A killer has struck again in this small Texas town

this time at Christmas...

For fourteen years, Dalton Butler has believed his high school sweetheart’s death was murder, not suicide. So when another young girl is killed in the same manner, the handsome rancher partners with beautiful and determined detective Leanne West. Together, they work to expose the predator in their midst. Then their investigation takes an even nastier turn. Can they bring this killer to justice before Christmas is ruined—for good?

USA TODAY bestselling author BARB HAN lives in north Texas with her very own hero-worthy husband, three beautiful children, a spunky golden retriever/standard poodle mix and too many books in her to-read pile. In her downtime, she plays video games and spends much of her time on or around a basketball court. She loves interacting with readers and is grateful for their support. You can reach her at barbhan.com.

Also by Barb Han

Sudden Setup

Endangered Heiress

Texas Grit

Kidnapped at Christmas

Stockyard Snatching

Delivering Justice

One Tough Texan

Texas-Sized Trouble

Texas Witness

Texas Showdown

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Murder and Mistletoe

Barb Han

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07946-4

MURDER AND MISTLETOE

© 2018 Barb Han

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To my editor, Allison Lyons, for being my dream editor

for twenty books now (wow!). Thank you!

To Brandon, Jacob and Tori for being my greatest loves,

inspiration and encouragement.

To Babe, my hero, for being the great love of my life.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The normally pitch-black night was lit up with swirling red-and-white bursts. At half past midnight, the normally empty gravel lot teemed with law enforcement and emergency personnel. Dalton Butler’s heart fisted as he approached the scene in his sport utility, thinking how much of a contrast the activity was to the normally sleepy town of Cattle Barge. An ominous feeling settled over him. This was the spot where his high school girlfriend’s life had ended on a cold winter night fourteen years ago.

As Dalton drove toward the scene, the air thinned and his chest squeezed. A rope hanging from the same tree came into view. Emotions he’d long ago buried stirred, as the unsettled feeling of history repeating itself enveloped him. A shot of anger surfaced and then exploded with rage inside his chest. He white-knuckled the steering wheel as he navigated onto the side of the lot, watching the flurry of activity in disbelief. Why this spot? Why this night?

He parked, lowered his gray Stetson on his forehead and turned up the collar of his denim jacket to brace against the bitter temperatures. A cold front had blown in during the last hour, welcoming the month of December with a blast of frigid temperatures and freezing rain.

Dalton blocked out the image of a young life hanging from that rope as he shouldered his door open against the blazing winds. A gust blew his hat off before he could react. He retrieved it and held it in his hands. The entire scene unfolding before him tipped him off balance as memories crashed down around him like an angry wave tackling a surfer, holding him under and twisting his body around until he didn’t know up from down anymore.

A foreboding feeling settled around his shoulders, his arms, tightening its grip until his ribs felt like they might crack. Not even a sharp intake of air eased the pressure. Fourteen years was a long time to hold on to the burden of guilt that he could’ve saved her if he’d shown up to this spot.

The sheriff stood inside the temporary barricade that had been set up around the perimeter of the tree, a somber expression on his face. Sheriff Sawmill’s shoulders were drawn forward as he listened to one of his deputies. Cattle Barge had been overrun with news crews since the end of summer when Dalton’s father—the wealthiest man in the county—was murdered on the successful cattle ranch he’d built from scratch. Maverick Mike Butler’s rise to riches was legendary. He’d won his first cattle ranch in a gambling match, lost his first wife to alcohol and his bad luck ended there. In death as it was in life, the man always seemed to have another card up his sleeve.

“Sir, you can’t be here,” Deputy Granger said, extending his arms to block Dalton.

“I need to speak to the sheriff.” He had every intention of walking past the man, and there wasn’t anything Granger could do to stop him short of arresting him.

Granger seemed to know it, too. He called for Sawmill but kept his arms outstretched.

The sheriff glanced over and did a double take. Stress shrouded him as he made a beeline toward Dalton, stopping behind Granger’s arms.

“I appreciate what you’re going through and how personal this may seem, but I can’t let you walk onto my crime scene and destroy evidence.” The middle-aged man looked like he hadn’t slept in months. His eyes had the white outline of sunglasses on tanned, wrinkled skin. Hard brackets bordered his mouth and deep grooves lined his forehead. The tight grip he had on his coffee mug outlined the man’s stress level. He was on high alert and had been since Maverick Mike’s murder, a high-profile case he had yet to solve.

“Tell me what happened.” Dalton needed to know everything.

“We haven’t established cause of death.”

Most of his family might get along with the sheriff now but Dalton would never forget the way he’d been treated after Alexandria Miller’s death. He’d barely been seventeen when he’d been picked up in the middle of the night and hauled to the sheriff’s office. Sawmill had spent the next twenty-two hours interrogating Dalton, suspecting him of murder and treating him like a criminal.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you found her hanging from that tree.” Dalton bit back the frustration that was still so ready, so available. He’d go through it all again willingly if Alexandria’s murderer would be brought to justice. If her family could have answers. If there could be closure.

Sawmill tilted his head. “Doesn’t mean it was the cause of death, and I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian and you know it.”

“Who is she?” Dalton asked anyway.

“I didn’t say the victim is a woman.” The sheriff was trying to sell the idea that this had no connection to the past. Without proof, Dalton wasn’t buying it.

“No. You didn’t. She’s a girl, not a woman.” Déjà vu struck as Dalton glanced at his watch. At around the same time fourteen years ago, Alexandria was being cut down from that exact tree.

“Out of respect for you and your family, for what you’re going through, I won’t threaten to arrest you, Dalton. But make no mistake that you’re interfering with an ongoing investigation and I can’t allow that, either,” the sheriff warned.

Again, Dalton noticed the sheriff’s word choice. He didn’t mention murder.

“Another suicide in that tree fourteen years to the day and around the same time?” Dalton folded his arms and planted his boots in the unforgiving earth. “What are the odds?”

