Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (5 page)

“Exit wound?” Boone asked.

“No.” The doctor grimaced. “Looks like the killer bashed the guy’s head in and dug the slug out.”

“Jesus,” Tag muttered.

“Got something here,” one of the blue-clad techs in the cell said.

Tag and Boone turned as one.

“What did you find?” Boone asked.

The tech was leaning over the cot. She spread her latex-covered fingers around a small patch. “Blood.”

“There’s a lot of that in there,” Tag said then closed his eyes in irritation.
That was a stupid thing to say.
He wished he’d find his damn senses. This whole murder had him rattled. Knowing he was the prime suspect did little to ease the tension tightening his neck and stomach and every other muscle in his body.

She nodded. “You’re right, Sheriff. Except this is on top of the blankets. The rest of the fluids are all on the bottom sheet. I’m going to take this swatch and test it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the perp left us some DNA.”

Tag figured whoever had done this was too smart to do something so idiotic.

The other tech handed her a small pair of scissors. While she snipped the material, he readied a plastic bag.

They collected evidence with calm efficiency. Something that Tag had done a hundred times himself. Why did it seem now that every movement was a nail in his coffin?

“Tarah, did you see this?” The male tech knelt and pointed at the floor next to Fischer’s head.

Tag craned his neck but couldn’t see far enough into the room to find out what they were talking about.

Dr. Blest joined them. He bent over and peered down then clucked. “Looks like hair. Probably from the back of his head when the killer sheared it off. He wasn’t very tidy, was he?”

“It’s stuck in the congealed blood,” Tarah said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to separate it until we get back to the lab.”

“I’ll gather it,” the other tech said.

“Keep as much of it together as you can, Kurt,” Dr. Blest ordered.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you almost done here?”

“Yes,” Tarah replied. “You ready to load the body?”

The doctor looked through the bars at him and Tag nodded. “I’ll let the guys outside know.”

He whirled and jerked open the iron door then stepped into the deathly quiet outer office.

Doreen sat at her desk. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. Several mangled tissues littered the top of her desk. She leaped to her feet when she saw him.

“Boss? What’s going on?”

He strode forward and clumsily dropped a big hand on her shoulder. “Sit back down, Doreen. It’s going to be okay.”

Her face was as tight and pale as a conga drum. “Are you crazy?” she whispered. Her haunted eyes flicked to the back of the room. “I’m never going to get that sight out of my head, Sheriff. Never ever ever.” Fresh tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “I’m going to have nightmares about this for the rest of my life.”

Panic seized Tag. His fingers convulsed on her shoulder. “You’re not gonna quit on me, are you, Doreen?”

Tears flew as she shook her head violently. “No, but I’m definitely going to need some time off. Maybe a week. Oh, Tag, it was awful!” She shuddered and gagged.

He understood just what she was feeling. The first time he’d seen a dead body he’d reacted much the same. He’d been lucky enough to view the body in a controlled setting—in the morgue with the coroner and a dozen other police officers.

“Taking off some time is a good idea, Doreen. I’ll get some desk help from Kerr County.”

She sniffled and hiccupped. “I’ll take care of it.”

Tag looked through the window at the FBI techs who lounged next to a nondescript, dark van. No markings were visible, but the back windows appeared frosted. A small crowd of onlookers gathered across the street. They watched with a fascination Tag found morbid and intrusive.

His fists clenched.

“I’m going to have the techs come inside now,” he said to Doreen. “Why don’t you go to the break room? I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She scurried from the office as he tugged open the front door and waved the techs in.

“He ready to roll?” one asked cheerfully.

“Yeah.”

Tag wasn’t in any kind of mood to shoot the breeze with these guys. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and planted his hands on his hips. He gave the assembled crowd a hard, steely gaze.

The crowd stared back.

