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  She neared the end of the page. Check 1980 had been written to Kara Saunders on March 19 for $125. There was no notation as to what it was for.

  Check 1985 had been written to Candice Cameron on April 1 for $186.00. If that amount was for rent, housing had definitely been a lot cheaper back then. And rent was usually rounded off to the nearest ten, at least Julie’s had always been. Again no notation for what the check covered.

  Julie stopped and took a sip of the coffee.

  “How is it?”

  She looked up to find a middle-aged woman with deep-set blue eyes, graying hair and a contagious smile leaning against the back of her booth. A slice of pecan pie dominated the saucer she was holding.

  “The coffee is great, but I didn’t order the pie.”

  “I know, but you look as if you need it. Too much scowl on your face. That makes wrinkles, you know.”

  “In that case, I’ll probably need a face lift by the time I’m thirty,” Julie said. “But I’ll work on eliminating the scowl.”

  “I’m guessing you already work too hard,” the woman said. “Anyway, the pie’s on me, a treat to lift your spirits.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “I insist. I do it all the time with new customers. More often than not, it makes regulars of them.” She slid the pie in front of Julie. “I’m Abby. Welcome to my diner.”

  “I’m Julie. It’s nice to meet you, Abby.”

  “I’ll bet you’re in town for the bluebonnet festival,” Abby said. “You have good hands. I always notice the customer’s hands. I’ll bet you’re one of the artists here for the craft demonstrations.” Abby put a finger to her chin as if thinking hard. “Let me guess. A potter?”

  “No. Unfortunately, I have no artistic talents. I’m not even here for the festival.”

  “Here for work? Or to visit someone?”

  “Both, but I hear the festival is entertaining and I do love the bluebonnets. I never realized they grew so thick or so blue.”

  “Some years are better than others. Have to get the right amounts of rain at the right time and get the temperature to cooperate. This year is just about perfect.”

  “Have you lived in Mustang Run long?” Julie asked.

  “All my life. Wouldn’t dream of livin’ anywhere else, though I’d love to go to Rome one day. I’d like to see the Vatican and those Coliseum ruins. Now I best get back in the kitchen and check on those cherry pies I put in the oven.”

  Still she lingered. “You know if you can’t take in the whole festival, you should at least go to the dance.”

  “Will you be there?” Julie asked.

  “You better know it. It’s the one night of the year I get to dance till I drop. I don’t even feel bad about not having a partner. I have a lot more fun than those married women trying to drag their husbands onto the dance floor.”

  Julie sipped her coffee, though the sinking feeling that had prompted her stopping in had passed. Abby was better than caffeine, which probably explained why the diner was practically full in the middle of the afternoon. Well, that and the pies.

  “I’ll bet you have to fight the men off,” Julie teased.

  Abby chuckled. “Now wouldn’t that be nice. But I’ve got my eye on one. I won’t say who.”

  “I hope he likes pie.”

  “He likes it just fine, especially my buttermilk pie. You should see him gobble it down. Come to the dance and you just might meet him. And guaranteed you’ll meet some cute cowboys who’ll twirl you around until you’re plumb dizzy.”

  “I doubt I can make it, but if I do, I’ll look you up.”

  “You do that, and enjoy your pie.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  The bell over the door tinkled again. This time a man with one good arm and a shirt sleeve that hung free below the elbow of the other sauntered in. He took off his hat and squeezed in at the counter.

  Abby walked over and poked him on the shoulder. “Well, if it’s not old man Hartwell. What’s the matter? Janie run you off and tell you to bother somebody else for a change?”

  “Nope. I smelled pie clear down at the beauty shop. So cut me a slice, woman.”

  “Your usual?”

  “Ain’t no kind of pie but cherry in my book. You know that.”

  “Cherry pie, coming up.”

  Julie went back to the ledger. Her gaze fastened immediately on the name Zeke Hartwell, the same last name as the man who’d just ordered cherry pie. What were the chances of that?

