a scrap of denim fabric attached to metal buttons, a few snaps like those from a Western shirt and a piece of leather that had once been a belt.
Her heart leaped as she overturned something in the mud that caught in the sunlight. Reaching down, she picked it up and cleaned off the mud. A belt buckle.
Not just any belt buckle she saw as she rubbed her fingers over the cold surface to expose the letters. WIN CHESTER.
The commemorative belt buckle was like a million others. It proved nothing.
Except that when McCall closed her eyes, she saw her father in the only photograph she had of him. He stood next to his 1983 brand-new black Chevy pickup, his Stetson shoved back to expose his handsome face, one thumb hooked in a pocket of his jeans, the other holding his rifle, the one her mother said had belonged to his grandfather. In the photo, the sun glinted off his commemorative Winchester rifle belt buckle.
She opened her eyes and, picking up the shovel, began to dig again, but found nothing more. No wallet. No keys. No boots.
The larger missing item was his pickup, the one in the photograph. The one he allegedly left town in. Had he been up here hunting? She could only assume so, since according to her mother, the last time she saw was the morning of opening day of antelope season—and his twentieth birthday.
Along with the hunting license, she’d found an unused antelope tag.
But if he’d been hunting, then where was his rifle, the one her mother said he had taken the last time she saw him?
McCall knew none of this proved absolutely that the bones were her father’s. No, that would require DNA results from the state crime lab, which would take weeks if not months.
She stared at the grave. If she was right, her father hadn’t left town. He’d been buried on the edge of this ridge for the past twenty-seven years.
The question was who had buried him here?
Someone who’d covered up Trace Winchester’s death and let them all believe he’d left town.
Her hands were shaking as she boxed up the bones and other evidence—all except the license still in her coat pocket—and hiked back to her rig. Once behind the wheel, she pulled out the plastic case and eased out the license and antelope tag.
The words were surprisingly clear after almost thirty years of being buried in the mud since the plastic had protected the practically indestructible paper.
Name: Trace Winchester. Age: 19. Eyes: dark brown. Hair: Black. Height: 6 ft 3 inches. Weight: 185.
He’d listed his address as the Winchester Ranch, which meant when he’d bought this license he hadn’t eloped with her mother yet or moved into the trailer on the edge of Whitehorse.
There was little information on the license, but McCall had even less. Not surprising, her mother, Ruby Bates Winchester, never liked talking about the husband who’d deserted her.
Most of what McCall had learned about her father had come from the rumors that circulated around the small Western town of Whitehorse. Those had portrayed Trace Winchester as handsome, arrogant and spoiled rotten. A man who’d abandoned his young wife, leaving her broke and pregnant, never to be seen again.
According to rumors, there were two possible reasons for his desertion. Trace had been caught poaching—not his first time—and was facing jail. The second was that he’d wanted to escape marriage and fatherhood since McCall was born just weeks later.
A coward and a criminal. Trace solidified his legacy when he had left behind a young, pregnant, heartbroken wife and a daughter who’d never been accepted as a Winchester.
As McCall stood on that lonely windblown ridge, for the first time she realized it was possible that everyone had been wrong about her father.
If she was right, Trace Winchester hadn’t run off and left them. He’d been buried under a pile of dirt at the top of this ridge for the past twenty-seven years—and would have still been there if it hadn’t been for a wild spring storm.
NORTH OF WHITEHORSE, Luke Crawford pulled down a narrow, muddy road through the tall, leafless cottonwoods along the Milk River. The only other tracks were from another pickup that had come down this road right after last night’s rainstorm.
The road ended at the edge of a rancher’s wheat field, the same rancher who’d called saying he’d heard gunshots just before daylight.
Luke parked next to the fresh truck tracks. Past the tall old cottonwoods, down the slow-moving river, he could make out a small cabin tucked in the trees.
Just the sight of McCall Winchester’s home stirred up all the old feelings. Luke cursed himself that he couldn’t let go, never had been able to. Now that he was back in town as the new game warden, there was no way they weren’t going to cross paths.
He could just imagine how that would sit with McCall.
Over the years, he’d followed her career with the sheriff’s department and had heard she’d bought a place on the river. He’d also heard that she seldom dated and as far as anyone knew there was no man in her life.
That shouldn’t have made him as relieved as it did.
He noticed now that her sheriff’s department pickup wasn’t parked next to the cabin. Had she worked the night shift last night or the early-morning one?
With a curse, he realized she might have heard the shots the rancher had reported or seen someone coming up the river road. He had no choice but to stop by and ask her, he told himself.
He sure as hell wasn’t going to avoid her when it appeared there was a poaching ring operating in the river bottom. This was the second call he’d gotten in two weeks.
The thought of seeing her again came with a rush of mixed emotions and did nothing to improve his morning. He could just imagine the kind of reception he’d get, given their past. But now that he was back, there would be no avoiding each other—not in a town the size of Whitehorse.
Luke swore and got out, telling himself he had more to worry about than McCall Winchester as he saw the bloody drag trail in the mud. Taking his gear, he followed it.
RUBY WINCHESTER HAD JUST finished with the lunch crowd when McCall came into the Whitehorse Diner.
McCall felt light-headed after the morning she’d had. She’d come back into town, boxed up the bones and the other evidence, along with a request to compare the DNA of the bones with that of the DNA sample she’d taken from swabbing the inside of her mouth.
Even though the sheriff had told her to wait until her shift tomorrow, she’d mailed off the package to the crime lab without telling anyone. She was now shaking inside, shocked by what she’d done. Withholding evidence was one thing. Requesting the DNA test without proper clearance was another. She was more than jeopardizing her job.
But she couldn’t wait months to know the truth. She’d bought herself some time before the report came back, and she knew exactly how she was going to use it.
“You want somethin’ to eat?” her mother asked as McCall took one of the stools at the counter. “I could get you the special. It’s tuna casserole. I’m sure there’s
