The Deputy Gets Her Man

Her backbone straightened to a rigid line. “I’m hoping that digging won’t be necessary, Mr. Pickens. I expect you’ll want to help in this investigation, to volunteer anything and everything that might help us discover who committed this devastating crime.”

Long, tense seconds ticked by as his cool gaze slipped over her face, her khaki shirt, then on to the long line of her legs. In spite of the fact that many women were working in law enforcement these days, they were still sometimes subjected to nasty slurs and sexual insults. But the look in Tyler Pickens’s eyes said he wasn’t dismissing her as a deputy sheriff, he was seeing her as a woman. And that unsettled her far more than his brash attitude.

“How long have you worked for Sheriff Hamilton?” he asked.

This was her interview, not his. Still, she didn’t want to make him so angry that he clammed up. Like it or not, she needed this man’s cooperation.

“Long enough,” she answered evasively. She wasn’t about to tell him she’d only worked as a Lincoln County deputy for eight months. He’d think she was too inexperienced. He couldn’t know that prior to becoming a deputy sheriff, she’d already worked a year and a half for the Ruidoso Police Department. And since becoming a deputy she and her partner had already busted a major theft ring, helped capture two fugitives and recovered stolen livestock.

His gaze settled on her left hand. “You have a family, Ms. Lightfoot?”

Why would he be asking her something that personal? she wondered. It was none of his business. “Deputy Lightfoot,” she corrected him. “And no. Do you?” she countered.

Even though his gaze slipped from hers, she could tell by the tight corners of his mouth that he didn’t appreciate her question. Why? Was he estranged from his family?

“No,” he answered. “Except for my cook, Gib Easton, I live here alone.”

“Hmm. Must get lonely,” she mused aloud. “Lonely enough to want to create a little excitement by setting a fire?”

His response was a deep, rich laugh that had Rosalinda staring at him in wonder. The dimples in his hollow cheeks, the gleam of white teeth against his dark skin was so endearing she found herself smiling along with him.

“You find that funny?” she finally asked.

“Very.” Rising to his feet, he walked over to the edge of the concrete porch and with one hand made a sweeping gesture toward the mountain range to the right of them, the narrow valley directly below and in the far distance, the glint of a river winding its way southward. “All of this is mine, Deputy Lightfoot. I’ve worked hard to make it into the ranch it is today. I get excitement from watching a calf born or a foal running at its mother’s side. Not from flames eating up my precious grazing land.”

He made perfect sense. Draining the last of her coffee, she placed the cup and saucer aside and walked over to where Tyler Pickens stood next to an arched column of rock that supported the porch roof.

If she were to get really close to the man, she thought, the top of her head would do well to reach the middle of his chest. A fact that had nothing to do with the matter at hand, she quickly reminded herself, so why was she thinking it? After the long, nightmarish ordeal she’d been through with Dale, she’d not wanted to be close to a man again. Neither physically nor emotionally. But something about this rugged rancher was making her forget the heartache and fear that she’d endured.

Clearing her throat, she tried her best to focus on her job. “How long have you owned this ranch?” she asked, even though county records had already told her.

He glanced at her. “Nearly ten years.”

Beyond the manicured lawn shaded by huge Ponderosa pines, the ground sloped away to a green valley floor, where the working ranch yard was located. From her angle, she could see a maze of barns, sheds and corrals. Cowboys on horseback were moving cattle from pen to pen, while others pitched hay and spread feed into mangers and troughs. Cows bawled and a horse’s loud whinny was answered by its nearby pal. It was a beautiful June morning in southern New Mexico, the kind that could almost make a person forget that something bad had happened the night before.

Keeping her voice brisk, she said, “I understand you asked Quint Cantrell to sell a stretch of Chaparral land to you and he refused.”

“That’s right. A couple of years ago, I approached him about buying a piece of land that runs adjacent to my property. Most of it is grazing land, something I need more of. Neither he nor his grandfather wanted to part with it.”

“Did that make you angry?”

He looked utterly bored. And perhaps he did consider her questions stupid, but to her it was legitimate.

“Disappointed, Deputy Lightfoot. Not angry. I’m still hoping that someday they’ll have a change of heart. In the meantime, I don’t want their land burned or any other mishap to happen to their ranch. I happen to like the family.”

“But you are aware that the Chaparral Ranch has been experiencing some problems.”

“That’s a damned fool remark! You bet your ass I’m aware of it! I run purebred Herefords up here. I don’t want any of their Angus bulls over here breeding my cows! I don’t want my fences cut or my cattle straying off their home range! I’m sick of Cantrell problems turning into mine!”

His icy eyes were now spitting fire, making it clear to Rosalinda that he was a passionate man.

“I can appreciate that,” she told him.

“Somehow I doubt that.” As quickly as it flared, the anger disappeared from his face. “The Cantrells are an old, established family around here. They’re known and loved by a lot of folks. I’m still considered a Texan, an interloper. Nobody gives a damn what happens on the the Pine Ridge Ranch.”

She turned a thoughtful gaze toward the busy ranch yard. “Frankie Cantrell, Quint’s mother, is from Texas. In fact, she’s back there now visiting her older sons. Did you know that?”

“Is that question a part of your investigation?”

“No. Just my curiosity.”

A disapproving groove appeared between his brows, and Rosalinda got the impression he wasn’t used to having personal questions directed at him. And suddenly she was wondering about far more than his feelings toward the Cantrells or their adjoining land. This ranch was even more remote than the Chaparral and he’d already admitted that he lived here alone. Outside of raising cattle and horses, what did he do for companionship?

Apparently deciding she was simply talking as one person to another, he said, “Yes, we’re both from Texas. Back there I lived on my parents’ ranch, the Rocking P, just west of Austin. But Mrs. Cantrell said she’d lived in the southeast, in Goliad County, and we’d never met before I moved here.”

“What made you want to come to New Mexico?”

“To make a place of my own. And I like this area.”

“It’s a far distance from Austin,” she stated the obvious.

“That’s one of the reasons I like it,” he said flatly.

Which could only mean he’d left something behind there, Rosalinda decided. The same way she’d left a part of her life behind in Gallop. But none of that had anything to do with the present.

“Well, concerning the fire, Mr. Pickens, do you have any reason to think one, or more, of your hands might have set the blaze?”

Expecting him to lash out again, he surprised her by shrugging. “All my men have been with me for several years now. They’re good, dependable guys.”

Folding his arms against his chest, he turned toward her and Rosalinda’s gaze was drawn to the fabric stretched across his biceps, the cuffs rolled against his corded forearms. “Don’t get me wrong, Deputy Lightfoot. There’ve been squabbles among my hands. Throw ten men together for eight, ten, twelve hours a day and eventually there’ll be friction. But nothing serious between them and the Chaparral hands.”

“Do you know if any of them are buddies with Chaparral hands?”

“Not that I’m aware of. You’d have to ask them.”

She nodded. “Well, I would like to speak with your men. Ask them a few questions,” she told him.

“If you want to talk with Gib, you’ll find him in the kitchen. The rest you should find down there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the ranch yard. “But I wouldn’t expect any confessions,” he added wryly.

She shot him a cool smile. “I’m not expecting confessions, Mr. Pickens. I’m looking for pieces of information that will tell me the comings and goings of your men prior to the fire.”

She drew a card from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. “Here’s my name and a sheriff’s department number where you can reach me. If you think of anything that might be helpful in this matter, don’t hesitate to call.”

He took the card and without looking at it, stuffed the piece of paper into the pocket on his shirt. “I’ll do that.”

Extending her hand to him, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Pickens. I, or someone with the department, will keep you informed.”

“I would appreciate that,” he said.