“They’re high, actually.” The sheriff blew out a sharp breath and threw his hands up. “All these reporters drudging up the past, digging into everyone’s personal lives. Every story they run increases the odds of a copycat from some crime in the past.” There hadn’t been many criminal acts in Cattle Barge leading up to this past summer. “There’s no respect for the families involved. The people who suffered through losing a loved one and now are being forced to relive the pain as news is being blasted across the internet. They deserve peace, not this.”

“There can be no peace without justice. I think we both know that,” Dalton shot back. From his peripheral, he saw a woman stalking toward them, so he turned to look. Her face was set with determination, her gaze intent on the sheriff. She had on dark jeans and a blazer. She was tall and beautiful with chestnut wavy hair loosely pulled back in a ponytail that swished back and forth as she walked. An inappropriate stir of attraction struck. Dalton shoved it to the back burner. Charging toward them, she took the kind of breath meant to steel nerves. She clutched something tightly in her left hand as her right fisted and released a couple of times. She was young, early thirties if Dalton had to guess. As she neared, he could see concern lines ridging her forehead.

The sheriff followed Dalton’s gaze, which admittedly had been held a few seconds too long toward the object of his attention.

Sheriff Sawmill immediately spun around to address the stalking female, who was only a couple of feet away from them by now. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is a restricted area. Only law enforcement personnel are allowed beyond—”

The woman cut him off by holding up the item clenched in her left fist, a badge.

“My name’s Detective Leanne West. Tell me exactly what went down here, Sheriff,” she demanded, with an intensity that made Dalton believe her interest in this case extended beyond official duty. She wore a white button-down oxford shirt under the blue blazer and low heels, which also told him that she wasn’t from around these parts. The butt of a gun peeked out from her shoulder holster. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a SIG Sauer. His first thought would’ve been FBI if she hadn’t already identified herself.

“I’ll have my secretary issue a full report to your supervising officer when we’ve concluded our investigation.” Sheriff Sawmill crossed his arms and dug his heels in the hard dirt.

“My SO? Why not tell me? I’m standing here in front of you—he’s not.” Her determined voice had a musical quality to it that reached inside Dalton. This wasn’t the time to get inside his head about why. He wanted information as badly as she did and, at least for now, nothing was more important. If he had a chance to put his demons to rest and give peace to the Miller family, there were no walls too high to climb.

She was getting further with Sawmill than he had been, so, if necessary, he would be her shadow from now on.

With the sheriff’s back to Dalton as he was being distracted by the detective, Dalton turned toward the hanging rope and palmed his phone. He angled his cell toward the rope as anger stirred in his gut, remembering the specific knot used in Alexandria’s hanging, The trucker’s knot. Alexandria would have had no idea what that knot was. She hadn’t had a brother or male cousin who she spent time with and she wore more skirts than jeans. Furthermore, every Boy Scout knew that the whole conglomeration could be untied with only four pulls in the right places, meaning she could’ve freed herself at any time if she’d known. And anyone who knew how to use the knot would know how it worked.

With a quick swipe across the screen, Dalton blew up the focal point, zeroed in on the spot and snapped a pic. The knot could tell him a lot about whether these two crimes were related. All his warning flares were firing, but he couldn’t ignore the sheriff’s argument. A lot of time had passed. News stories had been drudging up the past. There was a possibility that this incident wasn’t related, other than someone being a copycat or inspiring a young person to imitate what she thought was a suicide in the same spot.

“Because I’m not ready to risk details of this case leaving this lot and being broadcast across the state.” Sawmill’s normally steady-as-steel tone was laced with frustration. “In case you haven’t noticed, this town has had its fair share of exploitation for the sake of ratings in the past three months.”

“I can assure you that won’t happen.” The detective’s shoulders straightened and her chest puffed out a little at the suggestion she’d bring in the media. The words had the sharp edge of a professional jab.

Sawmill tipped his head to one side. “Forgive my being blunt, but so can I.”

* * *

LEANNE WOULD’VE HANDCUFFED the good-looking cowboy for taking a picture of the hangman’s rope herself if the sheriff was cooperating. Since he wasn’t and she figured the two were in the same boat with Sawmill, she’d let it slide and figure out a way to find out what he was so interested in.

The cowboy was hard to miss at six-four and he was using her as a distraction, which had her mind spinning with even more questions. Did the man, who was professional-athlete tall with a muscular build and grace to back it up, know Clara? His hair was a light brown with blond mixed in and his eyes were a serious blue. Under different circumstances, she’d have enjoyed the view. But her niece had been taken down from that tree...

Leanne’s heart nearly burst thinking about it. As difficult as it was, she had to keep her emotions in check and focused. Keeping a tight grip on her sentiments was proving more difficult than expected, and she’d put the sheriff on the defensive already because she wasn’t restraining those very feelings.

For the sake of finding Clara’s killer, she would do almost anything and that included swallowing her pride. The last thing she wanted to do was cut off her best source of information.

She softened her approach. “I apologize for getting off on the wrong foot, Sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, this case needs my full attention.”

Sheriff Clarence Sawmill was much older than Leanne and he had more experience. She was a solid detective, but her emotions were getting in the way and she was blowing it big-time. The sheriff was already on high alert and, from the looks of him, had been since his town had gone crazy following the news of Maverick Mike Butler’s death. Leanne had read about the famous murder that was still an open investigation and she worried that her niece’s case would get swept under the rug.

“In the spirit of cooperation, I’d like to offer my assistance,” Leanne said, hoping the softer tact would sway him. She didn’t care how she managed to get the sheriff’s agreement. Only that she got it.

“Again, with all due respect, we have this covered.” His tone was final as he walked her toward the temporary barricade that had been set up to cordon off the scene. He seemed to realize the cowboy wasn’t following when he stopped and turned. “Dalton.”

