by Addison Fox
This discussion was about what happened on his land.
Had it really only occurred that morning?
It had nagged and gnawed on him all day. What made him go out this morning? Although they checked the fences regularly, it could have been hours or even a few days before they’d have discovered the cut. And out of the thousands of acres of land, what had him riding Tot to that very section? He wasn’t a fanciful man, nor did he believe in extrasensory talents. Yet something had pulled him to that section of the property this morning.
Tabasco handed over the wine, then returned his full focus to Tate. “Heard Belle caught your case.”
Since it was a useless endeavor to ask Tabasco exactly how he knew anything, Tate just nodded. “Yep. Showed up at the ranch along with the sun this morning.”
“She’s been doing a fine job. Caught that smuggling case late last year and put away four slimeballs for life. Good riddance. She’s also been active with the teens. Maeve Simpson’s granddaughter thinks Belle hangs the moon. Has already started talking about heading to the academy after she graduates.”
“Does Maeve want that for her granddaughter?”
“Since there was a time Maeve didn’t think the girl would even graduate high school, I’d say she’s thrilled.”
As alternatives went, Tate figured Maeve Simpson’s granddaughter was headed for a far better future. So why was it all he could imagine were the horrible things that could happen to the girl? The images in his head matched the same ones he’d always worried about for Belle.
“I saw a table opened up. I’m going to go grab it. Ace and Hoyt’ll be here soon.”
Tabasco nodded as he pulled out a glass for another order. “I’ll send over fresh drinks for them when they get here.”
His socializing at an end, Tate headed for a pool table that occupied the eastern corner, along the same wall as the front door. The table had been empty since he walked in, but it made for an easy excuse to quit talking about the glorious, sublime, independent Annabelle Granger.
And if given the chance, he’d make the polite lie again.
Which likely only added to the cosmic karma that had Belle and his sister walking in and intercepting him just as he passed the front door.
* * *
“We need to brace ourselves for the possibility this isn’t the last.”
Hayes Corden stood over the body of the victim they’d discovered earlier that day, laid out on the coroner’s table, opposite Federal Agent Noah Ross. The Feds had set up shop in his town a few years earlier and the chief had come to accept their presence, first grudgingly, and recently, with more appreciation than he’d ever thought possible.
A big part of that was Ross, the team lead assigned to Midnight Pass.
“You didn’t say first?”
“Observant as always,” Ross said. “No, I didn’t.”
“You think we have a serial killer on our hands?”
“My agents have been running like crimes and two have popped so far. One over in El Paso in February and one down in Juarez last November that they nearly overlooked.”
“What makes you think they’re related?”
Ross pointed to the victim’s throat. “Wounds match. So do the job histories of the dead.”
Hayes took his job as the chief of police for Midnight Pass seriously. It wasn’t running vice ops in Houston or tracking murderers in Dallas—both prior jobs—but it had its own challenges.
Some of those Hayes had expected, even anticipated. Small-town disputes between neighbors, rowdy teens after the prom and even the occasional run of petty crime like burglaries and light drugs.
Those things, he could handle.
Based on the years he’d spent in Texas’s largest cities, he could also handle the serious stuff like drugs and all their associated crimes.
But he’d never expected a serial killer.
“You matched this guy?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. Prints finally hit in the database. Guy’s been a known associate of El Asesino for the past five years.”
Even though the news confirmed what he’d already suspected, Hayes couldn’t quite make the leap to serial killer. “El Asesino’s known to take care of his own. Did the guy go rogue?”
“This isn’t an internal problem. We’ve got someone embedded in his organization. El Asesino doesn’t know yet.”
One of the border’s largest drug lords, El Asesino—The Assassin—was known for his ruthlessness and his unwillingness to listen to excuses. Which made the news the FBI had gained entrance to his organization that much more dangerous. “You’ve got someone embedded?”
Ross never lost a moment of his calm demeanor. Bastard. “Classified information.”
“Yeah, yeah. The standard Bureau line.” Hayes pointed toward the body. “Was this the work of one of his enemies?”
“Those guys usually take credit a lot quicker than that.”
Hayes had worked the Pass long enough to know Ross’s words for truth. “Lay it out for me, then.”
Step by step, the agent filled him in.
The similar crimes, all perpetrated against known drug runners. The matched style of cuts on the neck. And a small, deep nick made postmortem in the heart.
It was that nick that had Ross’s full focus as he pointed out the same abuse on the body that lay before them. “That’s a mark. A code, if you will, that says, ‘I’m in control.’”
“You think drugs are a front?” Hayes asked, leaning closer to inspect the wound.
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
While Hayes respected the man’s ability to consider a problem from all angles, if a killer was on the loose, they didn’t have time for considerations. They needed to act. “Well, which is it?”
“Drugs may be at the center. I’d wager it’s no coincidence the three victims we’ve identified are all involved in the drug trade.”
“But?” Hayes probed.
