Renegade: Rodeo Knights, A Western Romance Novel (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 5) Read online

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. It was one thing facing your old man out on the road, but now that we’re back on his home turf . . .”

  “Trust me.” She covered his hand. “The last time I failed to fight for you I was a child. Now, I’m a woman. I’ve learned my dad isn’t the saint I’ve always made him out to be. He has his faults, just like we have ours. I’ll never let him come between us again.”

  Sawyer wanted to believe her, but old wounds had a funny way of reopening when slashed with the same weapon. Walter Bowing didn’t need a knife to be lethal. His words were razor sharp.

  First Zeb, then Jersey, then finally, Walter emerged through the home’s grand double doors. They’d been carved from redwood and stood ten feet tall. Mark had driven his RV back to Denver.

  “’Bout time you two made it,” Zeb said. “I was thinking of calling out the cavalry.”

  “How fast did Jersey drive my truck?” Sawyer teased.

  “I only had it over a hundred three or four times.” Jersey laughed.

  Sawyer didn’t.

  “It’s good to see you,” Walter said to his daughter. He had yet to make eye contact with Sawyer. “Heard you had a great ride with Smoky.”

  Delilah nodded. “He’s a good horse.”

  “Told you.”

  She raised her chin. “Folks said I killed those people so I could win.”

  “That’s just crazy talk.” He stepped forward, pulling her into an awkward hug.

  Sawyer’s fingers involuntarily curled into fists. How could he love her so much, yet hate her father even more?

  Get your hands off my daughter, you filthy Injun . . .

  After all these years, the old man’s words still cut. But that didn’t mean Sawyer had to bleed.

  “Hungry?” Zeb asked Sawyer. “I’ve got a pot of ham and beans bubbling in the bunkhouse. Both of y’all are welcome to join me and Jersey.”

  “Great idea.” Walter eyed Sawyer. “My daughter will dine with me.”

  “Daddy . . .” Delilah turned to Sawyer. Here we go. Was she already losing her nerve?

  “Come on.” Walter took her arm, leading her toward the door. “Maria made some lovely prime rib.”

  “Daddy, no.” She froze.

  “If you don’t want prime rib, I’m sure she can whip up a dish more to your liking.”

  She nodded, then shook her head. “I’m not eating without Sawyer.”

  “He’s not coming in the house. You know how I feel about these matters.”

  “He’s not a matter, Daddy, but a wonderful man who is taking time away from his own successful career to protect me.”

  Sawyer damn near passed out with pride. But after waiting so many years for her to fight for him—for them—the victory felt hollow. Not at all like what he’d expected. There were no fireworks or marching bands, just a squirming audience of two men and an angry old Walter Bowing whose decades of meanness had forged deep lines between his eyes and around his mouth. Sawyer used to fear the man. Now he pitied him.

  Delilah pressed, “Is Sawyer welcome to join us for dinner? For that matter, what about Zeb and Jersey?”

  “They’re employees.”

  “Then I guess I’ll be eating with them in the bunkhouse. Zeb, I always have loved your ham and beans.”

  “Miss Delilah,” Zeb held up his hands, backing away. “I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m fine eating in the bunkhouse, but since your momma died, you’re lady of the manor. You deserve respect.”

  “What I deserve is to be surrounded by good people.” Jerking her arm free from her father’s hold, Delilah abandoned him for Sawyer.

  A knot lodged in his throat when she slipped her fingers between his, tugging him toward Zeb and Jersey and the one-room cabin they called home.

  “Bastard!” Walter shouted after them. Sawyer knew the lone word was directed at him.

  “I love you.” Delilah kissed his cheek. “I’ve always loved you.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “If you want to be with him, I’ll lend you my gun and guard you from outside the nearest window.”

  She kissed him again. “I’d much rather have you—and your gun.”

  They reached the bunkhouse’s front porch when an engine could be heard revving on the still twilight air. A minute later, Walter, seated behind the wheel of his vintage red Caddie, gunned the vehicle out of the house’s garage.

