instructed in a voice that was almost eerily still.
After terminating the call, Ryan tossed his cell phone onto the passenger seat and started up his vehicle.
Given the situation, the logical thing would have been to bring backup with him, especially since his father had sounded so shaken up, an unusual state of affairs when it came to Big J.
But since his father had also been adamant no one else come to the ranch to see this—whatever “this” was—except for him, Ryan felt as if he had to go with his father’s instincts.
Besides, his instincts told him to play this very close to his vest—at least until he knew what the hell was going on.
Ryan paused only long enough to reach into his glove compartment to take out his vehicle’s emergency-light attachment. Switching it on, he placed the whirling red and yellow lights onto his roof, securing it. Once he had, he hit the gas and took off.
* * *
Ryan did between eighty and ninety all the way to the ranch, something he would have loved to have done as a teenager. He would have enjoyed it a lot more then than now.
Once he reached the ranch, he took the long way around to the bunkhouse, passing all the other buildings just in case his father had been addled when he’d told him where to go. Ryan assumed that if that was the case, he would see his father standing in front of whatever structure he’d actually meant to direct him toward.
But Big J was not out in front of the main house.
Or the old main house.
Or the Cabin.
The process of elimination told him that his father had really meant to direct him to the bunkhouse.
Why was his father being so melodramatic? Was this actually just another break-in, complete with its own acts of vandalism?
This was definitely getting old, Ryan thought as he headed toward the bunkhouse.
His father was waiting for him out front.
Ryan could make out the lines etched in his father’s face. They were evident even at this distance.
After pulling up in front of the bunkhouse, Ryan got out of his vehicle. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as his father was making it sound.
“Okay, what’s the big emergency?” Ryan asked his father as he approached.
“This way,” was all his father said as he gestured for Ryan to follow him into the bunkhouse.
“What the hell is all this mystery about?” Ryan asked impatiently.
“You’ll see,” Big J told him grimly.
Walking behind his father as they entered the building, Ryan thought that he was pretty much prepared for anything.
But he was wrong.
There was a dead man lying on his back in the center of the bunkhouse floor, a drying pool of blood beneath him, a surprised look frozen on his young face.
Whatever he had expected to find when his father had summoned him, deliberately refraining from giving him any details, it definitely hadn’t been this.
Ryan felt as if he was moving in slow motion as he circled the prone body of the young cowboy with the conspicuous hole in his chest. He was careful not to step into or otherwise disturb the wide pool of blood that had had at least several hours to seep out of the man’s body.
Only after he had completely circumvented the ranch hand’s—Kurt Rodgers’s—earthly remains did Ryan squat down beside him.
Rodgers’s complexion was already beginning to take on a grayish pallor. That, and the condition of the blood on the floor, indicated that the cowboy had been dead for a while.
Even so, Ryan pulled out the handkerchief he had tucked into the back pocket of his jeans and gingerly felt along the cowboy’s throat and neck for any sign of a pulse.
There was none.
He hadn’t really expected one, but there was always that wild, outside chance that the man might have somehow still been clinging to life. Ryan felt he couldn’t rule that possibility out until he’d made absolutely sure.
Ryan caught himself thinking that the victim—a fairly recent hire who had an affinity for horses and had helped Greta and Daniel train the ranch’s horses—looked awfully young.
Just yesterday, Kurt’s whole life had been ahead of him. And now, it wasn’t.
Ryan was aware that his father had crept closer during the cursory exam and now hovered around him, peering over his shoulder. “That’s Kurt Rodgers,” Big J said.
Ryan didn’t bother looking his way. “I know who it is, Dad.”
Big J shrugged in response. “It’s just that lately, unless you’re investigating something going on at the Lucky C, you’re never here.”
Rising, Ryan pocketed his handkerchief. Irritation filled his voice. “I said I know who it is. Sorry,” he apologized the next moment.
He wasn’t annoyed with his father but with this latest, far more serious turn of events. Was this just a random murder or one that involved his family?
“It’s just that checking out a dead body in my family’s bunkhouse isn’t exactly something I ever expected to be doing.” Taking a breath, he looked around the otherwise empty bunkhouse. “Who found him?”
“Brett,” his father answered. At twenty-eight, Brett was the youngest of the Colton brothers. “Near as I can figure, he was coming in from one of his late-night work sessions,” Big J explained. “Boy was all white when he came and got me—I couldn’t sleep and was in the study,” his father added as an afterthought. “Brett looked like he’d seen a ghost or something.”
“Or something,” Ryan repeated, stifling a frustrated sigh. “Was anyone else with him at the time?” Ryan asked.
Big J guessed at what his son was really asking him. “You mean was Hannah with him? If she was, she took off before anyone else saw her. As far as I know, he was alone when he saw Rodgers lying there like that.” He shook his head sadly as he looked down at his murdered employee.
Ryan absently nodded, jotting down key points from his father’s statement. “Where’s Brett now?”
“At the house, most likely trying to steady his nerves.” A vague shrug accompanied his father’s words, as if he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that his youngest son was still where he just said he was. “I gave him my best Kentucky bourbon.”
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Great, just what I need. An intoxicated witness to question.”
“He’s not a witness,” Big J countered defensively, as if the term was somehow tainted,
