frowned as she rode back to the main house. If Billy Whitley hadn’t killed Marcie and the others, then who had?
Deputy Shane Tolbert’s father, Ben? He’d confessed to shooting at Sergeant Hutton and the sheriff, but he denied killing Billy, Marcie, Daniel Taabe, the antiquities broker and the Native American activist who first accused Jonah of the illegal land deal.
Instead of the investigation coming to an end, the situation was growing worse. The Rangers had only allowed her on their task force because she knew the lay of the land, and they trusted her more than they did her father or brother.
Then again, they had probably asked her to join them so they could watch her as a suspect.
Jessie tied the palomino to the hitching post, the sight of the Bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes swaying in the breeze.
Spring was usually her favorite time of year, a time where life was renewed, the land blossomed with an array of colors, green leaves and flowers, and the beautiful blue of the Texas sky turned glorious shades as winter’s gray faded and the sun glinted off the rugged land.
She paused to inhale the scent of fresh grass filling the air, but the memory of the brittle skeleton bones she’d seen haunted her—instead of life thriving now, there was too much death on their land. Violence and suspicion had invaded her home like a dark cloud.
She stomped up the steps to the porch, determined to protect her own. The ranch and her father were her life. And now that life and her family’s future and good name were in jeopardy.
Her head ached from anxiety, and her shoulders were knotted and sore. She shoved open the door to the scent of freshly baked cinnamon bread, coffee and bacon, but her stomach churned. She couldn’t eat a bite.
Lolita, the cook who had been with her father for years, loped in with a smile. “You hungry, Miss Jessie?”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. Is Dad downstairs yet?”
Lolita gave a short nod, but concern darkened her brown eyes. “In his private study. I took him coffee, and he’s resting in his easy chair.”
Good, at least he had an alibi. Not that Lolita wouldn’t lie for him, but Jessie hoped to clear the family with the truth. “Did he have a hard night?”
Lolita nodded. “I heard him pacing the floor until near dawn.”
“I’ll check on him now.” She swung around to the right, then knocked on her father’s study door. He had insisted on maintaining a small private space for himself, so she and Trace shared a connecting office next door.
Expensive, dark leather furniture and a bulky credenza gave the room a masculine feel. An ornately carved wooden box sat on his desk where he kept his pipe tobacco, and built-in paneled bookcases held his collection of leather-bound historical journals and books.
A portrait of his father, William Becker, hung above the brick mantel, a testament to the man who’d bought the small parcel of land that had been the beginnings of the Becker ranch. He’d named it the Big B because of his drive to make it one of the biggest spreads in Texas, and first brought in the Santa Gertrudis which they still raised.
Her father didn’t answer, so she knocked again, then cracked the door open. “Dad?”
He glanced up from his newspaper, took a sip of his coffee, his brows furrowed. “Jessie?”
She breathed a sigh of relief that he recognized her. Twice lately, he’d called her by her mother’s name. She’d think he was still grieving for her, but they’d divorced years ago. “Yes. We need to talk.”
He twisted the left side of his handlebar mustache, a familiar habit. “Come on in.”
She moved into the room and settled on the leather love seat across from him. “Dad, another Ranger was here today, a Native American named Sergeant Cabe Navarro.”
Worry knitted his brows together, and he tapped his pipe and lit it. “They brought in an Indian.”
Jessie worked her mouth from side to side. “Yes, he’s a Comanche, and you should show him some respect. Besides, this one is a Texas Ranger. He’s sworn to uphold the law.” And he’d probably had to overcome severe obstacles and prejudices to achieve his goals.
That realization roused admiration in her chest.
“Those Rangers need to leave us alone,” her father spat.
“I know it upsets you, Dad, but they’re not leaving until these murders have been solved and the issue of the land is resolved.”
“Hell, I thought Billy Whitley admitted to the murders before he killed himself.”
“The Rangers think the suicide/confession note might have been bogus, that someone might have forced Billy to write it, or that it was forged.”
“Good God Almighty.” Her father coughed and leaned back in his chair, looking pale and weak. “So what does that mean?”
“That Billy may have possessed evidence proving he doctored that paperwork on the land deal.” Which meant the Native Americans were right. They deserved the land, and her father had made an illegal deal.
Protective instincts swelled inside her, and she clenched her teeth. He was a ruthless businessman, but he wouldn’t have knowingly agreed to an illegal deal, would he?
No … He’d been acting oddly lately, not himself, his memory slipping. He’d undergone every test imaginable since her return, and the doctors could prove nothing. So why was her father’s health deteriorating?
She might suspect guilt or grief was eating at him, but she didn’t believe him capable of murder. And grief for strangers was not something he would feel. He’d hardened himself against loving anyone, had shut himself off from friendships and close relationships after her mother had run off with a ranch hand. Instead, he’d focused all his attention on building his business empire.
“Dad, there’s more,” Jessie said softly. “Ranger Navarro discovered another body today, a Native American he believes was buried years ago.” She reached out and touched his hand. “Be honest with me, Dad. Did you know the property was a sacred burial ground when you bought it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her father said, the strength in his voice reminding her of her old father, not the frail man he’d been lately, the man she’d feared might be suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s or dementia.
The man she tried to hide from the press and police.
If word leaked that Jonah Becker was seriously ill, especially mentally incapacitated, not only would the cops attack, so would the media and his competitors. Jonah’s business investors might also lose faith in him and drop their support.
“They can’t do that to us.” Her father slapped a shaky hand on the arm of his chair.
“Dad, the land is the least of our worries,” Jessie said. Not that she wanted her father arrested for a fraudulent deal, but murder was much more serious. “Daniel Taabe’s body was buried in a Comanche ritualistic style just as those other two were. The face was painted with red paint, paint which has human blood in it. The blood didn’t match Billy Whitley’s, so
