Trace Evidence in Tarrant County

Carley’s chin came up.

“How? By getting murdered?” Sloan couldn’t believe his ears. “Have you lost your mind?” He heard the raw emotion in his voice and for some stupid reason, he couldn’t make himself shut up. “You’re not bulletproof and I don’t want you taking those chances again. Understand?”

Carley stepped away from him just as Sloan shifted to the other side—and somehow they were practically touching. Suddenly he became very aware of that. She stared at him, as if she was waiting to figure out what he was about to say or do. Sloan started wondering the same thing himself. The eye contact made the air change between them. It created a steamy fog in his brain. Something he definitely didn’t need, because he knew he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life. Knowing it, however, didn’t stop him.

He lowered his head and touched his mouth to hers….

Trace Evidence in Tarrant County

Delores Fossen

To Sgt. Marrie Garcia, Texas Rangers,

for answering all my questions.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why Texas author and former air force captain Delores Fossen feels as if she was genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force Top Gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sergeant Sloan McKinney, Texas Ranger—He returns to his hometown to investigate two murders—one cold and one red-hot. The outcome could tear his family apart.

Sheriff Carley Matheson—A rookie who feels she has a lot to prove, and solving two murders would be a start. What she hasn’t counted on getting in her way is her intense attraction to Sloan.

Lieutenant Zane McKinney—Sloan’s “golden boy” brother and the Ranger in charge of the murder investigation.

Jim McKinney—Sloan and Zane’s father. He’s a former Texas Ranger whose career and life were ruined when he was indicted for murder sixteen years ago. The charges against him were dropped, but Jim’s name has never been cleared.

Stella McKinney—The long-suffering wife of Jim McKinney. Beneath that delicate exterior beats the heart of a woman who’d do whatever it takes to keep her husband out of jail.

Leland Hendricks—He’ll do anything for money, even fake his own toddler’s kidnapping and murder. But will he go so far as to kill his wife, stepdaughter and anyone else who gets in his way?

Donna Hendricks—Leland’s bitter ex-wife.

Rosa Ramirez—The nanny who adores Leland and Donna’s toddler son. Just how much does she know, and how long is she willing to stay quiet?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Sgt. Sloan McKinney stopped cold when he heard the sound. A snap. Like someone stepping on a twig.

He eased his SIG SAUER from the holster belted around his waist.

That snap was a sound he shouldn’t have heard since the wooded area and the back of the police station were off-limits, sectioned off with yellow tape that warned Do Not Cross. It was a crime scene and the very path that a killer had taken.

Not exactly a comforting thought.

Especially since that snapping sound might be a sign that the killer had returned.

Sloan lifted his head, listening. Waiting. He trusted his training as a Texas Ranger. He trusted his instincts. But a bullet could negate all training and instincts, and he had to be ready to defend himself.

“Drop that gun,” he heard someone say. It was a woman. Her voice was raspy and thick, and she was behind him.

Hell.

How had she gotten so close before he’d heard her make that snap? And, better yet, who was she? She was no doubt armed. A person didn’t usually make a demand like that unless they had something to back it up.

Since he had no intentions of surrendering his weapon or getting killed, he started with the basics. “I’m Sgt. Sloan McKinney, Texas Ranger. Identify yourself.”

There was silence, followed by a loud huff.

Sloan hadn’t recognized the person’s voice earlier, but he could have sworn he recognized that huff.

“Carley Matheson?”

“Sheriff Carley Matheson,” she corrected with absolute authority.

Sloan mumbled some profanity. Oh, man. He didn’t need this. And he definitely didn’t need her. He could already hear the argument they were about to have before he even turned around to face her.

It actually took him several moments to face her though. First, there was the already brutal morning sun that was spewing light from behind him and on her. Sloan had to squint and then he had to look past her .45-caliber Colt automatic to see her face.

Yep, she was squinting, too, because of the sun. And she was also riled.

And, yep, there would be an argument.

Since the argument was inevitable, Sloan decided to go ahead and start it.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, resting,” Sloan reminded her.

Less than a week ago, Carley had been shot while in pursuit of a killer and she wouldn’t be cleared for duty for at least another forty-eight hours.

“I’m fine,” she said as if that explained away everything. Carley lowered her Colt. Not gently, either. Her movements were jerky and stiff, and she shoved her firearm into her leather shoulder holster.

She also winced.

Probably because that rough gun shove had pulled at her bandages and caused some pain. After all, the shooter’s bullet had apparently sliced through Carley’s right side and nicked a rib. She was lucky to be alive.

The shooter’s other victim, Sarah Wallace, hadn’t been nearly as fortunate.

In an eerily similar way to how her own mother had been murdered sixteen years earlier, Sarah Wallace had been strangled while staying at the Matheson Inn—just a stone’s throw away from where they stood and in the very inn owned by Carley’s family. The inn where Carley now lived in a converted attic apartment.

