Free Devil's Claw by J. A. Jance

into jeans and riding boots, Joanna and Butch busied themselves with unloading the car. “What’s her name again?” Butch said, nodding in the direction of the stalled Lincoln.
    “Reba Singleton,” Joanna replied.
    “And she really is Clayton Rhodes’ only daughter?”
    “That’s my understanding.”
    Butch shook his head. “It’s hard to accept someone like her being related to him. Clayton always struck me as being the salt of the earth. Reba, on the other hand, acts like a first-class bitch. What do you suppose she meant with that comment about you and George Winfield having a conflict of interest?”
    Away from Reba’s bristling anger, Joanna was attempting to practice letting go. She shrugged in response to Butch’s question. “Who cares what Reba Singleton says?” she returned. “After a sudden and unexpected death, survivors sometimes go nuts for a while and make all kinds of crazy accusations. They try to blame anybody and everybody for whatever it is that’s happened in order to keep from having to blame themselves.
    “I don’t think Reba and her father were especially close. In fact, I seem to remember some big family hassle about the time Molly Rhodes died. Molly was Reba’s mother. I don’t recall any of the quarrel’s gory details right offhand, but whatever it was was serious enough that I don’t think she and Clayton ever patched things up. Which means that right this minute Reba Singleton is walking around in a world of hurt. She’s packing a full load of guilt and regret, and she’s looking for someplace to dump it.”
    “Preferably on you.”
    Joanna smiled. “That’s all right,” she said. “I’m tough enough to take it.”
    Jenny came out of the house wearing her jeans, boots, and hat, and carrying the cordless phone. “It’s for you,” she said, handing the receiver to her mother.
    “Who is it?” Joanna asked.
    “Who else?” Jenny returned sourly. “Work.”
    While Jenny collected her new bridle and then went into the barn to retrieve Kiddo, Joanna turned her full attention to the phone. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said.
    “Hi, Joanna,” Chief Deputy Frank Montoya said. “Sorry to bother you on your day off, but it’s a probable homicide. And we have a standing order that you’re to be contacted—”
    “Did you say ‘probable’?” Joanna said, interrupting him.
    “Yes. The victim was shot and is currently being airlifted to Tucson. According to Lance Pakin, the first officer on the scene, she’s in real bad shape and isn’t likely to make it.”
    “Who is it?”
    “We have no idea at the moment. The man who found her was walking by and happened to see her lying in a ditch. He doesn’t look or sound like a suspect. In fact, if it wasn’t for him, she probably would be dead by now.”
    Jenny emerged from the barn leading her sorrel gelding. She led Kiddo over to where Butch stood holding the new saddle blanket at the ready. Joanna turned away from them and walked several steps toward the house as she spoke into the phone.
    “Where and when did this happen?”
    “Near the entrance to Cochise Stronghold,” Frank Montoya replied. “Not inside the monument itself, but between there and Pearce.”
    Cochise Stronghold, in the Dragoon Mountains, was an easily defended cliff-bound hideaway where the Apache chieftain Cochise had often retreated with his wandering band of followers. It was now a national monument. In the winter these days Cochise Stronghold was stocked with a new population of wanderers—an ever-changing assortment of RV-driving retirees. In the summer the demographics changed as retirees were replaced by campers with school-aged children who pulled into the camping area and stayed as long as the law allowed.
    “Since I was already in the neighborhood assisting a deputy on a runaway call,” Frank continued, “it only took a matter of minutes for Lance Pakin and me to get here as well. In fact, we got to the scene before the EMTs did.