The Cowboy's Deadly Mission

by Addison Fox

  “Thanks.”

  “When did you redo the place?”

  She came into the kitchen, his gaze still roaming over the cherry cabinets and the dark marble she’d selected for the counters. “About five years ago. A few things had to wait and the spare room’s still a massive work in progress, but it’s mine.”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  Tate opened a few cabinet doors, hunting for plates. She should have told him where to look—should have made it easy on him—but something had her mesmerized as she watched that strong, solid back hunt through her cabinets. It looked natural. Normal. Domestic.

  Had she ever had any of that?

  Unbidden, her throat tightened around a lump of tears and she diligently pushed them back. Turning on her heel, she mumbled a quick excuse of needing to get more napkins out of the hall closet. If he was paying any attention at all, he’d have seen her reaction, but he appeared nonplussed when she walked back into the kitchen, both composed and bearing a package of napkins.

  Even as a full basket of napkins taunted her from the countertop.

  “Why’d you come back?” she asked.

  He glanced up from where he pulled the burgers out of the microwave. “Because I owed you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “I’d say my all-around general assiness, but you already know that.”

  “‘Assiness’?”

  “It’s a permanent state of being an ass.”

  The words were enough to break the tension, the laugher bubbling up in her throat. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “I owe you an apology for how I reacted to your news. You confided in me and I threw it back at you like you were the one who’d done something wrong.”

  “It’s hard to think of someone we know and think well of acting in a way that doesn’t mesh with that.”

  “I’m not sure murder meshes with anything.”

  She nodded, well aware he spoke the truth. “No, I suppose not.”

  Tate finished settling the burgers onto the plates and reached for a paper towel. “Ketchup? Mustard?”

  “I’ll get them.”

  Belle moved toward the fridge, her motions once again slow and dreamy. Was Tate Reynolds actually here in her kitchen? Arden had been over, of course. So had any number of other friends. But never Tate.

  Although they managed cordial civility to each other, she’d never grown comfortable enough to include him in activities at her home. A Sunday afternoon football-watching party or a holiday tree trimming was hardly a venue for a serious conversation, but she’d avoided including him in the guest list. They were no longer a couple and no matter how many times she’d tried to convince herself they could stick to a casual relationship, something had stopped her in the end.

  Because they weren’t casual. They weren’t just friends. And they sure as hell weren’t acquaintances.

  She loved him.

  It was the great, glorious irony of her life. That the one man who was so compatible with her in every way possible stood on the opposite side of every other thing she wanted.

  But she did love him. A decade of ignoring that fact hadn’t made it go away. Nor had the determined scratching of an itch that afternoon. Neither had doing battle with him over the dead body on his property.

  It was the terribly humbling fact that none of those things made a damn bit of difference. She loved him anyway.

  Seemingly oblivious to her thoughts, he pointed to the table nestled in the back of the kitchen against the windows. “These go best with a Coke if you have it.”

  “I’ll get a few.” She retrieved the cold cans from the fridge and snagged a few napkins from that towering stack on the counter.

  The satisfying pop and fizz of the sodas opening punctuated the silence and it was Belle who spoke first.

  “I’m sorry I burdened you with my suspicions. I knew it wasn’t right to tell anyone and now you’re stuck with it, same as me.”

  Tate stopped, his burger halfway to his lips, and set it back down on his plate. “Why do you think that?”

  “Because it’s true. I have nothing but suspicion and I’ve now made you carry it. That stuff weighs heavy.”

  “You carry it.”

  “It’s my job.”

  Tate glanced down at his burger. “Look. I realize I’m not the most sensitive guy in the world, but when did we stop being friends?”

  “Don’t start—”

  Before she could even get out the rest of the thought, he held up a hand. “Hear me out. We were always friends. When did that part stop?”

  Since the question struck so close to her earlier thoughts about Sunday afternoon football and holiday parties, she wasn’t sure she was in the best frame of mind to answer, but Belle knew it wasn’t a question to be ignored. “I wish I knew.”

  “So you feel it, too?”

  “Feel it?” She nearly laughed at that one. “I feel it every day. We didn’t just break up ten years ago. I lost my best friend. I lost my center of gravity. All because that friend didn’t understand or support me. It hurt worse than losing the sex and believe me, that hurt pretty bad.”

  “It did?” His eyebrows wiggled, vintage Tate, and somehow in the midst of her outburst he managed to make her laugh.

  Soul-deep laugher rumbled up from her belly and spilled out in a joyful noise. When she could finally speak, she choked out, “You really are an ass.”

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  The laugher was enough to break the tension she’d felt since he walked in and she picked up her burger, anxious to try one of Arden’s world-famous concoctions. She took a bite and moaned around the mouthful. “Wow, that is good. How did I never know Arden made these?”

  “It’s a secret she hoards. I think she’s really afraid the Drop-In Diner will press her into service if they knew what wonders she could do with ground beef.”

  “I understand the fear.”