The cowboy seemed to be taking full advantage of the sheriff’s split attention. She needed to figure out his interest in the case.

“I’m coming, Sheriff,” he said, jogging to catch up.

Since Leanne never seemed to learn her lesson about fighting a losing battle—and face it, this battle was lost—she spun around to try yet another approach. It was the equivalent of trying to grasp a slippery rope while tumbling down a mountain, but she’d do anything to find out what had really happened. “I can call my SO and have more resources here than you’ll know what to do with. Surely, you wouldn’t want to—”

“I doubt the city of Dallas will throw personnel at a teen suicide investigation in my small town.” The sheriff’s brow creased.

“Is that how you’re classifying it?” Leanne balked. “What makes you so sure it’s not murder?”

“For one. There were no other footprints leading up to the ladder against the tree.” The sheriff took in a sharp breath as though to stem his words. No doubt, he hadn’t meant to share this much. “I’ll include all the details in my report.”

“How soon will that be available?” she asked, figuring she was already overstepping her bounds. Might as well go all in at this point.

“You’ll be one of the first to know.” The sheriff signaled for one of his deputies to escort her and the cowboy, Dalton, the last few steps to the barricade.

A cruiser parked and the passenger side door opened. Leanne started to make a beeline toward the vehicle because she had a sinking feeling her sister would be the one stepping out. She wasn’t ready to reveal her relationship with the victim but that was about to be done for her.

“Excuse me.” The sheriff grabbed her arm to stop her.

Leanne muttered a curse, wishing she could shield Bethany.

“I’m afraid you’re done here,” the sheriff warned.

“Not anymore.”

“This is my county and my business.” The sheriff’s voice fired a warning shot.

“That may be true, Sheriff. But that’s my sister, and I have every intention of staying by her side through this,” Leanne ground out. Technically, Bethany was Leanne’s half sister. “So I’m not going anywhere until I know she’s all right.”

Bethany had been fragile before and Leanne was worried the situation was about to get a whole lot worse.

“The victim was your niece?” It was the sheriff’s turn to balk.

Leanne nodded.

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Would you have allowed me to stay? To have access to your investigation?” she shot back.

The sheriff hung his head in response, and she was certain Dalton made a shocked noise. Everyone knew the answer to that question, and she’d been forced to tip her hand before she was ready.

Dalton turned and then made a move toward the barricade. She couldn’t let him disappear without finding out what he’d captured on his phone.

She touched his arm and fireworks scorched her fingers.

Ignoring the heat pulsing between them, she said, “Please, stay.”

“What happened to my baby?” Bethany’s legs folded and a deputy caught her as she slumped against the cruiser. Leanne bolted toward her sister as her stomach braided.

Even with the best of intentions, Bethany would only hurt Clara’s case.

Chapter Two

“Please, sit down,” Sheriff Sawmill instructed, pointing to one of two small-scale leather chairs opposite his mahogany desk. He glanced toward Dalton, who was helping Bethany walk. “I thought I made my position clear at the scene, Dalton.”

“My presence was requested, Sheriff,” he responded. When she’d almost fainted a second time, he’d been there to scoop her head up before it pounded gravel.

“I asked him here, sir,” the detective interjected. “I’ll be sticking around the area for a few days and my sister is in no condition to offer assistance. I needed someone local to the area to give advice on the best place to eat and stay.”

“My office would be more than happy to make recommendations.” Sawmill stared at Dalton a few seconds too long before blowing out a breath and focusing on the victim’s mother.

To Dalton’s thinking, Bethany Schmidt didn’t look anything like her sister. Her shoulder-length hair was stringy and mousy-brown. Her red-rimmed eyes were a darker shade, a contrast to the honey-colored hue of the detective’s. Bethany’s sallow cheeks and willowy frame made her look fragile. She carried herself with her shoulders slumped forward and the bags under her eyes outlined the fact that she’d been worried long before today. Grief shrouded her, which he understood given the circumstances, and this much grief could change a person’s physical appearance. He’d seen that almost instantly with Alexandria’s parents.

His heart went out to her, knowing full well how difficult it was to lose someone and yet how much worse it must be when it was her child. Bethany had seemed too distraught to say a whole lot on the ride over, so he’d offered her a sympathetic shoulder.

The detective from Dallas hadn’t said much on the ride over, either, and Dalton figured she didn’t want to upset her sister by talking about the case. Besides, he could almost see the pins firing in her brain, as she must’ve been cycling through every possible scenario. He’d watched from his back seat view.

Alexandria’s mother had pushed him away and it felt right to be able to offer comfort to someone who was living out what had to be their worst version of hell.

“First of all, I’m deeply sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Sheriff Sawmill began. He sat down and clasped his hands, placing them on top of his massive desk, which was covered in files. An executive chair was tucked into the opposite side. The sheriff’s office was large, simple. There were two flags on poles standing sentinel, flanking the governor’s picture. In the adjacent space, a sofa and table upon which stood a statue of a bull rider atop a bronze bull that had been commissioned by Dalton’s father. Maverick Mike had been a generous man and had given Sawmill the gift after he’d gone above and beyond the call of duty in order to stop a gang of poachers. The heroics had cost Sawmill a bullet in the shoulder.

There was a half-empty packet of Zantac next to a stack of files. Dalton had been inside this room too often for his taste in the past few months. Activity down the hall had slowed since the last time he had been here. The temporary room set up for volunteers to take calls about leads in the Mav’s case was still in the conference room at the mouth of the hallway, but there were fewer phone calls now and leads had all but dried up.

Bethany sniffled, clutching a bundle of tissues in a white-knuckle grip.

Dalton kept to the back of the room, near the door.

“I apologize again for asking you to give a statement so soon. Anything you can tell us might help close the investigation.” Dalton noticed that Sawmill didn’t mention the word murder. Was he being careful not to set false expectations that he would treat this as anything other than a suicide?

