Free Cowboy Justice by Melissa Cutler Page B

Vaughn didn’t have any high hopes they’d find a single trace of evidence in the wreckage.
    Neither was Vaughn holding his breath in anticipation of Henigin and Baltierra’s capture. Too often in border states like New Mexico, suspects found a way to skip out of the country, perhaps with the aid of one of the many illegal immigrant smugglers who haunted border cities in both countries and knew all the tricks to sneaking across the border undetected.
    Stratis sidled up next to him after a few minutes. Despite the shade created by the brim of his brown hat, he squinted as he took stock of the valley, his angular features set in a hard mask, his arms crossed over his chest.
    Stratis was an indispensible member of Vaughn’s department, and with only a couple years separating their ages, everything on paper said the two of them should’ve been fast friends. Both were Quay County natives who’d worked for various law-enforcement entities for a similar number of years, and both were known for their unwavering commitment to professionalism and taking a hard line stance against police corruption, which were two of the main reasons Vaughn had promoted him to undersheriff after his election.
    Hell, Stratis would’ve made a top-notch sheriff if he hadn’t had such a strong aversion to public attention. But, for whatever reason, their personalities had never quite meshed. They worked well together, but couldn’t seem to have a real conversation about anything other than a case. Not that Vaughn was looking for more friends—he had plenty—but it would’ve been nice to feel like he knew more about the man than his arrest record.
    “The footprints that begin in the canyon and continue up the south side of the mesa match Rachel Sorentino’s shoe size,” Stratis said.
    “I know.”
    Stratis shifted to look at him. “She reloaded. Twice. You know what that means.”
    Vaughn chewed the inside of his cheek. Once the flare of frustration subsided, he regarded Stratis full in the face. “Not my first case, okay? I’m well aware of what that means.”
    The two shells in the canyon and the six .38 rounds scattered near the footprints meant she’d taken the time to manually remove the casings from the revolver and reload the weapon. Even more damning was that when he’d arrived on scene and took the revolver from her hand, he found six more empty casings inside. She’d fired fourteen rounds total, and even if the first two she fired from the canyon were heat of the moment shots, the act of reloading—twice—spoke of a conscious choice. Premeditation all the way. Thank goodness she’d taken photographs of the four men and their rifles, lending just cause to her actions.
    “She needs to come in for another interview. Today.” Stratis paused, then added, “I think I should handle it.”
    Hell, no. “Binderman called from the hospital. She was released a couple hours ago. I’ll pay her a visit this afternoon.”
    Stratis’s lips smashed into a straight line. Narrowing his eyes, he looked over Vaughn’s shoulder. “She can’t be here.”
    Vaughn pivoted, following Stratis’s glare, and saw Rachel racing across the valley on horseback.
    Her ever-present ponytail whipped in the wind beneath a cowboy hat that seemed to be staying on her head out of pure stubbornness, despite her speed. Today, as she usually did, she drove her horse hard and fast, eating up the ground they traveled over, her body a fluid, graceful wonder.
    The first time they’d met in this valley, on an afternoon two weeks into their affair, she’d ridden horseback. Vaughn had leaned against the hood of his patrol car, rendered frozen by awe and arousal at the tough, quiet command with which she moved through nature, the give and take of power, as if the land and sky and horse existed only for her, and in turn, she lived only for them. Watching her, he’d thought at the time, She yields that power to me . The thought had ripped through him like an orgasm.