  They ate in companionable silence, broken only by a few errant sighs and possibly a small moan before Tate spoke. “I’m sorry. For the friend thing, too.”

  She glanced up from where she patted her lips with a napkin. “You are?”

  “More than I can say.”

  “I’m sorry, too. If there’s fault, we equally bear it there. I miss having you for a friend.”

  He nodded, but the acceptance didn’t make it all the way to those bright green eyes. It was such a unique color—so vibrant and vivid—and one she hadn’t ever seen on anyone beside the Reynolds boys. That color haunted her dreams and at odd moments, she’d connect it with a particular memory.

  Staring into Tate’s eyes the first time they made love.

  The heated look that had filled his gaze when she’d stepped out of a clearing, naked as the day she was born, to go skinny-dipping at Town Lake out on the edge of Midnight Pass.

  And the day they’d broken up, the heat rising in those depths, pushing out anything warm or welcoming or understanding.

  It was that lingering memory that had her dropping her gaze back to her burger. They might equally bear fault for all that had come since, but he’d shut down during their relationship. Had refused to discuss what was between them or what other influences and factors in her life gave her dreams. Goals. Ambitions.

  “I don’t think we bear equal fault for the rest of it, though.”

  The words were quiet in her renovated kitchen, but they might have been said ten years before for all the presence they had in her heart. She’d carried them for a decade, angry and upset and frustrated at the injustice of it all.

  If he hadn’t loved her—if he’d not wanted to stay in the relationship because he didn’t share her feelings—she could have moved on. But to leave her because he didn’t support her dreams? Because he could say that he loved her and wanted her and wan
ted a future with her, if she’d only walk away from another piece of her heart.

  That had left a raw, gaping wound and until that very moment, sitting in her new kitchen, a half-eaten burger in front of her, Belle hadn’t realized just how much it hurt.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “All that’s come since?” She fought to keep the pain from her voice. Fought to keep things level and simple, like a recitation of facts.

  Nothing but facts.

  “I am equally responsible for all of it. But the reason we broke up in the first place? That’s on you.”

  “Because I had a difference of opinion? Because you refused to see reason?”

  How was it even possible that after a decade they still stood on opposite sides of such a huge chasm?

  “I never asked you to become someone different. Not once. I understood what you needed. What you and your family were trying to do to restore the ranch. I supported you. Believed in you.”

  “And I’m somehow at fault because I didn’t want to see you walk out the door every day, not knowing if you’d come home?” Tate shot back.

  “Yes. You are.”

  “That’s a cop-out. A raging cop-out. You ignored my feelings. No matter how many times I brought it up or talked to you about how I felt, you ignored it all, like you were giving me a little pat on the head. Poor Tate. I can take care of myself.” He stood and paced the room. “You never listened to me. Never once gave me a chance to explain myself. All you did was placate me that you’d be fine.”

  “And I am fine!”

  “Are you?” He whirled on her, his voice carrying across the kitchen from where he’d stopped at the doorway midpace. “Are you really? You come here to eat and sleep and little else. You work yourself to death. And you think your freaking captain is a murderer. Are you really okay? Is that even a life?”

  His comments rained down on her like razors. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “Think?” He shook his head, striding back toward her. “What’s there to think? You are those things. Can you sit there and honestly tell me otherwise?”

  “I’m doing my job. The job I’m called to. The life I’m called to. I’d expect my loved ones could support that. More than that, I expect they will support that. Why is that too much to ask?”

  “And what have you gotten for it? Can you honestly sit there and tell me your life’s better today than it was before you entered the academy? Can you tell me that bringing down the dregs of society is as satisfying as you thought it would be?”

  On some level, she understood his point. She’d talked about it with her fellow officers and she’d done the job long enough that she knew it wasn’t easy. That there were days where you not only felt as if you weren’t making a difference, but when you actually felt as if you were going backward. Whatever internal charge of self-righteous goodness fueled you when you took a bad guy off the streets didn’t last much past the booking because there was a new problem to solve.

  A new bad guy—or girl—to chase after.

  But at least you weren’t leaving them on the streets to multiply. That was the solace she took in the moments when it all became too hard or overwhelming.

  There was one less person out there to ruin others.

  That was where she made a difference. Where she fought for some reason and ability to understand the ruin of her mother’s life.

  “I am satisfied,” she finally said. “That’s all that matters.”

  Tate still stood on the other side of her kitchen, but he might as well have been standing in Amarillo for all the distance that lay between them.

  But only when he dropped his head, his gaze focused on the slate tile floor, did she have a small flicker of regret.

  Regret she couldn’t be someone different. And a stab of guilt that she wanted him to be the one to change.

  He lifted his head, his gaze finding hers. “I won’t claim to understand where you’re coming from. Nor am I willing to tell you I’ve changed my mind when I haven’t. But please answer me one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you honestly think I could go on if something happened to you?”