  “Where do you s’pose he’s off to?” Zeb asked.

  “Don’t know,” Jersey said, “But Del, does this mean you’re in charge? If so, can we have that prime rib?”

  “I don’t see why not?” She smiled through silent tears. “No sense in good food going to waste. Maria can join us.”

  “What’s with the tears?” Sawyer asked once he had a minute with her alone.

  “I’m not sure.” She forced a smile. “I guess it’s just hard, you know? Seeing your father as a mere mortal instead of a god. The worst of it is, he’s not even that nice of a mortal. But if I’m cut from his cloth, what does that say about me?”

  * * *

  Late that night, long after Delilah drifted off to sleep, Sawyer paced the hall.

  Being back in the house was unnerving. Spending the night in the bed where Walter had literally caught him with his pants down was not his idea of a good time. As a result, Sawyer’s eyes refused to close, leaving him too much time to think.

  The more he’d researched serial killers, the more he realized that a stylized murder like Lola’s and Stacy and Luke’s was a sign of a highly-disturbed individual. They were a rarity amongst an already rare breed. Which meant there had to be more than one other branding. If he found that case, might it tie up this whole mess with a tidy bow?

  The only way to find out was to get to Denver ASAP. At Trident’s offices were computers that ran circles around anything the FBI or CIA currently used. SEALs were given the best of the best in experimental toys and Harding had enough Navy contacts who respected him that he was always getting primo cast-offs.

  It was a longshot, but Sawyer couldn’t shake the feeling that if he performed a deep search on all rodeo-related murders, cross-checking them for elements of branding, he just might find that lone elusive link that made all the difference.

  He also planned on having a chat with City Slicker. Something he’d said the night of the last murders stuck with him. Sawyer, I sincerely hope you’re right. Or, at least that our killer suddenly decides he likes boys,

  City had played it off like a bad joke, but was it a coincidence that he’d predicted the killer would soon claim his first male victim? From the start, Sawyer hadn’t gotten any warm and fuzzy vibes from Mark. He couldn’t say why. Everyone seemed to love him. Sawyer, however, found it odd the way he was always popping up. He was Johnny-on-the-spot to offer his RV to Delilah. He delivered burgers and bailed Jersey from jail. All of these things could be nothing more than a nice guy being nice. But what if they weren’t? What if all this time, the murderer had been chilling right alongside them? Laughing while watching them squirm?

  Sawyer was only sure of one thing—when he did question City, he wanted Delilah nowhere nearby . . .

  13

  DELILAH STOOD ON a stepstool in the master bedroom closet of her father’s house. He’d been gone for two days and she didn’t have a clue where he could be. What she did know was that more than anything, she craved seeing her mother—even if that was only possible through one of the photos her father had stashed away not a week after she’d passed.

  Delilah had been allowed to keep one photo. It had been taken on her fifth birthday—the day she’d been given her first pony. His name had been Buster, and he was meaner than a snake at a boot-stomping competition. The fourth time he’d bitten her hard enough to draw blood, Walter had donated him to a local petting zoo. Nice. So he could bite even more children? Back to the photo, she and her mother had shopped for a crystal frame. Delilah sat on the pony while her
mother, Mimi, held her arms securely around her little girl’s waist.

  That photo still sat on the nightstand of her childhood bedroom. Since graduating high school, she’d moved into a room down the hall. It was larger, more private and had its own bathroom. What it didn’t have was the picture. Back then, it had been an angsty teen oversight. Now, she missed it and was on the hunt for more.

  She pulled extra hard on a dust-covered box twice as large as the rest of the memorabilia boxes she’d rifled through. It fell with a clunk.

  “What happened?” Briggs—a hulking giant who never stopped eating burst into the walk-in closet, gun drawn. Sawyer was spending the day in Denver. She’d wanted to go with him, but he said she’d be safer here. What she hadn’t expected was for him to send a substitute. Briggs was one of Sawyer’s former SEAL teammates and vowed not to leave her side. He meant it. She even had to fight him on fully closing the restroom door.