He saw Hank and her shop assistant. They were talking to some short blond guy he didn’t recognize. The man was built like a stout beer keg. His massive chest strained the buttons of his short-sleeved shirt. Legs the diameter of oak trees protruded beneath his khaki shorts. Whitty was also in the crowd. His pale British face was as stiff as the collar of his starched shirt. He spoke to a young couple. Tag recognized Lewis and Kristen, who were in town to get married at The Hitching Post. Because of them and their rowdy friends, he’d been called to the Chrome Barrel three times. They’d only been in town four days. The wedding wasn’t scheduled for another week. When he’d asked why they’d come so early, they’d talked about sightseeing, hiking, and shopping. So far, the only thing they’d done was cause a ruckus. He hoped they settled down. He sure didn’t need the aggravation of their antics while he had a murder investigation on his hands.

Well, Boone had it on his hands.

“What’s going on, Sheriff?” someone called out.

Tag searched the milling faces for the asker but couldn’t figure out who it was.

“Y’all need to go on back to your business,” he ordered.

“What happened?”

He recognized Sadie’s high, girlish voice. Hell, he couldn’t ignore her. She was as old as Texas dirt and twice as gritty. The woman wouldn’t give up until he gave some sort of reply.

“An accident, Miss Sadie,” he said.

Even from the other side of the street he saw her look of incredulous disbelief. Her lips pursed and she shoved her enormous red glasses up her nose.

“That’s a lot of people for an accident, Taggart Aloysius.”

He hated when she called him by his full name. A few of the people behind her nodded their heads in agreement. Crap, he was about to have a full-scale information-demanding riot on his hands.

“Folks, it’s an on-going investigation.” He looked over his shoulder. Maybe he should get Boone out here to handle this.

“Sheriff Cain, who died?”

A young man separated himself from the crowd and stepped into the street. He wore blue jeans and a red polo shirt. He had a laptop bag strapped across his massive chest. Biceps as big around as punching bags ticked as he adjusted his laptop bag. He looked like he was on his way to a Mr. Universe competition. He ignored him.

“Please move along, folks.”

The young man sauntered further into the street and pulled a notepad from his bag. “I’m Donald Alcott with the
Bastrop Banner
. Can you comment on the situation?”

Shit.
The last thing he needed was some nosy reporter getting involved.
Especially one from my hometown.

“Ongoing investigation. No comment.” He shot the kid a dark glare then spun on his heel and strode back into the office.

Tag didn’t stop until he reached the door leading to the cells. He sucked in a few of the calming breaths, but they didn’t work at all.

He yanked open the door and was nearly bowled over by the gurney carrying Fischer’s body bag.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” one of the coroner’s assistants said.

Tag stepped out of the way and watched Fischer get trundled away.

“Tag?”

He turned to face Boone. Immediately his gut roiled again. The expression on his face was dark and unreadable.

Tag knew he was in deep shit.

“I think you need an attorney.”

“We landed, Miss Lyons. You can open your eyes now.”

Rebecca cracked one eye open and braved a look out the small, round window of the four-seater prop plane. They were indeed on the ground. She mustered a smile and gave up the death grip she had on the armrest.

“Thank you, Mr. McConnell. That was a very smooth flight.” She’d spoken the truth. The flight itself had been swift and uneventful. They’d not run into any turbulence at all. She disliked flying as a routine and had never been in a tiny prop job. The experience was not one she wished to repeat.

Never again.

The tall, lanky pilot grinned as he shook his head and opened the hatch. “Thanks for not puking. And I told you to call me Liam.”

Rebecca scooted out of her seat and toward the open door. “Thank you, Liam,” she said as he handed her down the tiny flight of stairs.

“Stay right there while I make sure all the systems are shut down. Then I’ll get your luggage.”

She nodded and shaded her eyes. The bright end-of-May sun burned down on the white concrete and bounced onto her face. The warmth felt good at the moment, but she could tell it would become oppressive the longer she stood out here.

Sure enough, within minutes sweat trickled between her breasts and down her lower back. Rebecca tugged at the hem of her turquoise T-shirt and fluffed it. She sighed at the relief of the slight breeze circling over her skin. Her jeans threatened to suction to her thighs as the heat and humidity sank in.

“I’ll have to make another trip,” Liam said. He held up three of her four suitcases and pointed toward a small white building. “Let’s get into control and I’ll come back for it.”