  The sharp, distinct notes of her phone ringing prevented her from a response. Prevented her from delving too deeply into all he’d said—and didn’t say.

  Tate frowned at the interruption, but she already had her phone out of her pocket, his explanation over the fear of something happening to her needing to be enough. “That’s the ringtone for dispatch. I’m sorry but I have to answer this.

  “This is Belle Granger.” Words spilled out of her earpiece like a hail of bullets and she did her level best to shift gears from the heart-wrenching conversation with Tate to focus on the incoming instructions.

  New victim discovered.

  Uniforms on-site believe the body was moved from the place of death.

  Killer is on the loose.

  She hung up, the reality of what she now faced had become something she’d confront alone. Looking up, she stared into those haunting green eyes. And said the words she knew encapsulated all the pain and anger and disappointment between them.

  “I need to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “They found another body. This one down in some overgrown brush along Town Lake.”

  Chapter 15

  The two teenagers who’d found the body of one Eduardo Rivera were still green around the edges when Belle got to Town Lake. Whatever bravado and machismo had carried the boys to the park—and knowing teenage boys, there had been plenty—had shattered, leaving in its wake two scared children who’d never be the same.

  One of the uniforms already identified by dispatch stayed with the boys, their shoulders covered by blankets as they sat on a picnic table about twenty yards from the body. Parents had been called and Belle recognized one of the mothers, now quietly weeping with her son, huddled at the table.

  More lives affected by a killer. Even if indirectly so.

  According to one of the uniforms, Chief Corden had arrived about ten minutes ahead of her and was already standing with a couple of Feds she recognized. A quick glance of the site didn’t show Captain Grantham and she silently prayed it was a simple oversight.

  That’s all it is, Annabelle Marie. Get it together.

  But her suspicions raged out of control all the same. Suspicions that went nuclear the moment she stepped close enough to assess the dead man that lay in the grass.

  Rivera hadn’t died easy. The bruises that visibly covered his body were evidence of that, along with the marks that scored his skin. The medical examiner would define the details, but she’d studied enough to know that the man who lay before her had been tortured before he was killed.

  An involuntary shudder skated over her spine as Tate’s recent words filled her mind.

  Can you tell me that bringing down the dregs of society is as satisfying as you thought it would be?

  “Granger.” The chief gestured her over, inviting her into the small circle. Agent Noah Ross was already with him, along with a few of Ross’s colleagues she recognized.

  “Sir.” She nodded to Chief Corden before quickly greeting each member of the huddled team. The fact she was invited in was a balm to the anger she’d carried with her from the fight with Tate and she resolved to push it to the back of her mind.

  She had a killer to focus on.

  An image of Russ Grantham haunted her thoughts and Belle resolutely pushed it away. She had a plan of action for dealing with her suspicions—including some basic detective work of looking to see if the man still wore his own religious medal around his neck—especially before she took them to anyone.

  The fact she’d even mentioned such dark suspicions to Tate had been an error in judgment. A weak moment in a day full of them. Which was a poor excuse b
ut she was going to hang on to it as long as she could. She did take solace in the knowledge that Tate would keep the information to himself. They might not agree on her career choices, but he was a good man and would never repeat what she’d told him.

  It was odd to be that certain, yet she was.

  Absolutely.

  “We waited for you to get started.” Ross gestured to the body. “We believe it’s the same killer. Medical examiner has to weigh in, but it’s a pretty sure bet.”

  Of course it was sure, Belle thought to herself. One killer on the loose was hard enough to imagine. Two would be unthinkable. But instead, all she said was, “The body was identified quickly.”

  “We had Rivera’s prints on file,” Ross confirmed. “And he’s made quite a name for himself in El Asesino’s business affairs. Agent Samson in the Corpus Christi office recognized the body the moment the photo scanned in. Had some trouble with Rivera a few years back.”

  “I thought El Asesino’s men knew how to lay lower than that?” Belle asked.

  “Normally they do. Rivera worked his way up in the organization, but he’s a hothead. Caught a lot of trouble in his earlier years. The fact that he wasn’t afraid to take on the messy jobs meant the big boss was willing to indulge him a bit.”

  Belle searched her mind for any memory of the victim and vaguely recalled that during her first few years out of the academy, the man was one of the thugs whispered about. Rivera had a reputation for cruelty and greed, a potent combination and, as Agent Ross had suggested, traits that had done him well in a criminal organization.

  “Any gauge on time of death?”

  “Again, the ME will weigh in, but we’re thinking sometime yesterday based on the discoloration of the body and the state of the bruises.”

  Without planning to, she glanced back toward the boys seated at the picnic table. “A difficult find for anyone, but they’re going to have a rough go for a while.”

  “They are.”

  The conversation turned to other matters as several more FBI team members came to photograph the body and the surrounding area. Rivera was covered as they worked, but Belle saw more than a few surreptitious glances head toward the site as they all worked. Her own gaze traveled there more than once, even as her thoughts winged out in a million different directions as she worked the crime scene.