Rancher's Redemption. Beth Cornelison
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to put down his best breeding stallion paled beside the pain of seeing his wife in tears, pulling the plug on their life together.
Renewed frustration burned in Clay’s chest. Failure of any kind didn’t sit well with him, but failure in his personal life was especially hard to accept. His broken marriage was a blemish in his past that marred even the success of the Bar None. His single-minded dedication to building the ranch was what had blinded him to the deterioration of his relationship with Tamara. Until it was too late.
He gave the barbed wire a vicious tug. His grip slipped, and the razor-sharp barb pierced his glove.
“Damn it!” he growled and flung off his glove to suck the blood beading on the pad of his thumb.
Stringing wire might not take much mental power, but letting his mind rehash the painful dissolution of his marriage didn’t serve any purpose. Tamara was gone, and no amount of regret or second-guessing could change that. Besides, he was married to his ranch now. Keeping the Bar None running smoothly was a labor of love that took all his energy, all his time. He’d scraped and saved, sweated and toiled to build the Bar None from nothing but a boy’s youthful dream.
But today the sense of accomplishment and pride that normally filled him when he surveyed his land or closed his financial books at the end of the day was overshadowed by the reminder of what could have been.
Clay squinted up at the blazing Texas sun, which was far lower in the sky than he’d realized. How long had he been out here?
Flipping his wrist, he checked his watch. Two hours.
Crockett snorted and tossed his mane.
“Yeah, I know, boy. Almost done. I’m ready to get back to the stables and get something to drink, too.”
Like Jack Daniel’s. Something to help take the edge off. Revived memories of Tamara left him off balance and had picked the scab from a wound he’d thought was healed.
He snipped the wire he’d secured on the last post and started gathering his tools.
“Clay?”
At first he thought he’d imagined the soft feminine voice, an illusion conjured by thoughts of his ex-wife. But the voice called his name again.
He shielded his eyes from the sun’s bright glare as he angled his gaze toward the top of the ravine. A slim, golden-haired beauty strode across the parched land and stopped at the edge of the rise. “Clay, can I talk to you?”
Clay’s mouth went dry, and his heart did a Texas two-step. “Tamara?”
Chapter 2
Clay climbed the side of the ravine in three long strides and jerked his Stetson from his head. “What are you doing here, Tamara?”
His ex-wife raised her chin a notch and flashed a stiff smile. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to today, but…I have questions I have to ask. About the crime scene.”
An odd déjà vu washed over him as he stared at her. She looked just as beautiful as the woman he’d married, fought with, made love to, and yet…she’d changed, too. Her cheeks and jaw were thinner, more angular. She’d grown her hair longer, the honey-blond shade sporting fewer highlights from the sun, and a hint of makeup shaded her blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones—a vanity she’d never bothered with when she worked beside him on the ranch.
He stood there, so absorbed by the shock of her presence and her beauty that it took a moment for her comment to sink in.
She had questions about the crime scene. Not questions about how he’d been, about their divorce, about the five years that had passed since they’d last seen each other, sitting at opposite ends of a table like two strangers in her lawyer’s office.
He blinked. Scowled. “You’re here with the CSI team from San Antonio.”
The instant the words left his mouth, Clay kicked himself mentally. Brilliant deduction, Captain Obvious.
Tamara gave him a patient grin, apparently knowing she’d surprised him and cutting him some slack. If she were rattled by their meeting, she didn’t show it. But she’d had time to prepare.
“I’ve been with the department in San Antonio since I finished my forensics training. Jericho—” She paused and lifted a hand. “That is, Sheriff Yates—called us out to sweep the scene. I need to ask you a few things. This a good time?”
Clay drew a deep breath, swiped perspiration from his forehead with his arm and jammed his hat back on his head. “Sure. Shoot.”
Tamara pulled a small notepad from the pocket of her black jeans and wet her lips.
Clay’s gaze gravitated to her mouth and froze on the hint of moisture shimmering in the sunlight. Heat that had nothing to do with the summer day flashed through his blood.
A picture of Tamara from high school flickered in his mind’s eye. Sitting on a corral fence rail at the rodeo where his mother had been riding. Her silky hair tucked behind her ears. Her blue eyes shining at him. Pure joy glowing in her face. He’d captured her cheeks between his hands and leaned in to steal his first kiss from her. She’d been startled at first. But soon after, her smile had widened, and she’d returned his kiss in kind. The first of thousands of sultry kisses they’d shared.
Yet now, gawking at her mouth like a schoolboy, he felt as awkward and uncertain as he had that day at the rodeo. But she wouldn’t welcome a kiss today the way she had back then. He’d lost the right to kiss Tamara years ago.
Warmth flared in her eyes before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. “When was the last time you were out on this corner of the ranch?”
Clay shook himself from the unproductive nostalgia and focused on her question. “Earlier this week. Maybe Monday. I ride the perimeter to check fences and survey the property every few days. You know that.”
She stopped scribbling on her pad and gave him a penetrating glance. “Assume I know nothing and answer the questions as honestly and completely as you can.”
Gritting his teeth, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you disturbed anything on the scene from the way you found it?”
He shifted his weight and cocked his head, studying the pink flush of heat on her cheeks. She never could take much sun on her porcelain skin without burning. “I opened the car’s trunk. One finger on the edge of the hood. I already told Jericho all of this.” He hesitated. “You want to wear my hat until you finish out here? Your face is starting to burn.”
She snapped a startled blue gaze up to meet his. “I—No. I’ll be fine.” She furrowed her brow as she studied her notes, clearly ruffled by his offer. “Um… You didn’t touch the car otherwise?”
“No.”
After several more minutes of her rapid-fire questions, he turned and strolled over to where Crockett waited patiently. Flipping open the saddle pouch across Crockett’s hind quarters, Clay dug out the small tube of sunscreen he carried with him but rarely used.
Tamara followed him over to Crockett and reached up to stroke the gelding’s nose. “Hey, Davy Crockett. How ya doin’, boy?”
Crockett snuffled and bumped Tamara’s hand as if he remembered her.
Still patting his horse, she asked, “Do you have any knowledge of who might have left the car here?”
“No.” Clay uncapped the sunscreen and squeezed a dab on his thumb.
She consulted her notes again. “Do you have any idea where the money came from?”
“No, I don’t.” He stepped closer to Tamara, close enough to smell the delicate herbal scent of her shampoo, and she raised her gaze.
“When did you first