  It was almost like an omen. She looked back at the notation.

  Check 1989, the last check Muriel Frost had ever written. The amount was $200 and the notation merely said repairs.

  Julie finished the pie to the last crumb even though she hadn’t been hungry. It was that good. She let the waitress refill her cup while she waited for Abby to reappear so she could ask her if she knew a Zeke Hartwell. For all she knew, it could be the one-armed man finishing his cherry pie.

  After the second cup of coffee when there was still no Abby, Julie asked the waitress to see if the owner had a minute to answer a quick question.

  “She’s elbow deep in piecrust dough. But you can go on back to the kitchen.” The young waitress nodded toward a door behind the counter. “Abby won’t mind. That’s her second home.”

  Julie paid her bill and pushed through the swinging door into a small, but organized kitchen. Abby was rolling circles of dough on a glistening white prep table.

  “The pie was as good as promised,” Julie said.

  Abby glanced up, barely breaking her rhythmic rolling stroke. “Good, but something tells me you didn’t come back here just to tell me that.”

  “You have good instincts.”

  “I reckon I do. Always have had. Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Mostly not.”

  “I was just wondering if you know a man named Zeke Hartwell. I think he might work as a handyman, or at least he used to.”

  Abby kept rolling dough. “What you got that needs fixing?”

  “Nothing,” Julie answered quickly. “A mutual friend just asked me to look Zeke up while I was in Mustang Run, but he wasn’t sure Zeke still lived in the area.”

  “There are some Hartwells in Mustang Run. Tom Hartwell was in the restaurant a few minutes ago. You might have seen him. Tall. A little paunchy. Lost most of one arm a few years back in a hay-baling accident. I’ve never met a Zeke Hartwell.”

  “Does Tom have relatives in the area?”

  “He has a brother who used to visit sometime. If I remember correctly, Tom’s wife Janie didn’t care for him much. And that’s odd. Janie likes ’bout nearly everybody. She has a beauty shop in the next block. Janie’s Shears. You could stop by there and ask her if there’s a Zeke in the Hartwell clan.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Sometimes she closes early if business gets slow, but if you don’t catch her today, she’ll be open again tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Abby. I’ll hurry and see if I can catch her.”

  It wasn’t much to go on, but at least a Zeke Hartwell who was working for Muriel Frost at an isolated farmhouse was a credible lead.

  Julie’s optimistic attitude hit a roadblock ten minutes later when the cardboard sign hanging on the door of Janie’s Shears had been turned to closed. She knocked anyway, hoping Janie Hartwell might still be in the back of the shop and come to the door. No luck.

  She’d just have to wait one more day. But she would follow up. She wondered if the sheriff had questioned Zeke, or if he was one of the local good old boys who’d slipped under the radar.

  She was so deep in thought that she practically ran into Collette rushing out of a small boutique on the corner near where she’d parked.

  “Julie,” Collette said. “I didn’t know you were coming into town this afternoon. We could have ridden in together. You are still staying at the ranch, aren’t you?”

  “I’m still there,” she said, knowing Collette was hoping for a different answer.
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  Collette scanned the area. “Is Tyler with you?”

  “No. Why would he be?”

  “No reason.” Collette held up her package. “I found a great pair of sandals for the dance Thursday night, snazzy, but comfortable. Since I’m the official photographer, I’ll probably never get to sit down.”

  Okay, Collette was making a stab at being friendly. And who could blame her that she didn’t like having a reporter on the ranch? The least Julie could do was sound interested in the festival.

  “I stopped in Abby’s Diner for pie and coffee,” she said. “Abby told me what a great time I’d miss if I didn’t attend the dance.”

  Collette waved at a guy who honked when he drove by them. “Don’t you just love Abby?” she said.

  “Yes. She’s delightful.”

  “I think she has a crush on Troy.”

