A smile teased the edge of her lips. “Go ahead and say it, José.”
For a moment he was silent. “I fear you’ve extended yourself too far, Greer.”
There were days when she thought she teetered on the edge of the cliff. “I’ve taken a risk.”
José again wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. “You’ve always done the work of three, but you are only one person.”
I’m living for me, as well as Jeff and Sydney. “Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.”
Bragg arrived at the forensic technician’s lab at a quarter before five. Melinda Ashburn leaned over her microscope, analyzing a section of rope. “That the rope that hanged Edwards?”
She didn’t lift her gaze as she adjusted the focus. “It is.”
“That unusual?”
“It’s a natural synthetic, heavy duty, and could be purchased at any number of hardware stores.”
“How much do you have there?”
“A couple of hundred feet. It couldn’t hurt to check area stores for anyone who bought this kind of rope.”
“That’s something. What about the cigarette butt?”
“Did get some DNA and have sent it off. It’ll take weeks or months unless your victim’s brother puts a little heat on the system.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll give him a call.”
“Good. Because I’m a little curious myself.”
“Tire tracks?”
“Got a clear print. I’m now checking databases to find the make and model. Shouldn’t be long.”
Bragg dug out a slip of paper from his pocket. “Let me know if it matches this brand.”
She glanced at the paper. “Who does the tire belong to?”
“Vineyard near the crime scene.”
“You’ll be the first I call.”
“Any other evidence from the crime scene?”
“Footprints. Size eleven. Athletic shoe. Hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman. The wearer’s left foot pronates out. Note how the back heel is worn.”
Bragg studied the print. “Another piece to the puzzle. What about fingerprints?”
“Only the victim’s on the photograph. Whoever else was out there was careful not to leave prints.”
He thought about the roads leading to the area where they’d found the body. Back rural country roads had little traffic at night. “The closest gas station to the site is five miles away.”
“And there are no cameras there. I checked on the way out.”
Bragg had barely stepped through the front door of his home when he heard Mitch’s keys in the door. He stood at the small kitchen table, his hat tossed casually in the center, and was reaching to unsnap his gun from the holster.
He straightened, doing his best not to look like a Ranger. He’d perfected this stone-faced expression during his years with DPS and the Rangers. He could slide on the expression as easily as a worn pair of boots. But with Mitch, he’d worked hard knocking down barriers. Life had done a good bit to build walls between them, and he didn’t want to add more bricks.
But the more he showed concern for Mitch the more the boy retreated into himself and so he was training himself to hold back. A little.
His boy’s face and hands were covered in dirt and his hair was askew as if he’d run his fingers through it. His jeans and T-shirt were soaked in sweat and his boots covered in mud. Rode hard and put up wet.
“How’d the job go?” Bragg couldn’t help a smile.
Mitch glanced up and met his gaze. “Good.”
“They drag you through the mud?”
A slight grin tugged the edge of his mouth. “I’m working with a couple of horses. Nags, really. One has a bad attitude.”
The black one. “That’s your job?”
His muscles didn’t constrict with customary strain. “For starters. Today I was in the field. Dude name José showed me how to weed.”
Not she. Not Greer. “You like the boss?”
“Hard to read. Kind of edgy but shoots straight.”
“José?”
“No. Greer.” As tempted as he was to press for details about Greer, he held back.
Mitch sat on the hearth and tugged off his boots. Bragg had wondered why any Central Texas builder would put a fireplace in a house. The temperatures rarely dipped below fifty even in the dead of winter, and he’d never built a fire in the damn thing. They both used it as Mitch was now: a way station to pull off or stow dirty boots.
“Judging by your clothes I’d say it’s been a good day’s work.”
“Not bad.”
“Get yourself washed up, and I’ll make us a couple of burgers.”
“Sounds good.”
Bragg watched his nephew vanish down the hallway toward the bathroom. There was a small spring in his step he’d never seen before. Mitch might not ever recapture the naïve youth he’d had before Iraq, but a bit of the darkness had lifted.
Greer had bought those nags for Mitch. She’d said the boy’s hiring had been a favor, a promise to her late aunt. He supposed he should be grateful she’d reached out to Mitch.
But why Mitch? Why now? The Ranger would not let the man enjoy this good fortune and simply let go of the gnawing suspicion tugging at his gut.
Most nights Greer crawled into bed by eleven, her body too tired to function. Often her aunt had said she was pushing herself too hard but Greer hadn’t agreed. The way she figured it, the more she crammed into her life the more she believed she’d make up the time Jeff and Sydney had lost.
Earlier in the evening she’d been working on the books and fatigue had struck with such force, she’d broken a rule and made a strong pot of coffee after two in the afternoon. The caffeine kick would throw her off but she’d needed to crunch numbers.
That burst of energy now exacted a price of worry and restless energy.
Hoping to relax, she’d showered and donned an oversize T-shirt that skimmed her thighs. Damp hair hung around her shoulders, and she’d traded contacts for glasses. But relaxation escaped her.
So here she sat, wired, her mind tripping back through the day analyzing every detail. A sample tasting had revealed the grapes were sweetening on schedule. Science helped determine peak flavor, but much of the process remained up to educated guess. A wrong guess—too sweet or too sour—meant a less-than-successful harvest and loss of much-needed profits.
Her mind skipped from grapes to the new hand. Mitch. He’d done well today. Quiet, he’d remained to himself but he’d kept a close eye on the horses, and he’d worked to complete the corral expansion. There’d been times during the day when he hammered so hard, she wondered if he pounded nails or nightmares. He’d worked to exhaustion far past the five o’clock quitting time.
Too early to tell if she’d made the right choice with Mitch, but, as with the grapes, all the analysis and thought simply translated into a gut feeling and hope.
The last time she’d reached out to really help another boy, she’d chosen Rory. She’d been filled with youthful optimism and a deeply rooted need to atone. She’d thought then if she could save him, she could somehow make up for the loss of Jeff and Sydney. And so she’d poured her heart and soul and love into him, and he’d lapped it up like a starving man. For weeks she’d thought perhaps she’d found a savior in Rory. Together they would heal.
Though Rory said all the right words about change and a brighter future, his actions told a different story. He was such a beautiful boy, and he caught everyone’s attention. The girls wanted him. The men resented him. At first she’d convinced herself the attention wasn’t important to him because he only had eyes for her.
But in the coming weeks, she realized he craved attention as much as he had drugs. He often stopped to speak to the girls and savored their flirting. Several times she’d spotted him lurking around the medical center, his expression lean and hungry. She’d known if not for her, he’d have stolen whatever could be sold or traded for a high. Never enough attention. Never enough drugs.