“He have any visitors?”

“No. Kept to himself. Heard him on his cell phone once or twice, but I never made out what he was saying.”

There’d been no cell in Rory’s belongings. Bragg pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “You call me if you hear anyone talking about Rory.”

“Where is he? Is he coming back?”

“No, sir, he is not coming back.”

The man muttered an oath in Spanish. “What about his room?”

“I’m calling a forensic team now to dust it for prints.” The man smoothed agitated fingers over oiled black hair. “Are you gonna stay here and wait for them?”

“Yes, sir, I am. That a problem?”

The man’s frown deepened. “You are bad for business.”

Bragg grinned. “I’ve been called worse.”

He returned to Rory’s room and called in a team. As he waited he sifted through each picture of Elizabeth. Beautiful. Striking. But stern and solemn. He sensed life hadn’t much eased the burden of her tragedy.

“What the hell was going on between you and Rory?”

Chapter Four

Tuesday, June 3, 6:30 A.M.

Bragg left Austin before the morning tangles on I-35 south. He also wanted to arrive early at Bonneville Vineyards not only to meet with the woman who’d offered Mitch a job, but the woman who owned the land near his crime scene. Even if she didn’t have a connection to the case he wanted to meet her and find out how she’d found Mitch.

Remembering yesterday’s route to the crime scene, he took the rural route exit off of the interstate and followed it another twenty miles before his GPS directed him over more back roads familiar to him. There were no directional signs to guide people to the vineyard, suggesting visitors weren’t welcome.

An unpaved gravel ribbon of road wandered alongside a barbed-wire fence corralling row after row of vines bursting with a thick canopy of green leaves sheltering plump grapes clinging to well-maintained trellises. In the distance, the sun rose above the horizon casting a warm glow over the hills.

The entire area was lush and green and all he could think about was what it cost the family in water bills. Drought had been a problem in central Texas the last couple of years and signs were the hard times weren’t letting up anytime soon.

Hard to believe Rory Edwards had been strung up right over the hill to his left.

Around the bend, a ranch house came into view. Complete with a wide front porch, its original windows and tin roof hinted of nineteenth-century cowboys. However, the ranch’s porch now sported potted lavender, rocking chairs, and a sign on the front porch read PRIVATE and directed visitors to a larger stone building where the road dead-ended. Near the house stood a small barn painted with fading chipped red paint and a small corral.

The larger one-story main building just beyond was made of stone and glass, and though it had the air of new construction was styled like a medieval European keep. But unlike a fortress, it didn’t dominate the land but hugged it as if the designer wanted a seamless connection between structure and terrain.

Small succulents floated in beds filled with earth-toned landscaping stones to add interest. However, it was the yellow and white wildflowers in brightly colored clay pots and a turquoise front door that rescued the place from being bland. To the right a stone patio outfitted with wrought-iron furniture overlooked vineyards that would catch the setting sun. Beyond the main building the land had been cleared for more construction.

Again, he gave credit to the site manager. He wasn’t a wine drinker but the place might have lured him in for a look if there’d been signs along the road to coax and welcome.

He pulled up behind an older dark truck with a bed filled with tables and chairs. Grabbing his white Stetson from the passenger seat, he settled it on his head and eased out of the Bronco. In the distance a dog barked. Resting his hand on the hip close to his gun, he surveyed the area.

As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear blue eyes cut. Not more than thirty, she had gently tanned smooth skin that accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white BONNEVILLE VINEYARDS T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips. Her boots were dusty, well worn. “Can I help you?”

Her voice had a rusty, whiskey quality giving this wholesome farm girl a seductiveness enjoyed by older more sophisticated women.

Elizabeth Templeton.

She was a far cry from the girl in the old image or the pictures Rory had taken. The last dozen years had thinned her frame and face, adding maturity and an appealing naturalness. But Rory’s images had gotten her all wrong. What he’d taken for as anger and bitterness in the photos, in person, appeared to be a fascinating intensity. He suspected this woman did no job halfway.

“I’m with the Texas Rangers.”

Elizabeth cocked her head, studying him closely, as if sensing this place wasn’t his kind of place. However, even as her gaze catalogued his large frame and the scar on his face she showed no fear. “How can I help you?”

He managed a smile. “You Elizabeth Templeton?”

Mention of her name triggered waves of tension that straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes. Hesitation flickered as if she seemed to toy with a lie. “That’s right. But I go by my middle name now. Greer.”

Elizabeth Greer Templeton. Greer. The woman who’d offered his boy a job. “Sergeant Tec Bragg.”

She took an involuntary step back before stopping. “Bragg. You’re kin to Mitch Bragg?”

He nodded. “He’s my nephew.”

She drew in a breath as if bracing. “What can I do for you?”

“I hear you’ve offered Mitch a job.”

“I have.”

“Doing what?”

She held his gaze and took a step toward him. “General farmhand.”

“He doesn’t have experience as a farmhand.”

Her lips flattened. “He already told me.”

“Then why hire him?”

A line furrowed her brow. “Did he send you up here? Is he not coming today?”

“As of last night he was planning to be here.”

She nodded, as if understanding flickered. “And you’ve come to check the place out.”

“Not the place. You.”

Her eyes sharpened. “You did a search on the vineyard, my name popped up, and you did a search on me and the alarm bells went off.”

“Why would they?”

Her sigh sounded weary. “You came looking for Elizabeth. I’ve not used that name in twelve years, so let’s not pretend. I’ve a full day ahead of me and don’t have time for games. Ask direct questions, then I’ll answer them. You don’t want your nephew working for me then have a conversation with him. But from where I stand, Mitch is twenty-one, a man who can take care of himself, and doesn’t need his uncle running interference.”

Temper scraped along his insides. “How did you find Mitch?”

“I found him. If you want more details, talk to him.”

“Not good enough.”

Fire sparked in her blue gaze. “Well, it’s going to have to be because I don’t have to share my reasons with you or anyone. I offered him a job, he took it, end of story.”

“Dr. Stewart arrange this?” He tossed out the doctor’s name searching for a reaction.

Mention of the man’s name triggered flickers of recognition in her gaze. “Ask him your questions. Again, my reasons are my own and none of your business. Now, if you will excuse me, Ranger Bragg, I’m expecting a delivery any minute.”

He tapped an impatient finger against his gun belt as he struggled with his words. His temper prowled inside him like a mountain lion anxious to be unleashed. “Mitch has had it rough.”