The detective noticed it, too. She sat up a little straighter and her shoulders tensed. Her gaze was locked on Sawmill like she was a student studying for final exams.

“I’ll help in any way I can.” Bethany’s weak voice barely carried through the room in between sobs. Helping her walk into the coroner’s office to verify what they’d already known at the scene had been right up there with attending Alexandria’s funeral. Too many memories crashed down on Dalton. Memories he’d suppressed for fourteen years. Memories he had every intention of stuffing down deep before they brought him to his knees. His anger wouldn’t help find answers. Finding the truth was all that mattered now.

“Can you confirm the deceased’s name is Clara Robinson?” His voice remained steady.

“Yes.” It seemed to take great effort to get the word out.

“I identified the body at the scene, Sheriff,” Leanne interjected and the tension in Sawmill’s face heightened. It was just a flash before he recovered, but Dalton knew it meant he’d never cooperate willingly with the Dallas detective. That also made her of no use to Dalton.

“And your full name is?” Sawmill continued.

“Bethany Ann Schmidt,” she supplied before looking up.

“Okay. Mrs. Schmidt, can you describe your relationship with your daughter?” the sheriff continued.

“It was all right. I guess. I mean, she’s...was...a teenager. We talked as much as any mother and her seventeen-year-old can.” Bethany shrugged as if anything other than a complicated relationship would require skills no one could possibly have.

Dalton couldn’t speak on authority but he picked up on the tension between the detective and her sister.

“How were the two of you getting along lately?” Sawmill leaned forward.

“Okay, I guess,” she responded with another shrug.

“Had you been in any disagreements recently?” he asked. Dalton couldn’t help but remember a very different line of questioning when he was in the interview room with the sheriff. Another shot of anger burst through his chest, and he had to take a slow deep breath to try to counter the damage. The sheriff had spent too much time focused on the wrong person back then and because of it, Alexandria’s killer still walked the streets. He’d wondered if the man had ended up in jail for another crime or died, considering how quiet life had become until recently in Cattle Barge. If he’d been in jail, the timing of another similar murder could be explained by a release.

“No. Not us. Nothing lately. I mean, we argued over her helping out more around the house yesterday. Her little brother is a handful and she barely lifts a finger,” Bethany said on an exacerbated sigh.

Again, Leanne stiffened but this time it happened when her sister mentioned the boy.

“How old is her brother?” Sawmill continued.

“Hampton will be four years old in two weeks,” Bethany supplied before taking a few gulps of air and then picking back up on the conversation thread. “And we didn’t have a knock-down-drag-out or anything. It was more like me reminding her to help pick up toys and her rolling her eyes for the hundredth time. I swear that girl communicated more with her eyes than her mouth.”

The sheriff nodded like he understood and then waited for her to go on, hands clasped on his desk.

“We got along okay other than that,” Bethany said through sniffles.

Based on Leanne’s reaction so far, she didn’t agree. Questions rolled around in Dalton’s mind. Was Bethany telling the truth about her relationship with her daughter? Why was Leanne so tense? Was she expecting her sister to drop a bomb at any minute? Or was it fear? Was she afraid that her sister would say something wrong?

Leanne had secrets. Dalton intended to find out what they were, because if he could uncover any connection between this and Alexandria’s murder he might be able to bring peace to her family. Only this time, he wouldn’t involve the sheriff. Sawmill had let Dalton down all those years ago, still was with his father’s murder investigation, and he didn’t trust the man to do his job.

“How did the two siblings respond to each other?” Sawmill asked.

“About the same as any, I guess.” Bethany shrugged again. There was a note of hopelessness in her voice. “Hampton gets into her stuff and she goes crazy. My Clara is—” she shot a glance toward the sheriff “—was particular about all her belongings being right where she left them. She didn’t like anyone getting into her stuff and that caused a lot of friction in the house.”

“Between you and her?” the sheriff asked.

“No. I expected it to some degree. She was used to being the only child for most of her life and then suddenly she was not. She had all my attention before I met Gary.” She flashed her eyes at the sheriff. “My husband. She had a hard time with me being in a relationship and then Hampton came along quicker than we expected.” Bethany blew her nose and then took in a deep breath. “So, we decided to get married. Clara and me weren’t as close after that. I chalked it up to hormones. She was a normal teenager and she was thirteen when Gary and me tied the knot.”

Leanne shifted in her seat as though she couldn’t get comfortable. Her movements were subtle. If Dalton hadn’t been watching, he might’ve missed them. What was she holding back? Something was making her uncomfortable and she seemed a skilled-enough investigator to know to cover her physical reaction as best she could.

“How did your husband get along with your daughter?” Sawmill picked up a packet of Zantac.

“Clara didn’t like him much.” Bethany shrank a little more into her seat, a helpless look wrinkling her forehead. “Like I said, I spoiled her with my attention before we met.”

Leanne’s fingernails might leave marks in that chair if she gripped it any tighter.

“Those two were fire and gasoline from the get-go,” Bethany added.

“Which wasn’t Clara’s fault,” Leanne interjected hotly. “Gary yelled at Clara all the time and for no good reason.”

* * *

LEANNE FUMED. SHE shouldn’t have confirmed that Gary and Clara didn’t get along. Watching her half sister, whom she loved but would never understand, defend Gary over her own daughter lit the wick that caused an explosion she couldn’t contain.

The sheriff’s brow arched. He was looking for evidence that this was a suicide and Leanne might’ve just handed it to him with her outburst. She bit back a curse, wishing she’d inherited more of her mother’s ability to stay calm in a crisis. In times like these, she missed her even more than usual.

Leanne could feel the cowboy’s eyes on her, and there came a flitter of attraction that was out of line. Leanne had no plans to let him out of her sight until she knew what he’d captured with his phone, magnetism or not.

“The reason Clara didn’t get along with Gary is that he treated her more like a servant than a daughter,” Leanne said as calmly as she could. Someone had to stand up for the girl.