  “Is buttermilk pie his favorite?” Julie asked.

  “It is if Abby’s doing the baking.”

  “Then I think you may be right about the crush.”

  “I better be going,” Collette said. “But if there’s anything you need to know about Mustang Run, just ask. I’ve lived here all my life, though I probably don’t know nearly as much about what’s going on around here as Abby does.”

  “There is one thing,” Julie said. “Do you know a man named Tom Hartwell? His wife owns Janie’s Shears.”

  “Sure, Janie cuts my hair. Why?”

  “Do you know if he has a brother named Zeke?”

  Collette toyed with a stray curl, her expression signaling her inability to speak with confidence. “Janie’s from a large family, but I’ve never heard them mention Tom having a brother. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll wait and ask Janie tomorrow.”

  “Does Zeke Hartwell have something to do with your investigation?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well, good luck. Gotta run. Dylan will be looking for me.”

  Happiness radiated from Collette when she merely uttered Dylan’s name. Julie wondered if she knew how lucky she was.

  Suddenly, all Julie could think of was dancing in Tyler’s arms to a Western band beneath bright Texas stars. She stared into the window of the boutique. One of the shop’s super slim mannequins was dressed in a revealing black sundress accented by a sparkling belt. The other was draped in a multitiered blue broomstick skirt and white peasant blouse that looked so much like the one Muriel had on in the torn picture that Julie’s heart skipped a beat.

  Acting impulsively, she walked in and bought the blouse in a size small without even trying it on. Fortunately, it wasn’t expensive, since it wasn’t her style. She’d probably never wear it.

  But somehow buying it seemed right.

  After the rash purchase, she walked back to the car, amazed at how ready she was to return to Willow Creek Ranch. She’d like to go over the information about Zeke with Troy and see if he knew anything about him.

  Mostly she wanted to see Tyler. Foolish, she knew, but she’d missed him every minute she’d been gone.

  She had opened the car door and was about to slide behind the wheel when she noticed the large envelope tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Her mood plunged.

  Surely not another threatening note.

  She tore it open and reached inside. Gasping, the contents slipped though her shaky fingers as her blood rushed to her brain in dizzying, frigid waves.

  Chapter Six

  Tyler stared at the picture that Julie had dropped to the table in front of him. A woman’s nude and bloodied body was stretched across the floor, her brains spilling from an open bullet wound, no doubt delivered from close range.

  For one sickening instant, he thought it was a picture of his mother and his heart felt as if someone were scraping across it with rusty nails. But the dead woman was a blonde. His mother’s hair had been dark as night.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was left on my windshield while I was having coffee in Mustang Run.” Her voice shook with anger and a vulnerability that surprised him.

  Tyler’s protective instincts kicked in and every muscle in his body tightened. It was all he could do not to bury his fist in the wall for lack of a better target.

  “This was delivered with it.” She pulled a note from a brown envelope lying next to the picture.

  Stay out of this, or you’ll be next.

  “Son of a bitch. When I get my hands on that arrogant quack of a sheriff, I’ll…”

  “But what if the sheriff isn’t the one trying to frighten me off,” she whispered. “What if it’s the killer?”

  Tyler muttered a string of curses. Why had he not even considered the obvious? That changed the complexion of everything and upped the danger quotient to deadly. And he’d let Julie go into town alone.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he said, spitting his words through clenched teeth.

  “No one can take care of anything until we find the killer.”

  Her voice dissolved in a shudder. Tyler pulled Julie into his arms. She trembled and burrowed her head against his chest. His chin rested on the top of her head and he could feel the rapid beating of her heart as her body pressed against his.

  Tremors of desire rocked though him. It wasn’t the time or the place and he struggled to tamp down the need that had erupted inside him. It had been eons since a woman had affected him the way Julie did—if ever.

  Fortunately, he knew his limitations, knew he was poison where relationships were concerned. He simply wasn’t a twosome kind of person.