Murder on her own doorstep.

That couldn’t have been easy for a peace officer to accept. Especially this peace officer.

Unless she’d changed a whole bunch in the past couple of years—and Sloan doubted that she had, Carley would have taken this crime personally even if she hadn’t been shot. Justice was her town, and keeping it safe was her responsibility.

Sloan reholstered his own weapon, and because of that wince, he nearly moved closer to check on her. However, Carley’s steely expression had him staying put. It’d be suicide to try to get a look at her wound, especially since it would involve unbuttoning the shirt of her khaki uniform.

Definitely suicide.

So why did he even consider it?

Sloan gave that a little thought and he quickly figured out why. Despite the surly glower, Carley Matheson looked vulnerable.

Yeah.

A man didn’t have to dig too deep to find it. The vulnerability was there, stashed beneath that khaki uniform, shiny badge and five-and-a-half-foot-tall lanky body. Her sea-green eyes were sleep-starved. Her normally tanned skin was shades too pale. Her brown-sugar hair was pulled back into a near haphazard ponytail that left stray wisps fluttering around her neck. She looked weary.

No, Carley hadn’t fully recovered from her injuries and yet she was apparently on the job.

Part of him admired her for that.

The other part of him wasn’t pleased that she was in his way. And she was definitely in his way.

“Why are you out here?” he asked.

For a moment Sloan thought she would fire that exact question right back at him. Instead she pointed to the eaves on the backside of the police station. Specifically to the surveillance camera that was mounted there. Or, rather, what was left of the camera. It had sustained some major damage and was no doubt disabled.

“I had it installed early yesterday morning,” Carley explained. She walked toward it, propped her hands on her hips and stared up at it.

Sloan lifted a shoulder. “Why? When I was sheriff, we didn’t have a surveillance camera.”

That earned him a glaring glance. “When you were sheriff, you also didn’t have anyone attempt to break into your office, now did you? Nor did someone try to kill two women right in this area. This is definitely a place that needs some 24-7 surveillance.”

He knew about the attempted murders. One was Carley’s own shooting that’d taken place in the parking lot of the inn adjacent to where they stood now. The other, the more recent one, involved his soon-to-be sister-in-law, Anna Wallace, and the attempt to kill her in the police station itself. Sloan’s brother, Zane, was still beyond riled that he hadn’t been able to catch the person who’d tried to murder the woman he loved.

Sloan had been briefed about those near deadly attempts but not about the camera or the first concern that Carley had addressed.

“Someone tried to break into the police station?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.” She slapped at the yellow crime-scene tape that the breeze was batting against her side. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. It’s all over town.”

“I only arrived an hour ago.” But Sloan was a little miffed that he hadn’t already been informed about this from his brother, Zane—the Ranger who was heading the investigation into Sarah Wallace’s murder. Zane had certainly been thorough in his updates about the murder itself and the subsequent attacks, but he’d apparently left out this little detail. It made Sloan wonder if and how it fit into the grand scheme of things.

“You think this busted camera and the attempted break-in are related to Sarah Wallace’s death?” Sloan asked.

Her icy glare melted away. “Maybe. The killer might have thought your brother stored evidence inside. After all, Sarah’s sister, Anna, did find those papers, the ones that Sarah had hidden. Zane put them somewhere, and the most logical place would be here at the police station.”

Since her inflection made it seem as if she had something to add to that, Sloan stared at her.

Their eyes met.

The morning sun was still haloing around her, and despite the khaki polyester attire, she looked…interesting. She smelled interesting, too. Like fresh coffee, cream and honey. Because he was a male and therefore driven by totally stupid urges that could never be logically explained, he felt that punch of interest that he often felt when he was looking at an attractive woman.

And Carley was attractive, no doubt about it.

She was also hands-off.

Because in a bottom-line kind of way, they were enemies. Not just regular enemies, either. Big-time enemies with a feud that’d been going on for sixteen years, since Carley was barely thirteen years old. He’d only been fifteen at the time, but time didn’t matter when an issue like this was at stake. Even lust and basic attraction weren’t enough to make him forget that this was a woman who would do anything within her power to have his father arrested.

Carley had been the primary witness against his father sixteen years ago. Jim McKinney, a decorated Texas Ranger, had been accused of murdering his lover, Lou Ann Wallace Hendricks. If it hadn’t been for Carley’s statement that she’d seen his father drunk and disheveled leaving Lou Ann’s room at the inn, there probably would have been no arrest. No trial.

No total meltdown of his family.

Sloan’s family had been ripped apart because of the questionable eyewitness account of a teenage girl. Carley Matheson.