“But this doesn’t seem like gang warfare or the outcome of a turf battle.”
“Guns are easier. Quicker.” Hayes brushed a plastic-covered finger over the heart wound. “A knife’s personal. Intimate.”
“That’s what bothers me.”
Hayes gave himself a moment to inspect the wounds in the new light of Ross’s findings. The position of the body in the ravine and the subsequent review by the forensics team had confirmed the victim wasn’t killed there. The team was still reviewing the soil samples from the Reynolds ranch along with canvasing the neighboring ranches but preliminary thinking put the murder on Reynolds’ property before transport to the ravine.
The question was, why go to the trouble? If the killer had completed the task while still on the ranch, why move the body? Why not leave it where it fell?
He was good at the questions—he’d been trained to ask them and he’d taught his team to do the same.
But Hayes Corden was used to having answers.
And at the moment, he had none.
* * *
Annabelle felt the muscles in her back tighten right back to where they’d been at four o’clock that afternoon and wondered why she’d bothered with the yoga. Especially when Arden charged fifteen bucks a session.
“A latte would have been cheaper and easier,” she muttered to herself.
“What’s that?” Arden’s gaze narrowed as she passed over the cosmo Belle had ordered from their waitress.
“Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the large latte I’m ordering in the morning.”
“Feeding the addiction?” Tate glanced up as he lined up his shot, preparing to make the first break.
She ignored him in favor of a sip of her drink. And watched as he neatly broke the fifteen balls, sending them caroming over the table. Smooth and easy.
Vintage Tate Reynolds.
A
rden had worked them hard in yoga, focusing on their legs and their core for the majority of their hour-long workout. It had to be the only reason Belle’s legs were shaking.
She refused to believe the large shoulders, bent over the pool table lining up the next shot, could be at all responsible.
Even if Tate’s focus on the game did give her a moment to unobtrusively look her fill.
His blondish-brown hair was cut short and she knew a few more months of work outdoors would have a series of blond streaks coming to the fore. He’d put on a black T-shirt for the evening out, a superhero in fighting stance covering the front, and it nearly made her laugh out loud.
Who knew his childhood obsession with superheroes would pay dividends as an adult? As a child, he’d worn his heroes whenever possible, plastered on his clothes, his lunch box and even his underwear. A fact she knew from an unfortunate incident at recess during the third grade.
What had branded him as a goof at Midnight Pass Elementary had grown into the self-possessed cool of a confident adult male. A solid chest and thick biceps peeping out of tight T-shirt sleeves didn’t hurt.
Not one bit, Belle thought to herself.
Arden’s catcall when Tate missed his next attempt to keep up his run of the table pulled Belle from her musings and she stepped up to the rack and selected her cue. She’d reluctantly followed Arden to the Border Line, agreeing to one drink after their workout, but knew to back out now or turn tail and run home would brand her the loser of this round of wills.
And there was no way pool with Tate was anything but a battle of wills.
“Table’s all yours, Belly.” Tate reached over and took a sip of his beer.
She ignored the name and wished it didn’t have such power over her. It was silly and stupid. A taunt from around the same time she caught sight of an eight-year-old’s superhero underwear.
Yet it had stuck.
Just like this stubborn attraction.
The kiss from earlier that still lingered on her lips only confirmed the fact that she’d found herself in this situation steadily throughout her life. From the playground to the chemistry lab to those tension-filled months they’d danced around each other after graduation.
Until that one glorious night when it had all swung wildly, perfectly together, just like those caroming pool balls.
Lust. Need. Desire. Attraction.
And love.
Whatever else she’d experienced with Tate Reynolds, love had been a part of it all. It had intensified every moment together and had made the time after agonizing. But she’d survived. More, she’d thrived. Most of the time.
Which only made the moping and the raw feelings and the stubborn ache since meeting up with him this morning such an indignity.
She’d moved past it all. Moved past him and created a life for herself.
So how mortifying to realize that all it took was one kiss to prove she hadn’t moved that far forward at all.
Chapter 7
Tate lined up his shot and took some small measure of satisfaction when the balls went flying just as he’d planned, dropping the six neatly into the corner pocket. At least something bent to his will. The crime on the ranch certainly hadn’t.
Nor had Belle.
He’d spent as little time as possible in the house—especially after that explosive kiss—yet her presence around his home had haunted him all day. Each ranch hand who spoke to her talked up a storm about the attractive cop once they’d come back to their duties. His hands had balled into fists at every mention—which had basically been all damn day—and it was a wonder he’d gotten anything done.
And now here she was. She and Arden looked as thick as thieves, sitting there sipping their pink drinks and watching the game.
She’d taken the cue when he’d teased her, doing a fine job of knocking in the eleven. But she was out of a turn on the next shot, pocketing the cue ball by mistake.
If he didn’t know her better, he’d have said it was on purpose. But Belle Granger never lost at anything on purpose. Ever. The woman had a competitive streak to rival his and it was one of the things he’d always liked about her.