  “A box fell,” she said. “No big deal.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He holstered his gun to step around her. The box was old, and the impact had ripped two of the four sides. Assorted flotsam had spilled onto the polished knotty pine floor. Briggs knelt, scooping it all into a pile that he set back in the box.

  “Wait.” She knelt beside him. There were stacks of photos, but not of her mother. These were other women, but none she recognized. College friends of her mom’s? There were locks of hair tied with ribbon. Three blouses and a tangled mess of costume jewelry. Diaries and books and shoes rounded out the lot—and black hiking boots. None she’d ever seen her father wear.

  Something Adam said came to mind. He’d mentioned finding a lone bloody boot print in the bathroom of Lola’s camper.

  Hands trembling, heart pounding, she picked up a lone boot, turning it over. Upon finding the bottom clean save for traces of mud, she sharply exhaled, almost giddy with relief.

  “Wonder where Dad got this stuff?” No matter how badly she wanted to explain it all away, she’d seen enough movies to know none of it looked good. She’d call Mark. He’d know what to do. She wouldn’t tell Sawyer. There was already too much bad blood between him and her father. The last thing Sawyer needed was more ammunition.

  Briggs shrugged. “Your safety is my only concern.”

  She rolled her eyes. “When is Sawyer coming back?”

  “No clue. All I was told is that I’m not to leave your side.”

  Sighing, she said, “Then I guess you’d better come with me to find packing tape. That box isn’t going to fix itself.”

  On the way to the garage, Briggs’s cell rang. “Hey Sawyer.” He listened for a minute, then said, “Nope. Still no sign of him.” More silence. “Will do.” He disconnected.

  “What was that about?” Delilah asked.

  “Sawyer wanted to know if your dad had come home.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Surely, he had a reason for asking?” Hands on her hips, she found herself growing annoyed.

  “Ma’am, all I know is that I’m not supposed to—”

  “I know, I know. You’re not supposed to leave my side.” But if that were truly the case, why had she never felt more alone? Where was Sawyer? And why hadn’t he told her his pressing reason for being gone?

  14

  SAWYER HAD JUST flipped on his office lights, booted up his computer and tossed a moldy sandwich he’d left on his desk when his cell rang. Delilah?

  A glance at the caller ID showed Adam.

  Sawyer sighed. “What’s up?”

  “Where is Walter Bowing?”

  “No clue. I’ve been staying at his ranch with Dee, but early Sunday night he got pissy from literally the moment I showed up and left. Haven’t seen him since.”

  The line fell quiet.

  “Don’t leave me hanging. What do you know?”

  “We had a shitload of forensics come in and they’re conclusive. But maybe a little too much so.”

  “I’m listening.” Sawyer stumbled backwards into his ergonomic desk chair.

  “All of the evidence leads to Walter being the killer. I’ve got DNA under the victim’s fingernails—but it’s junk DNA. Exfoliated skin. A hair. A toenail clipping. Definitive, but as random as the causes of death. They make me think he’s being framed. But by who? And why?

  Then we’ve got the branding killings. If Delilah’s testimony is to be believed—and I have no reason not to trust her—Lola was a masterpiece. Stacy and Luke were sloppy. The brand wasn’t the same. Their hair and clothes were messy. There was bruising showing signs of a struggle. I don’t believe they were killed by the same person as Lola.”

  “Are you saying there could be three killers?”

  “Hell . . .” Adam sighed. “I’m not sure what I’m saying. Adding to this big, steaming bowl of shit-soup is another strange one. That bloody boot print we found by Lola?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bovine. I can only presume it was added for artistic flair. The bloody knife and T-shirt match, but no prints or other DNA. So anyway, I need a sounding board and, sad for you, you’re it.”

  “Cow blood? Wow. Okay, well, let me run this by you.” Sawyer relayed Mark’s supposed joke about the killer switching to boys.

  “Christ . . . this case is a real barrel of monkeys. Mark is untouchable. I mean real salt of the earth, beloved by all. If I so much as hint he’s our guy, my supervisors are going to flip shit.”