Remembering that certainly cooled down Sloan, and it got his mind back where it should be—on that damaged surveillance camera and her need to have it installed in the first place. In addition to Carley’s theory of a break-in to search for evidence, Sloan had a theory of his own.

“The camera overlooks the wooded area where the killer likely escaped,” Sloan explained. “That could be the motive for destroying it.”

She turned and stared out into the thick woods. “You mean because there’s almost certainly some sort of evidence out there.”

“You bet, and maybe the killer wanted to look for it without the camera recording it.” And that included evidence regarding Carley’s own shooting.

Judging from her slight shift of posture, she considered that, as well.

“So how exactly did you end up in the line of fire of a .38?” Sloan wanted to know. Zane had briefed him, but he wanted to hear what had happened from Carley herself.

Carley eased her hands into her pockets. “I was in my office, working late. I saw something move outside the window. Or, rather, I saw someone wearing dark pants and boots run past the window and into the woods. I grabbed my gun and hurried out to see what was going on, to see if I could catch up with the person.”

“At this point you didn’t know Sarah Wallace had been murdered?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I had no idea. It’d probably only happened minutes before I saw this person. Anyway, I went in pursuit, but by the time I got to the parking lot of the inn, he or she had disappeared into the woods. And then bam. Next thing I knew, I was face-first in the dirt and it felt as if someone had set fire to my ribs.” She drew in a hard breath. “I really want to catch this SOB.”

Oh, man. More vulnerability. She didn’t quiver or tremble. There was no deep level of emotion in her voice. But that bullet had robbed Carley of something that Sloan understood all too well.

Peace of mind.

“You’ll heal,” he told her.

She angled her eyes in his direction. “The voice of experience?”

He nodded. “Eighteen months ago, while chasing down a kidnapper, I took one in the shoulder.”

The silence settled uncomfortably around them.

Carley looked away, cleared her throat. “The surveillance disk is in my office. I was just about to review it, but then I heard someone skulking around out here, so I came outside to check things out.”

Sloan frowned. “I wasn’t skulking.”

“Then what were you doing?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Oh, wait. This was a trip down memory lane, wasn’t it? You’re reliving the good old days when you wore this badge and had the town at your feet?”

That last comment set his teeth on edge. “Sure. I do that all the time. Relive the past. Reminisce about that badge.” He made sure the sarcasm dripped from his drawl.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said with dripping sarcasm, as well. Carley started for the back door but then stopped, turned and faced him. “If you’re looking for your brother, Zane’s not here.”

Oh.

She didn’t know.

He figured this was about to get real messy.

“Zane’s tied up with the grand jury,” she added. “Probably won’t be back for days. Maybe even weeks.”

Sloan didn’t think it was his imagination that Carley seemed smug and pleased about that. She no doubt thought that meant there’d be no Texas Rangers around to interfere with her investigation.

He caught onto her arm to prevent her smug exit. “The mayor and the D.A. don’t think you’re a hundred percent.”

She blinked and took her hands from her pockets. “Excuse me?”

“Neither does Zane. By all rights, you should be in your apartment, recovering.”

Carley threw off his grip. “Is this leading somewhere or are you trying to undermine my authority? Because you’re no longer sheriff of Justice.” She hitched a thumb to her chest. “I am.”

Sloan searched for the correct way to say this and decided there wasn’t one. The only thing he could do was lay it all there, even though he was dead certain it would cause the argument to escalate.

“It’s leading somewhere,” Sloan told her. “Since Zane is busy with the grand jury, someone needs to take over the investigation.”

That got her hands back on her hips. “That’s why I’m here at work, so I can do just that.”

“You’re on the case, Carley.” This was about to get even messier. “But only to assist.”

She shook her head, opened her mouth, closed it and shook her head again. Her confusion and denial morphed into anger. “Assist whom?”

Sloan braced himself for the inevitable fallout. “Me. I’m in charge of the case now. For the remainder of this investigation, I’m your boss.”

Chapter Two

Carley figured it was physically impossible, but she thought her blood might be boiling. She certainly felt something fiery-hot racing through every inch of her body.

“My boss?” she repeated. Not easily. She nearly choked on the words.

Sloan nodded. “Zane is leader of the task force for this murder investigation.”

He didn’t need to add more to that. Carley quickly got the picture, and it wasn’t a picture she liked very much at all. It’d been Zane’s call as to whom to put in charge and he’d chosen Sloan.

Not her.

To an outsider, Zane’s decision would seem like nepotism or even cronyism, but Carley knew for a fact that Zane and Sloan were brothers in name only. They hadn’t been real siblings since their father’s arrest sixteen years ago. That arrest had parted them like Moses had the Red Sea, with Zane refusing to get involved in anything but his own sterling career. Sloan, on the other hand, had involved himself to the hilt so he could convince everyone, including his brother, that their father was innocent.