There was no artifice or attempts at being something she wasn’t. What you saw was what you got.
He’d spent the past decade fighting against that knowledge but knew the same personality trait that drove her to win made her work extra hard at her job.
Made her a good cop.
“Come on, cowboy. Run the table.”
The not-so-subtle purr rippled over the green baize, accompanied by a broad, sexy grin when he glanced up. It took him a few moments to shift from his thoughts of Belle to the over-the-top image that stood in front of him.
Dove Anthony.
The woman was a piece of work. Long, lean and in possession of a sizeable pair of breasts, he’d been the object of her attention and misguided affection since the seventh grade. Despite the whispers around town, he’d never sampled the lovely Dove, but it wasn’t for her lack of trying.
Or for her seeming sheer enjoyment of flirting with him whenever Belle was nearby.
Focusing on his shot, he re-lined up the balls, slamming the cue ball into the three he’d aimed for, pleased when it hit the side pocket as he’d intended. Ignoring the clapping, he stood to his full height and mimed tipping his hat. “Hey, Dove.”
“That was a lucky shot.” She worked her way around the table, lush hips grazing the edges as she moved determinedly toward him. “Must be because I’m here.”
She ran a long finger down his biceps and Tate shifted out of range, softening the rejection with a broad smile. “Luck and pool go hand in hand. Let me buy you a glass of what you’re drinking as my thanks.”
Their waitress had been watching with interest from the wings and rushed over at his offer, taking Dove’s order of a light beer. The waitress had nearly rushed off when she remembered the rest of the crowd and took refills from everyone else. Tate didn’t miss Belle’s sharp stare—or her order of club soda—and fought the urge to ask Dove to leave.
He wasn’t beholden to Belle Granger and hadn’t been for a long time. He could talk to Dove or any other woman in the bar if he wanted to.
So why did it feel so crass and low to allow another woman to stand between them?
* * *
Belle stood it as long as she could. Since “standing it” included four more games of stripes and solids and a lone game of nine-ball as well as endless refills of club soda, she figured she’d given a good, solid air of enjoying the evening out with friends.
Even if she was dying inside.
Dove Anthony had finally gotten the hint and gone back to her friends at the table next to them, but it hadn’t stopped her from shamelessly flirting with Tate. The story had remained unchanged since middle school, with the Dove showing up at the worst moments.
Annabelle wanted to be mad. Worse, she wanted to sit and wallow in a bottle of wine and feel sorry for herself about how easy it was for Dove to flirt and tease Tate, running her hands all over him, while she sat back and was forced to watch, a polite smile pasted over her face.
But she had no right. Nor had she had that right in a very long time.
Mentally slut-shaming Dove for it was not only small and petty, but it flew in the face of how Annabelle chose to see the world and her fellow females. The woman had every right to flirt with Tate. To be attracted to all that male virility and sweet charm.
And to let him know it if she chose.
“Do you always think so hard on an evening out?” Arden’s voice was a low whisper but it was enough to pull Belle from her morose thoughts.
“Sorry?”
“I can practically see the ax sharpening in a thought bubble above your head.”
Belle smiled at the image, well aware it wasn’t too far from the truth. “I prefer to t
hink of it as a bit of an internal talking-to, but an ax makes me sound fiercer, so I’ll take your version. What I also am is tired, since my day started when it was still dark outside this morning.”
Arden nodded. “Fair enough. I’m still glad you came out.”
“I’m glad, too.”
Oddly, for all the emotional turmoil, she was glad. The evening hadn’t been terrible and it was nice to be out with people her own age. She’d been so focused on her job of late and the additional layer of work they’d all taken on helping the Feds that she hadn’t been out in a while.
If she could take away the pining for Tate Reynolds, she might even have chalked it up to a truly successful evening. As it was, she was going to make her exit and head home to a bubble bath and bed.
She said a few quick goodbyes and made a point to give Tate the same courtesy. So it was a bit of a shock when he strolled up behind her, his long legs catching up just before she reached the front door. “Leaving so soon?”
As she pushed through the door, Tate followed in her wake. “It’s been a long day.”
Tate walked beside her toward the parked cars. “You can say that again.”
Belle visualized the techniques she’d learned in training—staying calm, cool and in control in the face of a threatening situation—and forced a quiet friendliness into her tone.
“I appreciate it but you don’t need to walk me to my car. I’m interrupting your game.”
“Sure I do. No game is more important than a woman’s safety.”
The quiet agreement, and lack of fight in his tone, had Belle taking a good hard look at him in the glare of the overhead parking lot lights.
He looked tired.
The thought caught her so quickly she nearly said something before holding back the observation. If she said something, the quiet moment would inevitably be broken and she would miss her opportunity to really study him. To get a sense of what was going on.
And in the quiet, she saw that Tate was more than tired. He looked sad.
“You okay?”
“I just won five games in a row. Of course I’m okay.”