up. His stomach clenched. It was a folded two-blade pocket knife—small, cheap, and old. The handle was covered in plastic made to look like mother of pearl. Sky turned the knife over, knowing what he would see. Two initials, darkened from years of handling, were scratched into the plastic.
S.F.
They were Sky’s own initials. He’d carved them himself, with the point of a nail, as a boy of ten.
CHAPTER 4
“May I join you, Lauren?” Congressman Garn Prescott pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining room table. Lauren smeared a dab of strawberry jam on her wheat toast. She’d hoped to finish her breakfast and escape before he came downstairs. So far this wasn’t her lucky day.
The Mexican cook who came in part time brought him a fresh carafe of coffee and a plate of bacon, fried eggs, and grits. This morning the congressman was dressed in a baby blue shirt with a bolo tie. His striking silver hair was carefully over-combed to hide the thinning spot on top. He was only fifty-two, but up close he looked older. Too much Texas sun had splotched his fair skin. Too much social drinking and greasy food had left him with an old man’s belly on his lanky frame.
“I understand you spent yesterday afternoon working for the Tylers,” he said. “I was hoping maybe you and Beau—”
“Beau’s engaged—and he’s in love with his fiancée.”
“Well, you’re spending a lot of time over there.”
“So? The Tylers pay me decently and the experience will look good on my résumé. Besides, Bernice makes the best coffee in the whole blessed state of Texas.” Lauren glanced away to hide the blaze in her cheeks. If her father knew what she’d been up to yesterday with Sky, he’d have her on the next plane back to Maryland.
If she’d dropped her panties for a man with money and influence, the congressman might have secretly approved. But Sky Fletcher had no fortune, no pedigree, and no political clout. The fact that he was part Comanche and worked with his hands f
or somebody else would be a total strikeout in her father’s book.
Could that be one reason she found Sky such a compelling challenge?
Yesterday, after he’d left her steaming, she’d vowed never to go near Sky again. But she’d been angry and hurt. Now that she’d had time to lick her wounds, damned if she wasn’t intrigued. She found herself wanting to know more about the fabled horse whisperer of the Rimrock, and wondering whether any woman alive could corral him.
“Why should you bother with a career, anyway?” her father was saying. “You’re pretty enough to snag a rich husband and be set for life. And right now I could use your help with my campaign. A lovely young thing like you could get me more attention from the press, as well as opening doors and wallets. Take that fund-raising barbecue I’m staging tomorrow night in Lubbock—the one where the former Secretary of Agriculture will be speaking. You could make an impression on some important people. I hear the governor’s stepson will be there. He’s good-looking and newly single.”
Lauren stifled a groan. “Please don’t start on this again, Dad. I’ve earned a college degree, and I want a career. I came here to get some work experience so I can apply for a real job. Between keeping the books for this ranch and what I’m doing for Beau Tyler, I don’t have time to get involved in your campaign. And husband hunting isn’t even in the picture. I’m still getting over Mike.”
“How long does that take? It’s been a year, dammit! It’s high time you were moving on, getting married. You need a man to satisfy your needs and keep you respectable. Otherwise you’ll end up like your mother—”
“Stop it!” Lauren rose, quivering. “Whatever my mother did, you probably drove her to it. And if you say one more word against her, I’ll go upstairs, pack my bags, and be on the next plane east.”
He sagged in his chair, shaking his head. “Oh, hell, never mind. I still maintain I’m right, but it’s not worth spoiling the day. Sit down. Finish your breakfast, and we’ll say no more about it.”
Lauren exhaled and surrendered, knowing that storming off would only make things worse. She’d been four years old when her mother had left Garn Prescott and moved back to Maryland to be near her family. In the years that followed, Fiona Wentworth Prescott, blessed with stunning beauty and family money, had flitted from party to party and from lover to lover. But she’d always been there for her daughter. Lauren had never wanted for affection or any material thing that caught her fancy.
Fiona’s death in a car crash when Lauren was fifteen had been the most shattering event of her youth. Her cold, practical grandparents had finished raising her, while the father she barely remembered had remained a stranger.
In most ways, Garn Prescott was still a stranger.