“Zane must really be desperate to ask you for help,” she mumbled.

Sloan stood there in his crisp Ranger outfit: a white western-cut shirt, jeans, hip holster, snakeskin boots and his shiny silver-peso badge. He was studying her and probably trying to interpret her reaction. Carley didn’t have to interpret her reaction to him. She didn’t want him back in Justice and she didn’t want him meddling in her investigation.

Why Sloan McKinney of all people?

Their history wasn’t pleasant—and it wasn’t all limited to her testimony against his father. Seven years ago, he’d beaten her out for the deputy’s job. That still stung, even now. Carley had wanted that job more than she’d wanted her next breath. And why? Because it was a stepping stone to the next rung in her career ladder: being the top honcho—sheriff.

Something that Sloan had accomplished in record time by becoming the youngest one in the entire county.

He hadn’t changed in the handful of years since Carley had last seen him. The same short and efficiently cut dark brown hair. The same sizzling blue eyes.

Bedroom eyes, the girls had called them.

He still had that athletic physique on that six-foot-three-inch body of muscles and, well, good looks. That was his problem, she decided. Sloan McKinney had always been too sexy for his own good. It had opened doors for him. Plenty of them.

“I know you’re upset,” he commented. “But Zane thought that folks around here would be more likely to talk to me than him. Or you.”

Sloan had probably used that leisurely Texas drawl to soothe her, the way he used to soothe horses on his granddaddy’s ranch.

It. Did. Not. Calm. Her.

“Zane and you think folks are more likely to talk to you because you used to be sheriff,” she clarified through clenched teeth.

Sloan gave her a yep-that-about-sums-it-up nod. “And there’s that whole part about Zane knowing that you weren’t medically ready to resume your duties. This is a double murder investigation, Carley. A cold case—and a red-hot one. He needs someone who’s a hundred percent and he’s not convinced that you are.”

She would have argued if at that exact moment the pain hadn’t pinched at her side. Mercy. When was her body going to heal? It’d been nearly a week. She couldn’t take any more time off. Look what these seven days had done. She was no longer in charge of her own investigation.

Sloan was.

Fate was having a really good belly laugh about that. Sloan, her boss. Her working for him.

Because that was practically an unbearable thought and because her blasted side wouldn’t quit pinching, Carley went inside so she could sit down. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to do that right away. Sloan had those bedroom-blue eagle eyes nailed to her. He was observing her every move—and that wasn’t good, because she wasn’t moving so well.

Carley casually strolled inside, plucked the surveillance disk from the machine and tried to be equally casual by continuing to stroll into her office.

“You’re in pain,” Sloan remarked.

She ignored him and eased into the chair behind her desk. “I suppose Zane has already briefed you about the case that you’re now officially in charge of?”

He looked ready to call her on her evasive response, but Sloan finally just lifted his hands, palms up. A gesture of surrender.

Carley hoped there’d be more of those before this conversation was over.

“Zane briefed me, of course,” Sloan verified. “But I’d like to hear what you have to say about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t, but you’re trying to placate me because you know I’m mad enough to want to hit you with this surveillance disk.”

Carley took out her anger on the disk. With far more force than required, she shoved it into the player.

“Zane didn’t tell me about the surveillance camera being vandalized. Or even that it’d been installed,” Sloan explained. “He also didn’t tell me that you were back at your office, trying to work.” His voice was calm enough, but she could see the little embers simmering in his eyes. They weren’t so bedroomy now. “He might have missed something else that I need to know.”

It was immature, but she huffed.

Sloan huffed, too. Then he dragged a scarred wooden chair from the corner, deposited it in front of her desk and sat down. “Get past your hatred for me. I’ll get past what I feel for you. And for the next few minutes remember that you’re the sheriff, I’m your temporary boss and that you’re giving me a situation report to bring me up to speed on this investigation.”

Carley wanted to hang on to her anger and stew in it a little longer, but, by God, he was right. A situation report to a new officer on the scene was standard procedure, and though she didn’t like it, she would not violate procedure because of the likes of Sloan McKinney.

She took a moment to gather her thoughts and so she could come up with the most condensed version of facts. The less face time with Sloan, the better.

“Okay. You win. Here’s the situation report. As you know, sixteen years ago Lou Ann Wallace-Hendricks was murdered. She was strangled with her own designer-brand purse strap. At the time, she was married to one of our present suspects, Leland Hendricks.”

And her briefing came to a halt. Because what she had to say next would only stir up even more bad memories.

“I’ll finish this part,” Sloan volunteered. “We also know that Lou Ann and my father, Jim McKinney, were having an affair. The night Lou Ann was killed, you claim to have seen my father in the general vicinity of her room at the Matheson Inn. That led to his arrest.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “And the case against him was dismissed.”