Crime Scene at Cardwell Ranch

There was no comparison between the two sisters. While Dana also had the Justice-Cardwell good looks, she had something more going for her. She’d been the good student, the hard worker, the one who wanted to carry on the family tradition at the ranch, while the others had cut and run the first chance they got.

Dana, like her mother, loved everything about ranching. It and breathing were one and the same to her. That’s why he couldn’t understand why Dana would be selling the place. It scared him.

He couldn’t stand the thought that he’d come back too late. Or worse that he’d been carrying a torch for a woman who no longer existed.

As he started to knock, he heard a dog growl and looked over to see a gray-muzzled, white-and-liver springer spaniel.

“Joe?” He couldn’t believe his eyes. He knelt as the dog lumbered over to him, tail wagging with recognition. “Joe, hey, old boy. I didn’t think you’d still be around.” He petted the dog, happy to see a friendly face from the past.

“Was there something you wanted?”

He hadn’t heard the front door open. Dana stood leaning against the frame, a glass of wine in her hand and a look that said she was in no mood for whatever he was selling.

He wished like hell that he wasn’t going to add to her troubles. “Evening,” he said, tipping his hat as he gave Joe a pat and straightened. “Mind if I come in for a few minutes? I need to talk to you.”

“If this has something to do with you and me…”

“No.” He gave her a rueful smile. There was no “you and me”—not anymore. Not ever again from the look in her brown eyes. “It’s about what we found in the well.”

All the starch seemed to go out of her. She stepped back, motioning him in.

He took off his hat and stepped in to slip off his boots and his jacket before following her through the very Western living area with its stone and wood to the bright, big airy kitchen. Joe followed at his heels.

“Have a seat.”

Hud pulled out a chair at the large worn oak table, put his Stetson on an adjacent chair and sat.

Dana frowned as Joe curled up at his feet. “Traitor,” she mouthed at the dog.

Hud looked around, memories of all the times he’d sat in this kitchen threatening to drown him. Mary Justice Cardwell at the stove making dinner, Dana helping, all of them chatting about the goings-on at the ranch, a new foal, a broken down tractor, cows to be moved. He could almost smell the roast and homemade rolls baking and hear Dana’s laughter, see the secret, knowing looks she’d send him, feel the warmth of being a part of this family.

And Dana would have made her mother’s double chocolate brownies for dessert—especially for him.

Dana set a bottle of wine and a glass in front of him, putting it down a little too hard and snapping him back to the present. “Unless you think we’re both going to need something stronger?” she asked.

“Wine will do.” He poured himself some and topped off her glass as she took a chair across from him. She curled her bare feet under her but not before he noticed that her toenails were painted coral. She wore jeans and an autumn gold sweater that hugged her curves and lit her eyes.

He lifted his glass, but words failed him as he looked at her. The faint scent of her wafted over to him as she took a drink of her wine. She’d always smelled of summer to him, an indefinable scent that filled his heart like helium.

Feeling awkward, he took another drink, his throat tight. He’d known being in this house again would bring it all back. It did. But just being here alone with Dana, not being able to touch her or to say all the things he wanted to say to her, was killing him. She didn’t want to hear his excuses. Hell, clearly she’d hoped to never lay eyes on him again.

But a part of him, he knew, was still hoping she’d been the one who’d sent him the anonymous note that had brought him back.

“So what did you find in the well?” she asked as if she wanted this over with as quickly as possible. She took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her glass, her eyes growing dark with a rage born of pain that he recognized only too well.

Dana hadn’t sent the note. He’d only been fooling himself. She still believed he’d betrayed her.

“The bones are human but you already knew that,” he said, finding his voice.

She nodded, waiting.

“We won’t know for certain until Rupert calls from the crime lab, but his opinion is that the body belonged to a Caucasian woman between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and that she’s been down there about fifteen years.” He met her gaze and saw the shock register.

“Only fifteen years?”

Hud nodded. It seemed that, like him, she’d hoped the bones were very old and had no recent connection to their lives.

Dana let out a breath. “How did she get there?”

“She was murdered. Rupert thinks she was thrown down the well and then shot.”

Dana sat up, her feet dropping to the floor with a slap. “No.” She set the wineglass down on the table, the wine almost spilling.

Without thinking, Hud reached over to steady the glass, steady her. His fingers brushed hers. She jerked her hand back as if he’d sliced her fingers with a knife.

He pulled back his hand and picked up his wineglass, wishing now that he’d asked for something stronger.

Dana was sitting back in the chair, her arms crossed, feet on the floor. She looked shaken. He wondered how much of it was from what he’d told her about the bones in the well and how much from his touch. Did she ever wonder what their lives might have been like if she hadn’t broken off the engagement? They would be husband and wife now. Something he always thought about. It never failed to bring a wave of regret with it.

He didn’t tell Dana that the woman had still been alive, maybe even calling to her attacker for help as he left her down there.

“I’m going to have to question your family and anyone else who had access to the property or who might have known about the dry well,” he said.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her gaze went to the large window. Outside, the snow fell in huge feathery flakes, obscuring the mountains. “What was she shot with?”

He hesitated, then said, “Rupert thinks it was a .38.” He waited a beat before he added, “Does your father still have that .38 of his?”

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