When she met his gaze again anger had sharpened her blue irises into sapphire shards. “I’m sorry Rory killed himself. I am. No one deserves to carry that kind of pain. No one. But I won’t stand here and rehash the past. I won’t.”
“And when did you say you saw Rory last?” He repeated questions often. Questioning someone involved in a murder investigation was like a fishing expedition. Sometimes tossing the same bait in the water garnered better results the second time. Police work and fishing were often about patience.
“I haven’t seen him in a long time, and I really can’t help you.”
Elizabeth Greer Templeton was a hard one to read. She said all the right words and hadn’t triggered any alarm bells. But the best liars spun the best tales.
Bragg realized pushing Greer could ruin the job for Mitch. But he had to push, not just for Rory’s sake but especially for Mitch’s. If she was unstable in any way, he needed to know it.
He studied her face closely. “I don’t believe Rory killed himself.”
Her head cocked. “He wasn’t the man hanging from the tree?”
“Oh, he was strung up from the tree all right. Hell, he was a sight to see. Hell of a mess.” Graphic details shocked, tossed people off balance and triggered unexpected reactions.
Her lips flattened but she kept silent.
“I don’t think there is a way a man could have secured the rope, shimmied up the tree, and then hung himself. If he’d jumped with the rope around his neck, it would have just about snapped his head off. The rope did slice into his neck, but the marks cut like a man dangling versus falling.”
“And the purpose of that graphic description was meant to do what?” No missing the pop of annoyance.
He wasn’t ready to talk about the cigarette butt or the tire tracks. Though he did note the flatbed truck behind her.
Shifting gears he said, “What have you been doing all these years, Ms. Templeton? You sure haven’t been in the news at all.”
“I lived here. I earned several certificates in viticulture in summer courses in California. When my aunt died last winter I took over the place.”
“You’ve changed your name, and you keep a low profile. What are you hiding from?”
“I’m not hiding. I needed a fresh start after the accident. I didn’t want to be with people who suffered loss and pain because of me. I have no intention of reconnecting with my past or the people I’d known a dozen years ago.”
“Then why not leave? Your aunt is dead.” He nodded toward the new construction. “Looks like you’re putting down roots.”
“It was my aunt’s dream to make wine, and so we cleared ground for a winery and tasting room this past winter. She’d been suffering from cancer, but we thought she had it licked, and clearing the land was our way of celebrating.” Her voice hitched. “And then she suffered an unexpected heart attack at the hospital during routine tests and died.”
“Again, why stay here?”
“This is my home. Bonneville is as much a part of me as I am of it.”
“What do you do here?”
She arched a brow. “You want a rundown?”
“I’d also like a tour of the place.”
“You’ll have to come back another time for the tour, Ranger Bragg. I’ve a horse farrier arriving in about five minutes.”
With or without an excuse, he’d return to Bonneville. “That’s five minutes for a quick overview.”
She shook her head. “Tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll show it to you. You want to listen to my phone messages in case Rory called me more than I admitted? Want to check my boots for dirt or look in the barn for rope?”
He smiled. “We’ll keep it simple today. Tell me about Bonneville.”
Her lips flattened. “The new tasting room is behind me, but it’s not furnished yet and there’s little to see. The winery won’t be finished until December.”
“Show me all your trucks.”
She cocked a brow but didn’t miss a beat. “You see the one there. It’s ten years old. I use it for general transportation. I’ve three other trucks, but they’re out with the morning crew who are weeding. They break at lunch. If you come back at noon, I can arrange a viewing.”
Pushy and hard-edged, she didn’t resemble the kid in the photograph. Hard not to have sympathy for that kid; however, the woman was a ballbuster.
In no rush, he walked over to the dark pickup and using his phone he photographed each tire. “What if I want the trucks brought in earlier.”
Her gaze narrowed, and he sensed she was gauging if this was worth a fight. “It’ll cost me money to bring in the crew and have them sit while you do whatever it is you do. The crew will be in at noon. I run on a tight budget, Ranger Bragg.”
He didn’t care about her bottom line or her crew. But before he could rebut, a truck pulling a large horse trailer rolled up the hill toward them. Dust billowed around the wheels and coated the already grimy truck with more grime.
Greer shot him a glance. “Give me a minute.”
“Sure.”
She tossed him a wary gaze and headed for the truck.
There was no middle ground for Greer Templeton. Hot or cold. Sad or angry. She acted stunned by the news of Rory’s death, but then she could be one hell of a guilty-as-sin actress.
Chapter Five
Tuesday, June 3, 7 A.M.
Greer could barely breathe as she put one foot in front of the other and walked toward the truck hauling the horse trailer. The Ranger had remained behind but his gaze trailed her like a hungry wolf. Those eyes. Gray. Hard. Penetrating. In those eyes, she’d seen that he’d tried and convicted her like all the others had done over the years.
Her aunt had told her time after time she’d needed to forgive herself. Live your life. Find a man. Have sex. Smile more.
Doubtful a smile would have swayed Bragg. His six-foot-three-inch height and broad shoulders radiated substantial power and a total absence of tenderness. His warrior energy didn’t threaten danger but promised it.
Smile. Don’t let him see you sweat.
Right.
She’d tried smiling after the accident, hoping to soothe her parents’ grief, neighbors’ questioning stares, and finally the judge’s final opinion. But smiling hadn’t worked. No matter how nice she was or how much she tried to atone for her sins, no one ever looked at her the same again.
And so she’d stopped smiling, choosing instead to come out swinging. Might as well cut to the chase, air the suspicions, and accept the inevitable rejection.
She nodded to the farrier. “Mac, thanks for driving up here today. I know we’re a bit out of your way.”
White hair and a handlebar mustache accentuated the farrier’s tanned, deeply wrinkled skin weathered by sixty-plus years of harsh Texas sun. He wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt, jeans, and a battered cowboy hat. “For the life of me I don’t know why you want to get into the horse business, Ms. Templeton. You’ll be tossing good money after bad feeding these old nags. I don’t want to think about the vet bill.”
“Oh, so that’s why they were free?” She might not smile, but she could still tease.
Muttering, he climbed out of the truck. “The fella that gave you these horses is doing a jig right now. You’ve saved him the cost of burying these old gals in the next year or so.”
Mac unlatched the back door and standing in the trailer were two old mares, both sway back with knobby knees. One was a brown-and-white dapple and the other black except for a patch of white on her nose. The dapple was still and quiet, but the black horse swished her tail, as if to tell Greer she didn’t appreciate the change in routine or the journey.
“I’ve a temporary corral set up for them next to the main house. Got a man coming today to work on expanding it so these gals should be sitting pretty by the end of the week.”