The burn of embarrassment swept over her. “Nonsense. I can take it.”

He shrugged and handed her the smallest bag then grabbed the handle of the large and wheeled case. “This way, ma’am.”

He led her across the tarmac to the control building. Just as she reached for the knob, the door swung open.

“Thank you,” she said. She smiled up at the man who filled the doorway and froze. He stood a good six inches over her own five-ten and sported shoulders wider than the bumper on her Prius. The Texas sun dappled his light-brown hair with golden highlights and caressed his sharp jawline with a lover’s hand. Rebecca was used to handsome and urbane men in her profession. Looking and dressing for success were part and parcel of being a Bostonian. This man looked rough, unrefined, and dangerous. He swept a glance over her with emerald eyes that didn’t miss a thing. Rebecca felt oddly exposed. Almost as if she stood naked in the hot sun.

Her heart kicked into high gear.

“You coming in?” he asked. “Don’t think we want to air condition the outside, do we?”

His easy, smooth baritone held an undercurrent of mocking humor. Rebecca shook herself from the momentary stupor. “You’re in the way, cowboy.”

His brows shot up and he grinned.

This time a tingle ran over her entire body and ended tickling her toes with the intensity.

Liam cleared his throat. “Tag, move.”

Rebecca couldn’t contain her gasp.
This is Taggart Cain? My client? I’m going to kill Boone.

The big man winked and reached out. He took her suitcase and stepped out of the way. “Come on in, Miss Lyons.”

She eased into the small building, careful not to touch him. He didn’t give an inch. “Where’s Boone?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Tag’s face tightened momentarily then eased back into jovial nonchalance. “At my office.”

“Damn,” she said.

“Where you want these, Tag?” Liam asked. Sweat trickled down his face and soaked the white collar of his polo shirt.

“Why damn?” Tag reached out and collected her suitcases. He nodded at the pilot. “I got it from here, Liam. Thanks for picking her up in Austin.”

“Yep. My pleasure. She’s a real quiet flyer. Well, except for the squeaks and prayers and cursing.” He winked at her. “I think your mama might have needed to wash your mouth out a few more times, Miss Lyons.”

Rebecca mumbled her thanks and shook his hand. He pushed open the door and disappeared.

“Curse like a sailor, do you?” Tag asked. “I wouldn’t have pegged a rich society girl for a cuss monkey.” He started toward the other end of the building.

Rebecca hurried after him. “I didn’t know he heard me.” More embarrassment roiled through her. Her father spent years trying to break her habit of cursing, and while she’d scaled back dramatically, certain stressful situations made her revert. “I’ll apologize.”

Tag pushed open another door and nodded at her. “No need for that, Miss Lyons. We believe in speaking our minds in Freedom. Even if those minds are a little dirty.” He winked again. “
Especially
if they’re dirty.”

She gripped her purse and suitcase with both hands. Otherwise she just might give in to the urge to smack him.

“Do you talk to all strangers like this, or am I special?” She hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides. “And slow down!”

He immediately adjusted his pace but didn’t offer an apology.

Oaf.

“From what Boone tells me, you’re something pretty special.”

Her heel hit a crack and she stumbled. His arms jerked but he didn’t do anything else. If his hands hadn’t been full of her suitcases Rebecca decided he would have steadied her. The thought of his big hands on her body made her shiver in the Texas heat.

Maybe my brain is frying already.
She was used to good-looking men. In her line of work, they were everywhere. It’s just that the men in Boston were smooth, sophisticated, and definitely metrosexual. Taggart Cain was anything but. He might look like a blond surfer but she could tell he was rugged and rough and wild.

She wondered if he was like that in all aspects of his life. She stumbled again, trying to shove the sudden salacious thoughts from her mind.

“Careful there. Wouldn’t want to ruin those spiffy boots.”

Rebecca looked down at her cowboy boots. She’d bought them just for this trip and loved them. Diamond cut-outs in the tan leather revealed snazzy pops of turquoise snakeskin. She looked back up at him. “I like them.”

“Uh-huh.”

She caught all sorts of snarky
Yankee
commentary in that single utterance. Her anger simmered.