His Defender. Stella Bagwell
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made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “The burden of proof should be on the state, not me. Or has the law that a person is innocent until proven guilty changed?”
“Nothing has changed. But if you had a solid alibi, you wouldn’t have any need for a lawyer.” A tiny frown creased the middle of her forehead. “So where did you go after you looked at the horse?”
He swallowed more of the coffee, which reminded Isabella that hers was getting cold. She reached for her cup and took a dainty sip.
“I went to another ranch. The Double X, just north of here. Someone had told me that the owner thought he’d spotted my missing stallion a few days before.”
“Did you talk to him?”
Ross shook his head. “No. No one was home. So I drove back here, saddled Juggler and went to check on the cattle in the south flats.”
“Who went with you?”
“No one. I went alone.”
Her eyes widened at this bit of information. “Is that normal? For you to ride out alone?”
He chuckled as though he found her question inane, but Isabella knew it wouldn’t be so funny if he found himself on a witness stand.
“Look, Bella, the T Bar K is a big spread. And though I’ve got a bunkhouse full of hands, we’re still sometimes spread thin. If I can do a job alone, I do it.”
As Isabella watched him pop the last piece of cookie into his mouth, she felt certain that Ross Ketchum was being honest with her. But her opinion didn’t count in a court of law. He needed an alibi.
“I’m sorry, Ross, but I’m merely asking you what any good prosecutor would want to know.”
He left his seat and placed his empty cup on the serving tray. Then turning to face her, he looped his thumbs over the wide leather belt at his waist. “Okay,” he said, “I can’t account for my whereabouts. But that doesn’t make me guilty.”
“No,” she agreed. “It just makes you unlucky.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Rising from the couch, she walked over to where he stood by the desk. After placing her coffee cup next to his, she looked up at him.
“I’m going to figure out who really did this thing.”
Ross couldn’t help it, he burst out laughing. “Sure. One little woman is going to do what the whole San Juan County sheriffs’ department can’t seem to accomplish.”
She didn’t allow his laughter to get to her. After all, her boast probably did sound ridiculous. But he was a white man. He wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain that Naomi had told her that the truth would appear to Isabella. And her godmother had never told her a wrong thing.
“I’m Apache,” she said with solemn pride. “We’re tenacious hunters. We don’t give up until we get our prey.”
Humor creased his cheeks and danced in his green eyes. “Okay, so where do you intend to start on this great hunting trip?”
A provocative smile suddenly curved the corners of her lips. “I think the best place to start would be your bedroom.”
Chapter Three
“My bedroom!”
The shocked look on Ross’s face told Isabella he’d taken her suggestion all wrong. Which didn’t surprise her that much. Next to ranching, women were probably his favorite entertainment. And now he was thinking she wanted to be his tidbit for the afternoon.
Heat swarmed her face as she tilted her chin up at him. “Yes, your bedroom,” she answered primly. “That is where you keep your firearms, isn’t it?”
“Oh,” he said inanely. “Yeah. I have a gun cabinet in my bedroom. Is that what you want to see?”
Turning her back to him, she licked her dry lips. “Among other things.”
His hand suddenly rested against the small of her back and Isabella had the absurd urge to close her eyes.
“It’s at the other end of the house,” he told her. “I’ll show you.”
Isabella mentally shook herself and quickly started toward the door. Ross followed at her side while his hand remained at her back. Once they were out of the long study and in the hallway, he guided her to the left.
“How many people live here in the ranch house now?” she asked, while wondering why she didn’t make a move to pull away from him.
“Only me. Victoria moved out three weeks ago when she married Jess. Marina lives in a small house of her own on the property.”
The two of them had already passed several doorways. Too many rooms for just one man, Isabella thought.
“There’s another wing on the opposite side of the house,” he added, as though reading her thoughts. “Victoria did use those.”
More curious than ever, she glanced up at him. “Why did your father build such a huge house?”
“Well, he had four children. And when Mother was still alive he did a lot of entertaining. Cattle and horse buyers might come and stay a whole week while they looked over the ranch’s livestock. That’s when the ranch was really hopping,” he added, his voice full of wistful pride.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “And it isn’t hopping now?”
He smiled faintly. “Sure it is. We just do things differently nowadays.”
“You mean you don’t invite people into your home anymore?”
Ross frowned. “You’re trying to make me sound inhospitable.”
“Not really. You just don’t seem the sort of man who’d enjoy playing host for very long.” Not without a wife around to play hostess, she thought.
With a sly smile, he reached out and pushed open a door to his right and motioned for her to go in.
“This is it,” he announced.
A bedroom said a lot about the person who slept there, and as Isabella looked around the spacious room, one thing kept coming to her mind. Ross Ketchum was all man.
The king-size bed was sturdy oak with short, fat posts at the head and foot. It was covered with a rich burgundy-colored spread that matched the drapes on the windows. Paintings and sketches of the old west were scattered here and there on the whitewashed walls. To one side of the doorway a row of pegs held an assortment of felt and straw cowboy hats, a leather holster for a six-shooter, and a brown, oiled slicker. Along the end of the room, a tall gun cabinet made of varnished cedar and glass sat next to a shorter chest of drawers.
Several steps away to her right, one lone photo sat atop an otherwise bare dresser top. The distance between it and Isabella made it impossible to see who or what was in it.
“No TV?” she asked.
His lips twisted wryly. “A man has better things to do in bed.”
She should have seen that coming, Isabella thought with a measure of irritation at herself.
“Is that where the rifle was kept?” she asked, inclining her head toward the gun cabinet. “The one that was fired at Mr. Hastings?”
Ross nodded. “That’s it. I’ve had that particular 30.30 for years. Dad gave it to me for my fourteenth birthday. We used to take deer-hunting trips back then, before his heart got too bad.”
There it was again, she thought. That faint wistfulness in his voice that said he missed his parents and missed the way his home life used to be.
The notion softened her in a place that was far too private to be letting thoughts of Ross Ketchum inside.
“When