He rolled over and snatched up the phone. “Luke Crawford.” His gaze went to the lighted clock next to his bed—3:00 a.m.
And he knew even before he heard the rancher’s voice that the poachers had hit again.
MCCALL WOKE BEFORE DAWN. She blamed Luke Crawford for another fitful night. Showered and dressed, too antsy to sit around, she went out to examine her pickup to make sure there was no real damage.
The rear bumper was dented and filled with dirt and grass from the ditch, but apparently no real damage. With a shudder she remembered seeing the huge cottonwood trees that lined the road, fearing she couldn’t get control of the pickup before plowing into them.
She was just thankful she had only ended up in the ditch. No harm done.
If only she could say as much for Luke’s kiss. Damn him.
Desperately needing to get him off her mind, she got in her pickup and drove south on Highway 191. It wasn’t until she’d gone a few miles that she realized she’d be driving right past his house.
She’d heard he’d bought the old Crawford place that had belonged to his parents before their deaths. Buzz had sold it to an out-of-state corporation when he took Luke in.
But when Luke had returned to town, he’d somehow been able to buy it back. She’d heard he was living in a camp trailer on the property while he built a house.
At this early hour, she was tempted to drive down to his trailer and wake him up. If she couldn’t get any rest, it didn’t seem fair that he should. As the saying went, misery loves company.
But she had no desire to see him. Especially after their encounter last night.
Clouds low, rain threatening, she drove another few miles before she turned off on the road that led to the ridge where she’d found her father’s grave.
A cold wind rocked the patrol SUV as she sat staring at the muddy grave—and a dozen footprints around it. She’d known this would happen once Rocky told people about it. Grave robbers had scoured the area looking for curios or clues to go with their theories on whose body had been buried there.
McCall told herself it would have been worse if she’d told the sheriff about the hunting license and cordoned off the grave with crime scene tape. Everyone in town would have had to come out and see for themselves. She had to be content with the fact that she’d gotten any evidence there was and turned it all in to the lab.
Except for the hunting license.
Taking her binoculars, she climbed out and walked along the spine of the ridge. It worried her what her mother had said about Geneva Cherry disappearing about the same time as Trace.
As she walked, she looked for signs of another grave but saw no place to bury another body. The ridge was rocky except for the area where her father had been buried.
So if Geneva had been with Trace that day and someone had gotten rid of them both, the killer hadn’t buried them both here. Why bury one and not the other? Because Geneva’s disappearance and Trace’s weren’t related? Unless Geneva had been the killer.
McCall walked out to where the ridge narrowed to a windy point. She raised her binoculars, wondering if her father had stood on this very spot looking through his rifle scope for antelope on opening day of the season.
As the Winchester Ranch came into view, McCall realized with a start that he could have been watching the house, could have maybe even seen people inside that morning.
Today the old lodge looked dark and cold under the cloak of clouds, lifeless behind the blank windows and weathered shutters.
A tumbleweed blew past on a gust, the wind howling around her, as McCall lowered her binoculars and wondered where a person might get rid of a large black Chevy pickup.
Sage- and pine-studded ridges ran out to rocky points as the land fell for miles toward the Missouri River. All those ravines. Wasn’t it possible the pickup had been dumped in one? As wild as this country was it could have gone unnoticed for years.
But not twenty-seven years. Someone would have spotted it from the air or a hunter would have stumbled across it. Trace Winchester’s pickup would have been known around the county—just as his antics were.
Where then? Where could you hide a vehicle so that it would never be found? She scanned the remote countryside, turning slowly in a circle, studying this unforgiving landscape.
Had the killer lured Trace out here, planning to kill him? Or had Trace’s death been impulsive? Possibly even an accident? If it had been a hunting accident, why wouldn’t the shooter have reported it—instead of burying the body and disposing of the pickup and rifle?
The ridge was far enough from Highway 191 that the killer wouldn’t have been seen while burying the body. No need to hurry and yet the killer hadn’t taken the time to dig a very deep grave. Nor had the killer taken the time to move the body to a better burial site.
Neither indicated premeditation.
So after digging a shallow grave and burying the body, then what?
Her father hadn’t been out here alone. But had the killer ridden out here with him in his pickup? Or had the killer met him here? Either way, the killer needed to dispose of Trace’s pickup quickly since it was so recognizable.
He would have probably gotten rid of the pickup, then come back and gotten his own rig as long as he didn’t have to take the pickup far. He couldn’t chance someone seeing Trace’s truck, and since the only way out of here was Highway 191—
In the distance, McCall spotted something that made her pulse jump. Water the color of rust.
She focused the binoculars on the spot, her heart pounding as she saw a stock pond. Not just a