“That’s not true.” Indignant shoulders raised on Bethany like shackles on a scared or angry animal.

“A seventeen-year-old girl shouldn’t have more responsibilities around the house than her mother.” There. Leanne had said it. The truth was out.

Bethany gasped in what sounded like complete horror and guilt knifed Leanne. She didn’t want to upset her half sister, but Clara wasn’t around any longer to defend herself. Besides, the sheriff was getting the wrong picture. Clara wasn’t a mixed-up hormonal teenager who fought with her stepfather and then killed herself.

“Is that the real reason you came to pick her up?” Bethany blurted out.

More of the truth was about to come out, so Leanne may as well come clean. She turned her attention to the sheriff, ignoring the glare her sister was giving her. Another pang of guilt hit. Leanne didn’t want to cause her sister any more pain and losing a daughter was up there with the worst anyone could experience. But. And it was a big but. She wouldn’t allow her niece’s murder to be classified as a suicide when it wasn’t.

Or to let a killer walk around scot-free.

Nothing would ever be gained from skirting what had really happened, and a small part of Leanne couldn’t help but wonder if Bethany was somehow relieved that Clara was out of the way. Not necessarily that her daughter was gone, but that she wouldn’t have to fight with Gary anymore over doing the right thing for Clara.

“I came down here to pick my niece up so she could live with me,” Leanne explained.

“What do you mean live? I thought she was just going to stay with you a couple of weeks until I could smooth things over with Gary during Christmas break. Give the two of them some breathing room.” The hurt in Bethany’s tone wounded Leanne.

She turned to her sister. “I’m sorry you have to find out like this. But I know for a fact that Clara wouldn’t have done this to herself, and if we aren’t honest with the sheriff, none of us will ever know the truth about what happened.”

“What good would that do now?” Bethany shot back with the most fire Leanne had ever seen in her sister’s eyes. At least there was some spark there when all too often her sister looked dead since marrying Gary. “It won’t bring her back.” Her voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch. “Who cares why she’s gone. She’s gone.”

Bethany slumped forward in her seat and Leanne reached over to comfort her. Her sister drew away from her as though she was a rattlesnake ready to strike.

The sheriff’s gaze narrowed in on her. He didn’t seem to like the fact that Leanne had been withholding information. She’d been on the other side of that desk and could appreciate his position. She couldn’t, however, allow this farce to go on. Clara had been murdered.

“What really happened, Detective West?” The sheriff’s dark tone said he wasn’t impressed.

“She and Gary, her stepfather, had had a huge argument and Clara couldn’t take living with them anymore.” It dawned on Leanne that Bethany might not want that information getting out because it wouldn’t cast Gary in the best light. Leanne further knew that he’d just topped the suspect list. So be it. If that man was involved in any way, she’d...

Bethany bristled and Leanne shot her half sister an apologetic look.

“She said you needed help with Mila,” Bethany countered, talking about Leanne’s six-month-old daughter.

Leanne hated the deception, but her back had been against the wall and Clara had sounded desperate. Leanne had planned to sit Clara down and explain all the reasons the two of them needed to tell Bethany the truth.

“I know she did.” Leanne turned to her half sister and her shoulders softened. “I’m sorry we lied to you, but Clara insisted you’d never let her come otherwise and she was desperate to get out of the house.”

“So that made it okay to deceive me?” More hurt spilled out of Bethany.

“I’m sorry for that. But I also know that my niece wouldn’t end her own life. She has a boyfriend she cares about and only one year left at home. Something happened, and if we don’t impress the sheriff with that knowledge, her killer will go free,” Leanne implored.

“What’s her boyfriend’s name?” Sawmill asked.

“Christian Woods.” Leanne turned to her sister.

Deep grooves lined Bethany’s forehead and dark circles cradled her eyes. Leanne could see that she was getting through, and she prayed the woman would do the right thing by her daughter in death even if she hadn’t in life.

Then it seemed to dawn on her that Gary could be investigated when her pupils dilated and her lips thinned.

“How do you know she didn’t feel guilty for lying to her mother? Or maybe she and her boyfriend had a fight? Kids do all kinds of crazy things in the name of love,” Bethany countered. She perched on the edge of her chair as she focused on Sawmill. “My daughter was mentally unstable. She said that kids were bullying her at the new school. She didn’t fit in. I can’t remember how many times she threatened to harm herself. I didn’t take any of it seriously at the time, figuring she was just blowing off steam. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Can you provide a list of names?” Sawmill took notes. Leanne saw that as the first positive sign. “How long ago did you move to Cattle Barge?”

“We’ve been here around seven months. Gary thought it would be best to move the family before the end of the last school year, so Clara could make friends before summer.” The fear in Bethany’s voice gave Leanne pause.

Was she afraid of Gary being investigated? Afraid of the possibility of bringing up another child alone? Or, looking closer, just plain afraid of Gary?

Leanne scanned her half sister’s arms for bruises. She had on sweatpants and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up. Bethany had had problems with substance abuse when she was younger. Leanne learned after locating her half sister that Bethany had been in and out of rehab twice during high school. Then she’d had Clara instead of her senior year and, by all accounts, turned her life around. Without a high school diploma or job skills to fall back on, it had been a tough life. She’d worked hourly wage jobs. Bethany had struggled to make ends meet until she’d met Gary five years ago. An almost immediate pregnancy was quickly followed by marriage performed at city hall. Gary had driven a wedge between Bethany and Leanne.

According to Clara, the man was an iceberg when it came to emotion. Leanne wondered how well her sister really knew her husband.

“I apologize for the questions,” Sawmill said. “Can you tell me more about your husband and daughter’s recent fight?”

“Yes, it happened the other day, but Gary was only reacting to Clara’s moodiness,” Bethany admitted. It galled Leanne that her half sister would defend his actions. She neglected to mention the times Gary had forced Clara to get up off the couch for no good reason, saying that she had to ask permission before she sat down. Or when he’d made her kneel for hours on end because she’d worn what he considered too short of a skirt. Gary’s father had been an evangelist. Gary used the same punishments he’d received as a child on Clara.

