Part 3 (1/2)

”Didn't you hear me?” Trace demanded as he reined his horse to a stop once they'd reached the corner of the property. He held the reins with one gloved hand and in the other, Eli's stocking cap.

”Sorry,” Eli mumbled, though he really wasn't. For the first time, he felt a jab of the cold piercing his jacket.

Trace glared at his son for a second, then let out a sigh. ”No harm, no foul, I guess.” He still wasn't smiling. ”Believe it or not, I was your age once. Broke my arm, being bucked from Rocky. That was my horse at the time.”

Eli knew better than to say ”I know,” even though he'd heard the story before.

Leaning forward, Trace handed Eli his hat. ”Think you lost something.”

”Thanks.” Eli pulled the hat down over his ears as they were starting to freeze, but he didn't dare complain. After all, he'd begged to be a part of this. But as snowflakes slid under the collar of his jacket and the wind blew bitter cold, he was starting to second-guess himself. Not that he would admit it.

”You still want to do this?” his father asked.

Though much of Eli's enthusiasm had faded, he wasn't going to admit it. Nodding, he swiped the back of his gloved hand under his running nose.

His father raised one eyebrow, then gave a quick nod. ”Okay, then. You ride up ahead and I'll follow. We'll see if there are any more breaches.”

Eli did as he was told, riding along the fence line, growing colder by the second, while his father, more thorough as he scrutinized the wire from atop his mount, lagged behind.

Sometimes being a cowboy really sucks, Eli realized belatedly, his gaze trained on the wire mesh that cut a straight line through the thickets of hemlock, fir, and maple. The stream, nearly frozen, wandered back and forth, a thin trickle in the middle gurgling softly.

Another blast of wind rattled the branches of the surrounding trees and he s.h.i.+vered, tired of the adventure. He just wanted to return to the house, so he urged Jetfire forward through the icy woods. The sooner the job was done, the sooner he could go back inside.

Though he'd begged his father to let him come, Eli began to wish he'd never said a word, just stayed in his pajamas and played on his iPad until breakfast was ready, because inside the house there was a hot fire, a warm cup of hot cocoa, and Kacey, his soon-to-be stepmom. She would be getting ready to go to the clinic where she worked. But instead of being seated at the table, sipping hot chocolate and eating peanut b.u.t.ter toast while watching television, he was out in the cold.

Jetfire stepped quickly through the drifts and Eli swept another quick glance over his shoulder to make certain that his dad was following on the rangy bay. Sure enough, he saw Trace easing his horse through a stand of pines about twenty yards behind him. The two dogs were following, Bonzi with his head lifted as if he were testing the air, Sarge farther behind, exploring a bend in the creek.

Eli wished his dad would hurry.

Through the veil of snow, man and rider were partially obscured, blending into the wintry landscape, appearing almost ghostly. Even the dogs seemed to disappear.

Eli waved at his father, but Trace didn't notice, his concentration and gaze steady on the fence as he appeared and disappeared in the wind-fueled flurries. It worried Eli a little that he was so far ahead of his dad, but he reminded himself to be cowboy-tough. He had a job to do. Once more, Trace and the bay vanished for a second and Eli wondered what he'd do if his father didn't reappear, if he became lost somehow.

But that was nutty.

He knew where he was and his dad was right behind him. Squinting, Eli searched the grove. But no. He couldn't see his father. Nor the dogs.

About to call out to him, Eli caught a glimpse of the bay stepping through the trees again, a phantom horse, barely visible just like in the cartoons he watched or the video games he played.

Feeling a little better, he leaned over the saddle horn, s.h.i.+fting his weight, urging Jetfire forward. Man, it was cold. Too cold. The sooner he found the dumb hole in the wire mesh, the sooner he could go back inside. Jetfire picked up the pace, threading through a copse of saplings as Eli peered through the s.h.i.+fting snowflakes. The fence crossed the stream again as it cut through the trees, heading in a crooked path to the river a few miles to the west.

The fence looked a little different, not as much ice building up over the wire, no snow sticking to the posts. Maybe the cattle had rubbed up against it when searching for a way through. After all, he was near a deeper part of the stream. A particularly stubborn calf with just enough curiosity and no darned brains could wade in and, if he tried hard enough, maybe duck under the wire where the fence spanned the creek. There was no guard there, no floating cattle panel that moved with the current. Squinting through the snowfall, Eli encouraged Jetfire forward, closer to the creek, but the horse snorted and balked.

