He gave her a look before fishing his cell from his pocket and holding it between them.
She took the offering and scrolled through his photo log. He hoped the offer would buy a little trust. Instead, as she scanned the pictures, she started rocking her head. “I know why your name sounded familiar now. Your family owns half of Texas, Wyoming and Idaho.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” She had the states right, just not the quantity of land.
“Cattle ranchers,” she continued, ignoring his comment, seeming like she was on a roll and would connect the dots as to why he was really there at any minute.
“That’s right.” They were cattle ranchers but owning mineral rights to their land had made his family fortune. It had also freed them from some of the pressures of cattle ranching. A bad year or a severe drought wouldn’t put them out of business. It also gave them ample space to take risks and create innovation. They’d been pioneers in the organic beef market.
The puzzle pieces clicked together so loudly in the detective’s mind he could almost hear them.
“You’re here because of the...” She met his gaze. This close, he could see the cinnamon flecks in her eyes.
“Severed foot,” he finished for her when her sentence dovetailed into silence.
“I read an article a few days ago about the heifers on your ranch turning up with severed left hooves,” she continued.
“Two other ranches have called to report the same crimes. Which brings us up-to-date with why I’m here,” he stated.
In a flash her expression changed. It was like she’d put in a quarter and hit all three numbers on the slot machine. “And you think the guy who’s been killing cattle has moved on to people.”
“Isn’t that how it usually works? Don’t most serial killers start with animals?” he asked.
“Yes. They usually start with something smaller, though.” Detective Cordon continued to take him apart with her stare. Now she looked like she was trying to determine if he needed a trip to Golden Pond Mental Hospital.
“Found three rabbits along Rushing Creek. Carcasses had been pretty picked through and they were in advanced stages of decay, all missing a front left paw.”
Now her brain really fired on all cylinders.
“I don’t remember reading anything about that,” she admitted. Her tone was laced with accusation.
He understood the implication. They’d just been found. Everyone on the ranch was being investigated. “The information will be out soon. As it is, we’ve had our fair share of crazies popping out of the woodwork with leads. Jacobstown is a small community. People are scared. They see this as some kind of omen.” He could tell by her reaction that the detective didn’t like to be the one on the light side of important information.
“You’d think he’d put out a bulletin right away,” she said.
“About rabbits that could have been caught in illegal traps and had their paws chopped off to free them?” Deacon issued a grunt. “The town’s already in a panic over the heifers. Folks aren’t used to crime. It’s not like here in the city. People don’t lock their doors where I’m from. Or at least they didn’t used to.”
“Everyone should lock their doors, Mr. Kent.” She stuck his phone out between them. “A criminal could strike anywhere, anytime. They like easy marks.”
Deacon chuckled. He couldn’t help himself.
“What’s that about?”
“Old Lady Rollick once shot at a friend of mine for sneaking onto her back porch to get a bite of one of her famous peach pies. Folks in Jacobstown can take care of themselves,” he stated.
“Yeah?” she fired back. “Well, the scum I’m used to dealing with wouldn’t be sneaking onto a porch to steal dessert.”
“Peach pie,” he corrected.
“I reported you. A beat cop will be here any minute to investigate.” The detective jerked an earbud out of her pocket and tucked it in her left ear. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to finish my run.”
As she made a move to take off, Deacon caught her arm.
“Can I ask you a question?” He mustered as much politeness as he could.
Her gaze held on to his hand and then lifted to his eyes. There was no amusement.
“What?”
“Why are you out here alone after what happened?”
“THIS IS MY TRAIL,” Leah said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. Deacon Kent’s serious gray-blue eyes scrutinizing her were throwing her off-kilter. She reholstered her weapon, resting her hand on the butt for comfort and because she needed to touch something to push her reset button. Her fingers still tingled with sensations from touching the good-looking cowboy.
“You weren’t scared to come out here alone after what happened last night?” It seemed like it was his turn to dig information out of her. She figured, with his connections, after one phone call from him to headquarters she’d be hauled into the chief’s office to explain why she’d accused a Texas millionaire—billionaire?—of tampering with a crime scene. She hadn’t specifically accused him and there was something about the cowboy—those serious eyes sure seemed honest—that almost had her believing he wouldn’t play that card. But she hadn’t made detective at the age of thirty by taking people for their word or letting every good-looking male off the hook.
She pulled out her earbud and stuck it in between them. “That’s why I only use one earbud. Keep the other one free to listen so no one surprises me.”
“But I caught you off guard and that’s why your heart’s still thumping. Anyone else could’ve done the same thing.” He emphasized his point by dropping his gaze to the base of her throat, causing all kinds of heat to flush her cheeks.
“I was jogging. That’s why my heart was, is, racing.” Kent placated her by letting that little lie fly by. Being courteous must have been part of his Cowboy Code. “The path isn’t that busy at this time of night. It’s not rush hour. It’s not isolated, either.”
He shot her a look of disbelief, but she had no plans to detail out how hard she’d fought against her fears and why it was even more important to her now to face them.
“You can take those gloves off.”
He did, and her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest like a schoolgirl crush when she saw there was no ring on his left-hand finger. She told herself that she was just doing her job. It was true enough. She did get paid to notice things.
“Mr. Kent—”
“Call me Deacon,” he insisted.
She didn’t like being informal with someone she’d considered a possible suspect a few minutes ago, but figured if she threw him a few bones,