Clara was a normal teenage girl who wanted a little freedom.

“What about alcohol or drugs?” the sheriff asked and it was Leanne’s turn to bristle. She already knew the answer to that question.

“I found an empty bottle of beer in her room last weekend,” Bethany answered truthfully.

“What did Mr. Schmidt think about that?” Sawmill asked, and Leanne could tell by his line of questioning that he wasn’t taking her murder claim seriously.

“He never knew. I hid it because Clara begged me to,” Bethany said.

“What would’ve happened if he’d known?” Sawmill continued.

Bethany blew out a breath. “Another fight.”

“He’d been threatening to send Clara to a super strict all-girls school,” Leanne interjected. “And that beer belonged to Renee, not Clara.”

Renee was the daughter of one of Gary’s friends. Clara didn’t care for the girl but couldn’t turn her back on her because Gary would shame her.

Bethany turned sideways to look at Leanne. The woman shot a look that could’ve melted ice during an Alaskan winter.

“And you believed her?” Bethany asked.

Chapter Three

“Of course, I did. Clara never lied to me,” Leanne responded with a little more heat than she’d intended. So much for keeping things cool in front of the sheriff.

Bethany made a harrumph sound and pushed to her feet. “I’d like to speak with the sheriff alone.”

Leanne started to protest but the sheriff cut her off.

“There’s coffee at the end of the hall and everything said here will go into my report,” he said, motioning toward the door.

It was his witness, his investigation. With no other viable choice, Leanne stood and walked out the door. She’d been too harsh with her fragile half sister and this was going to be the price. Everything had balance, a yin and yang, she thought, except for her personal life, which had been turned upside down since having a baby six months ago. She wouldn’t change a thing about her life with her baby girl, except maybe more sleep. Definitely more sleep. And if she could turn back time, she would make sure that Mila’s father wouldn’t have died on her watch.

Dalton followed her out the door and she could feel his strong presence behind her.

“Coffee’s this way,” his low rumble of a voice said, and the sound penetrated a place deep down, stirring emotions she had no desire to acknowledge as existing anymore. Her traitorous body wanted to gravitate toward the feeling and bask in it. A little reality and a strong cup of coffee was all she needed to quash those unproductive thoughts.

She stepped aside, allowing the man with the strong muscled back to lead her down the unfamiliar hallway. He made a left before what she figured was an interview room. She closed up her coat, shivering against the cold temperature in the building.

A dark thought struck that the sheriff might be hauling her sister to the interview room any minute. Bethany had no idea how much her actions were about to impact her life, and a mix of protectiveness and frustration swirled in Leanne’s chest. Bethany might be clueless but she’d had a rough start, had cleaned up her act, and Leanne knew deep down that her sister was trying her best. Was it good enough? Before having Mila, Leanne might’ve judged her sister more harshly. After having a baby, she realized the job wasn’t easy and didn’t come with instructions.

“The coffee here doesn’t taste like much, but it’s strong,” Dalton said, pouring two cups and handing one to her.

She took the offering, wondering why he knew so much about the quality of the coffee at the sheriff’s office. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage here. You already know my name and more about my personal life than I share with even my closest friends, but I don’t have the first clue who you are.” The part about having close friends was almost laughable. Happy hours after work and shopping with the girls had never been high on her list of priorities. She’d worked hard to make detective by thirty and there hadn’t been room for much else in her life.

“Dalton Butler. And I’m pleased to meet you.” He switched hands with the mug and offered a handshake.

She took his hand—his was so much larger and rougher than hers—and realized making physical contact had not been a good choice. Electricity exploded through her, bringing to life places she didn’t want awakened. She reasoned that it had been a long time since she’d had sex and her body was reacting to the first hot man she touched, but there was so much more to it, to him, than that.

From the callouses on his skin, she deduced that he must work outside, which in these parts most likely meant on a ranch. His outfit of jeans, boots and a denim jacket had already given the same impression.

“Why does that name sound familiar?” She examined him, his clear blue eyes that seemed to hold so many secrets. She was beginning to hate secrets.

“My father owned a famous ranch in the area,” he conceded as the contents of his mug suddenly became very interesting.

“Maverick Mike Butler of the Hereford Ranch?” That explained why the man seemed to know the layout of the sheriff’s office so well. At first, she’d feared he might have been previously on the wrong side of the interview table, especially with the way he related to the sheriff. Now, she realized he’d been there because of his father’s murder. The fact that the case still wasn’t solved would explain his chilly response to Sawmill.

But what did he want with this investigation?

“What’s on your camera?” she asked, figuring she could ask at another time why the son of a famous rancher—and one of, if not the, richest men in Texas—would have so many callouses on his hands. There were other things she didn’t want to notice about him, like the half-inch scar above his left brow at the point where it arched. And the crystal clearness of his blue eyes.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it out on his palm between them. Leanne stepped closer to get a better look at the screen and that was another mistake because she inhaled his scent, a mix of outdoors and warm spices. A trill of awareness shot through her. She blinked up, trying to reset her body and thought she caught the same reaction from him as his pupils dilated.

Chalking the whole scene up to overwrought emotions, she studied the picture he brought up on his phone.

“Why is this important?” She shot him her best don’t-feed-me-a-line look.

“It’s the type of knot used.” He enlarged the hangman’s rope and her heart squeezed, looking at the device that had killed her niece.

“Which is?”

“The trucker’s knot,” he supplied.

“Why is this significant other than I’m guessing that only a Boy Scout would know how to tie it?” Examining the knot shot pain through her. She had to set aside her personal feelings, block out emotion and focus on finding the jerk who’d done this to Clara. “Justice for Clara” was Leanne’s new marching orders.