”Come on,” Eli insisted, giving Jetfire a nudge with his knees, urging the gelding to walk closer to the creek.

Instead, Jetfire started backing up.

”Hey!” Eli said sharply. ”Let's go!”

But the gelding was having none of it. Tossing his head and snorting, Jet s.h.i.+ed away from a thicket of maples.

Eli took a firmer grasp on the reins. ”What's got into you?”

From somewhere nearby, a dog growled low and warning, the sound causing the hairs on the back of Eli's neck to lift. Jet reared up.

Eli fought the reins. ”Whoa. Stop!”

Bonzi appeared, his caramel-colored coat dappled with snow, his lips snarling, showing teeth. His eyes were trained on the creek, just beyond the brush. As Jet s.h.i.+ed, the hairs on the back of the dog's thick neck raised. Tail stiff, he snarled and barked, his eyes focused on a bend in the creek.

What was it? A wildcat or puma? Maybe a wolf?

s.h.i.+vering inwardly, Eli followed the dog's gaze with his own.

”Trouble?” his father shouted from somewhere not far behind.

The last thing he wanted was his dad to think he couldn't handle his horse. Eli's gaze scoured the wintry banks of the creek, searching the exposed rocks and tangled, snow-covered roots. ”No,” he said, shaking his head, ”It's just-”

His words died in his throat.

His stomach dropped.

Fear cold as an Arctic blast cut through him as he saw what the dog had sensed. Ten feet ahead in a deep pool, a woman's arm stretched out of the water, fingers wide as if supplicating the heavens.

Eli yanked hard on the reins as he stared at the hand. Reaching upward, one finger severed, the hand seemed to be grasping into the empty air for help.

”Oh . . . Oh . . . G.o.d . . .” he whispered, horrified. The horse, feeling his fear, minced in a tight circle, tossing up snow.

Eli forced himself to look harder. There, under a thin layer of ice, lay a woman. She was staring straight up, the current below her rippling around her, feathering her long brown hair, causing her blouse to billow around her midriff. Set in a death mask, her face was a grayish hue, and beneath the glaze of ice, her eyes were wide and fixed, seeming to stare straight into his soul.

”Eli?”

His father's voice barely registered. He felt as if he might be sick. ”No . . . oh . . .” His insides turned to water. ”Dad!”

Screaming before he could stop himself, Eli nearly toppled out of the saddle as Jetfire, nostrils distended, reared, then spun and took off at a full gallop, racing through the trees and across the pasture-land, his hooves throwing up clods of snow. Over the rush of wind in his ears, Eli heard his father shout and the dogs begin to howl and bark, but all he could do was hang on to the reins and saddle horn as the horse tore up the rise toward the house. The world went by in a blur of white, but all Eli saw, indelibly etched in his brain forever, was that mutilated hand reaching for the sky.

Chapter 4.

You're a chicken.

That irritating voice inside Pescoli's head wouldn't leave her alone, even though she'd tried to immerse herself in the autopsy report she'd found on her desk this morning.

She'd had the perfect opportunity to tell Santana about the baby after he'd met her at the top of the stairs, kissed the d.a.m.n breath from her lungs, and for the first time in their new house, made love to her right on the hard subfloor of their master bedroom. Okay, there had been a sleeping bag, but still.... The s.e.x had been intense, maybe even a little rough, but filled with the pa.s.sion she found exhilarating. Afterward, as she'd snuggled up against him, both their naked bodies s.h.i.+ning with sweat, she should have screwed up her courage and let him know that he was going to be a father later this year. But she hadn't, content to hold him tight, feel his strength, and listen to his heartbeat as she stared through the open French doors and watched the nightfall.

Every time she moved in her desk chair, her rump ached and she was reminded of Santana and how animal their union had been. Their lovemaking had always been that way-playful and utterly primal. And yet, before, during, or even after, she hadn't uttered a word about the pregnancy.

With an effort, she focused on the autopsy of a man in his late forties, who may or may not have been the victim of a homicide. Derrick ”Deeter” Clemson had died of wounds he'd received after a fall off a cliff. The question was whether he'd made a mistake and his death was accidental, if he'd leaped intentionally down nearly one hundred feet of timberland, or if he'd been helped in the fall by his bride of six months. The autopsy report didn't give any clear answers, and she was slightly distracted by the noise filtering through her doorway, that of Blackwater on the telephone in Grayson's office.