  But he would not stand by and let some maniac torture Julie like this.

  Tyler had faced the best and worst of humanity over the last four years. He’d watched a young soldier face enemy fire head-on to pull his injured buddy to safety. Both had died that day, their sweat, blood and tears intermingled with their mangled bodies. He knew valor. He knew depravity.

  And whoever had left that nauseating, repulsive photograph for Julie to find was a sorry, sick, dangerous bastard.

  Footsteps sounded on the back steps. Julie jerked away from him abruptly as if they were teenagers who’d been caught making out.

  The picture was lying in full view on the kitchen table when Troy stepped into the room.

  “How was…” Troy stopped midsentence and Tyler could tell from the pasty hue of his skin that he’d had the same instant flashback that Tyler had experienced.

  He revived quickly and walked to the edge of the table for a closer look. “Is that Muriel Frost?”

  “Yes.” Julie’s voice was strained but she seemed to have regained some of her composure.

  Troy worried the jagged scar that ran down his right cheek. “Did Sheriff Grayson give that to you?”

  “I’m not sure. If he did, it was done anonymously and not meant to be helpful.” She explained how it came to be in her possession and then showed Troy the note.

  “So much for the law being on the side of the citizens. Not that the sheriff’s being a conniving rat surprises me,” Troy declared.

  “There’s no proof the sheriff left it for her,” Tyler said, though he’d jumped to that same conclusion.

  “That’s a police photograph,” Troy insisted. “No one else would have had the opportunity to photograph the victim in that condition. The police would have covered her up as soon as the crime scene was secure, if not before.”

  “The killer would have all the opportunity he needed,” Julie said.

  Troy looked doubtful. “Why would the killer hold on to such an incriminating piece of evidence?”

  “They say serial killers frequently keep a souvenir from their murders,” Tyler said. “Maybe the Frost woman’s killer kept photographs.”

  “One theory expounded by the press was that Muriel was murdered by a serial killer,” Julie said. “Someone who staked out his victims and knew that Muriel Frost lived in an isolated area. He killed for pleasure or because he felt driven to. That would explain why nothing appeared to be missing fro
m the house, not even the cash that was in her handbag.”

  Troy paced. “The serial killer theory was never proved.”

  “But it makes sense,” Tyler said. “And that same serial killer just might have found his way to the Willow Creek Ranch.” He was beginning to see why Julie felt so strongly that the two murders could be connected. Of course, the serial killer theory also ruled out Troy as Helene’s killer, which made it surprising that Troy wasn’t backing the possibility all the way.

  “You stated that the niece witnessed the Frost murder,” Tyler said. “Did she give a description to the police?”

  “Not according to the reports I read,” Troy said. “They all said she was so traumatized that she didn’t remember anything. She didn’t speak for days after and never answered any questions.”

  Julie picked up the photograph and held it to the light. “I just noticed that there’s a person’s shadow in this picture. See.” She moved closer to Tyler and traced a dark spot along the edge of the photograph.

  “It looks to be a person, all right,” Tyler agreed, “but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

  “If it was a serial killer, then it’s almost certain the killer was a man,” Troy said. “But I still think Grayson or one of his deputies left that picture on your car. He warned you to stay out of this and he’s just the type of macho law officer to put some teeth into the threat.”

  “We can stand here all day and throw around assumptions,” Tyler said. “But the only thing we know for certain is that someone is going to cause a lot of trouble if Julie continues on this case.”

  Julie dropped the photo back to the table. “What’s your point, Tyler?”

  She wasn’t going to like the point. If he were going to stay in Mustang Run to look out for her, he might see it differently. But he’d taken his time getting down to Texas and now he had just a little over a week before he had to be back in Afghanistan and ready for duty.

  He worked to keep his tone nonconfrontational. “Why not cut your teeth on an easier case, Julie, one where you don’t attract threats, lunatic sheriffs and depraved madmen?”