“Right. A Boy Scout would know this and that has to be taken into consideration in finding the killer, but the person who did this gave them an out.” His inflection changed and she could sense his relief at talking about this... But relief from what?

“You said killer. How do you know this wasn’t a suicide?” She latched on to the first piece of good news in hours. Hours that felt more like days.

“Was your niece ever a Brownie? Girl Scout?” he asked, ignoring her question.

Leanne shook her head and his lack of surprise made something dawn on her.

She blinked up at him, searching his eyes.

“I know it wasn’t suicide.” His tone was finite and his jaw muscle ticked.

“How can you be so sure?” She wanted to hear those words so badly.

“The knot. One tug in the right place and they could’ve been free,” he supplied.

There was more to the story based on how much he seemed to care. There was something else present behind his eyes, too. Hesitation? Lack of trust? Her investigative experience had taught her when to press and when to back off. This was time for the former.

“Can I ask a question?”

Dalton nodded.

“Why do you care about what happened to my niece?” And then she thought about what else her police training had taught her. Actions were selfish. People were motivated by their own needs and rarely put anyone else’s first. She’d seen it time and time again through her work as a detective in a major city. The only reason he’d care about Clara was if her death was connected to something important to him.

He glanced at her and that one look spoke volumes.

And then she realized that he’d said the word they and not her.

“How many others have there been?”

* * *

DALTON STOOD IN front of the beautiful detective trying to decide how much of his hand he should show. It sounded a little far-fetched even to him that the same murderer would strike fourteen years later. But he knew without a doubt this was the work of one person. And the odds increased when he considered the event had happened on the exact same day at the same spot. “As far as I know, one. But there could be others in different locations.”

Proving his theory was a whole different story, and he also had to contend with the fact that the detective was about to find out that he’d been the prime suspect in his then-girlfriend’s murder.

“How long ago did the first occur?” Her voice was steady, calm. There was so much going on in the detective’s mind that he could almost hear the wheels churning behind those intense honey-brown eyes.

He hesitated before answering, wondering if she’d accuse him of being out of touch like the sheriff had. On balance, she needed to know.

“Fourteen years,” he said, expecting her to end the conversation and try to get back into the office with her sister.

“Other than the knot, what makes you think these two crimes are connected?” She stared at him, and he got the sense she was evaluating his mental capacity.

“Same day and location, same tree and same method,” he stated.

“The knot.” She took a sip of coffee as she seemed to be considering what he’d said. “But fourteen years apart.”

“There could be others that I’m not aware of.” Dalton saw this as the first positive sign that someone other than one of his siblings was listening. Of course, they’d been supportive. The Butler children had always been close. But shortly after the crime, his twin and best friend, Dade, had signed up for the military. His sisters had been busy with college and high school. His father, the Mav, had slapped his son on the back and told him the calves needed to be logged and the pens needed to be cleaned, like his teenaged heart hadn’t just been ripped out of his chest. Guilt ate at him, even today.

Dalton mentally shook off the memory and lack of compassion his father had shown.

“Have you considered the possibility of a copycat?” She had that same look the sheriff had worn so many times when he discredited what Dalton had told him.

“Enjoy your coffee.” He turned to walk away and was stopped by a soft touch on his arm.

“Hey, slow down. I wasn’t saying that I didn’t believe you.”

“Yeah, you did.” Dalton had no plans to go down that road with anyone again.

The detective held up her free hand in surrender. “I’ll admit that I was skeptical, but that’s what makes me good at my job. I don’t take anything at face value. But I’m also good at reading people, and whether there’s a true connection to these cases or not, I can tell you’re not lying. You believe the two are related and I want to hear you out.”

“Tell me everything I should know about your niece,” he said, testing the detective to see how far the information sharing would go. If she trusted him, she’d open up at least a little.

The detective bristled. “She’s in high school.”

Dalton set his mug down, turned and walked out. He had no plans to share his information with someone unwilling to go deep. Telling him a seventeen-year-old was in high school was like saying coffee beans were brown.

The detective was on his heels.

“Hold on a minute. I just said that I know you believe what you’re saying is true and I told you something about her,” she argued.

“I know,” he said out of the side of his mouth. He’d seen the distrust in her eyes. She thought he was as crazy as the sheriff had all those years ago. And since he had no more plays left in present company, he walked outside to where his truck was parked. He’d had one of the ranch hands drop it off since he rode here in the back of a deputy’s SUV. Reporters had started gathering in bigger numbers, no doubt looking for something to report since news—and leads—about the Mav’s murder had gone cold. He shooed them away as he made large strides toward his truck, ignored the detective and shut the door, closing him in the cab alone.

Dalton pulled out of the lot, squealing his tires, although not meaning to. His adrenaline was jacked through the roof at the thought that a murderer—her murderer—was still in Cattle Barge. One of the reasons he’d believed there’d only been one murder in town since was that he thought the killer had moved on. But now?

This guy was shoving the murder in their faces. And he could be anyone. For all Dalton knew, he could be walking right past the bastard every day. Greeting him when the man should be locked behind bars for the safety of other teenage girls.

A question tugged at the corner of his mind. Alexandria’s killer had been quiet for fourteen years. Why strike now?

There had to be a trigger. Dalton intended to figure out what the hell it was and finally put to rest the crime that had haunted him for his entire adult life.

The one spark of hope was that with modern-day forensics, the sheriff would be able to find a fingerprint and nail the jerk. Either way, Dalton had plans to see this through. Tonight was the closest he’d been to Alexandria’s killer, and he could feel it in his bones that these two crimes were related beyond a copycat. He knew for a fact that the use of the trucker’s knot had not been reported in any of the stories. He shouldn’t read them, but how could he help it? He owed Alexandria that much.

Hell, he’d been the one to point out to the sheriff that was what they were dealing with when Sawmill had shown him the picture of the hangman’s rope fourteen years ago. Pointing out the type of knot used had also most likely helped put him on top of the suspect list. At seventeen, he had been naive. He’d believed that he was helping the investigation.