  “Then let me do it. Unless I get good intel, nobody in your chain of command needs to know.”

  “Perfect. Which still leaves us with a very big question—where is Walter Bowing?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  “I need to know the second you hear. I’m eighty percent sure he’s being framed, but wouldn’t bet my life on it. Consider him armed and dangerous.”

  “Will do.”

  Sawyer was about to disconnect when Adam said, “Wait. There’s more.”

  “Hit me.”

  “I just got an email advising me that there’s been another rodeo killing—this time in Amarillo. Only get this—the victim was a barrel racer found in her camper. She was posed like Rodeo Queen Barbie. Perfect hair, makeup and a leather pageant gown. Matching cowboy hat with a crown. You win the Jeopardy bonus round if you can guess what she’s sporting as a beauty mark.”

  Sawyer’s stomach churned. “A picture-perfect Triple B brand?”

  “Ding, ding, ding. Give that man a prize.”

  Just what he’d always wanted . . . another dead rodeo queen.

  “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “Not entirely. Spell it out.”

  “This job was done by Lola’s killer—the real deal. Is it a coincidence that Walter’s out of town? Could be? But we should probably put out an APB on him just in case. Oh—and get Delilah the hell out of that house.”

  Sawyer ended the call feeling worse than when he’d started. He’d always hated Walter, but to believe he was a legit serial killer? No way. No freakin’ way. He trusted Briggs implicitly, but that still didn’t mean it wasn’t a smart call to get Delilah as far from the ranch as possible. What did he lure her with? A spa day? Free shopping at a Colorado Springs mall?

  Could she handle the truth?

  Her cell rang three times before she answered. “Hey? Are you on your way back from your mystery mission?”

  “Not quite, babe.” Sawyer paced while he talked. “So listen. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “Leave the ranch. Now. Don’t take anything with you but Briggs.”

  “Why? You said I was safe here with Briggs. Plus, Zeb and Jersey are around here somewhere, doing odd jobs and repairs.”

  “Do it. Leave.”

  “Why? You’re not making sense.”

  He looked to the ceiling, but found no answer. “Look—I’m going to be straight with you. Adam called and he’s got a lot of evidence stacked against your father. But just in case, I t
hink it would be best if you and Briggs head into town. A forensics team found DNA on each victim from Walter. Hairs, fingernail clippings, etc. I’m not saying he’s guilty. With that kind of evidence, Adam believes he could have just as easily been framed. Ride with Briggs into Colorado Springs. Get a hotel room, lock the door and relax.”

  “How can I relax with you spewing garbage about my dad? He’s a lot of things, Sawyer, but not a killer.” But was he? What about the box she’d found in his closet? The boots? She loved Sawyer, but she also loved her dad. If any of this were true—a very big if—he needed help. She’d get Mark to take his case and then find him a doctor. “Are you fabricating these accusations because of the horrible things Daddy said about your . . . heritage?”

  “You knew about that? Yet you never said a thing in my defense?”

  “I’m sorry. You know I am. But you left. I was hurt, too. But for you to now accuse my father of murder . . . I thought I knew you—I’ve got to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone’s at the door.”

  15

  “MARK. I’m so glad to see you.” Delilah crushed her old family friend in a hug. She whispered into his ear, “We need to talk. Alone.”

  Briggs glowered behind her.

  “I’m always happy to see you, too, sugar.” Mark shut the door on the blistering heat. “Whew. It’s hot enough out there to fry an egg on a tumbleweed.” Glancing to Briggs, he asked, “And who is this?”

  “My newest bodyguard—who is on his way to make me a sandwich, right?”

  “Ma’am.” He stood as ramrod straight as if he were guarding the queen. “You know I have orders not to leave you.”

  “I’m ordering you to give me privacy with my dear family friend. Don’t worry, if he makes a move for me, I’ll be sure to scream.”

  “Ma’am . . . I really don’t—”

  “Go!” She pointed toward the kitchen. “I’m in more danger from starving than from this man.”