Dalton was no longer a kid. And he didn’t give up so easily.

* * *

HOURS PASSED BEFORE Dalton deemed it safe to revisit the crime scene. The sheriff had said that he wanted it cleaned up as fast as possible before copycats got any more ideas and reporters fed them with notions. His remarks were further evidence that Sawmill was considering this a suicide.

The sun was beginning to rise in the eastern sky, allowing enough light to see clearly since the trees were barren of leaves.

It was the dead of winter, close to Christmas but Dalton wasn’t in a festive mood. There were two killers on the loose, his father’s and a teenage girl’s. Plus, no matter how complicated Dalton’s relationship might’ve been with the Mav, he couldn’t imagine the holiday without his father’s strong physical presence.

A foreboding overcame Dalton every time he came near the spot where Alexandria had died and this morning was no exception.

Between law enforcement and emergency personnel, there were too many footprints leading up to the tree. Dalton took out his phone and started snapping pics of everything. The unforgiving earth leading up to the tree. The oak from every angle. The perimeter of the crime scene.

He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to return and evidence was still fresh even if it had been trampled all over. He had no idea what could be significant, so he figured he’d capture everything and study the photos later.

The tree was mature, coming in at a height of forty-plus feet. It was majestic and had been around for as long as Dalton could remember. He’d seen it more times than he could count going back and forth to town from the ranch as a kid.

This location was between Dalton’s family ranch and Alexandria’s house in town. He could almost still see her silky blond hair flirting with the breeze on a warm summer night. Her nervous smile. The way she tugged at his arm when she wanted him to put it around her. When Sawmill couldn’t prove that Dalton had anything to do with her death, he’d ruled suicide. Did Alexandria have a difficult relationship with her parents? Yes. There was no question about it. That didn’t mean she took her own life.

Tires crunching on gravel caused him to spin around. The detective parked her sedan and exited the vehicle. The sun was to her back, rising, creating a halo effect.

“What are you doing here?” he bit out sharply.

“Looking for you.” There was so much hurt in her voice, even though her set jaw said she was trying to put up a brave front. He knew exactly how difficult it was for her to be there, in this location, facing down that tree.

“How’d you know where to find me?”

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her blazer and shivered against a burst of cold air. Dalton hadn’t really noticed before but his hands were like icy claws. He put them together and blew to warm them.

She shrugged. “This is the first place I would come if I were in your shoes.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he stated. He had no intention of discussing Alexandria with her. Since there was nothing else to say, he stalked toward her because she was in the way of getting to his sport utility.

“Hold on,” she said as he passed her.

He paused as he heard the hum of a car engine on the farm road. The noise was growing louder, which meant the vehicle was moving toward them. It was probably nothing but he didn’t like it. He should’ve heard her approach as well, but he’d been too lost in thought and the winds had blasted, muffling other sounds.

Dalton watched as it turned toward them into the empty lot where all kinds of summer fruit stands had been set up over the years. There was only one time that growers had moved to a different location, because this one had had bouquets of flowers all around the tree’s massive trunk and the ground had seemed sacred.

Or maybe they were afraid. Afraid the place was cursed. Afraid a murderer was still out there, watching, searching for his next victim.

This sedan seemed out of place at this time of morning. There were no signs of law enforcement and that got all of Dalton’s radars flashing on full tilt.

Had news of Clara’s murder leaked? The sheriff had intended to keep details as quiet as possible, but then it seemed like reporters were everywhere since the Mav’s murder and especially since the will would be read on Christmas Eve.

Would the media play to Dalton’s advantage? Surely, reporters would be just as suspicious as he was about two suicides playing out in the same spot and on the same day fourteen years apart.

On the other hand, media coverage this early could work against them. There’d been a reporting frenzy after his father’s murder and the sheer amount of false leads that had been generated as a result had bogged down the sheriff’s office.

Dalton didn’t want to risk the same thing happening to this case.

The detective muttered the same curse he did, seeming to realize how little the sheriff might appreciate the two of them being photographed at the scene of his investigation.

Dalton needed to create a distraction. But what?

One thing came to mind. Plan A might get him punched in the face, but there was no plan B and he was running out of time.

He hauled the detective against his chest—ignoring the feel of her soft skin and the way her breasts pressed harder into his chest with her sharp intake of air—and then dipped his head to kiss her.

Every muscle in her body chorded as he pulled hers flush with his in an embrace. He half expected the feisty detective to bite him but then she seemed to catch on. This maneuver would keep her face away from whoever was behind the wheel.

Dalton Butler was well-known, but she wasn’t. As long as he shielded her, it would be next to impossible to figure out who she was. That would most likely keep her name out of the headlines. It was a risky move, though. There were a dozen ways this could come back to haunt them, but time was the enemy.

Out of Dalton’s peripheral, he watched a young man pop out of his small sedan. He stood in between the opened door and his vehicle, causing Dalton to brace for the possibility that the young man had a gun, but stopped short of closing his car door. His body remained wedged in between the car and door with one hand on the wheel and the other on the door casing.

“Excuse me,” the young man said.

Dalton’s hands tunneled into the detective’s hair as her palms pressed firmly against his chest. She repositioned, wrapping her arms around his neck and a sensual current coursed through him when her firm breasts pressed further against him as they deepened the kiss. Heat penetrated layers of clothing and caused his skin to sizzle.

He was going to need a minute when this was over to regain his bearings, because in that moment, this stranger felt a little too right in his arms.

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m lost,” the young man said.

Dalton took in a sharp breath before pulling back. As he looked at the man, he saw a camera being aimed at him.

“Don’t turn around,” he said under his breath to the detective before looking straight at the guy who had to be a reporter. “What the hell do you want?”

“Nothing,” the startled voice said in reaction to Dalton’s tone. “I already got what I came for.”

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