The vineyard allowed no time for self-pity or much reflection. It required her full and immediate attention all day, every day. No weekends off. No vacations and abbreviated holidays. The vineyard wanted her body and soul, and she was grateful to give herself over to it.

Over the next two seasons, José had taught her about soil, sun, rainfall, and drainage. He’d taught Greer about the life cycle of a grape and how to tell when the grapes were the sweetest. Without a lot of words spoken, they’d become friends.

By the end of her third season, her mother had started talking of college back East. But by then the land and the grapes had infected Greer’s blood and filled her mind with dreams of expansion and winemaking. To her mother’s disappointment, she’d forgone an Eastern school and earned a viticulture certificate from Texas Tech.

Now, accomplishment burned as she studied her land. This was her last season as a grower. This time next year she’d be making wine. She didn’t yearn to mass-produce wines but to create wines conveying quality.

“Your aunt would be proud,” José said.

“Yes.” It still saddened her Lydia would never taste the first Bonneville wine. “We’ll drink a toast to her with the first bottle.”

He cleared his throat but didn’t speak.

José had been hit as hard by Lydia’s death as Greer. Though they’d not made their relationship public, Greer knew José and Lydia had been lovers for years. For Lydia, he’d always grieve.

“How is the new boy working out?” she said.

He squinted against the sun as he watched Mitch watering the horses. “He’s done well with the horses.” He frowned. “We’re not a horse farm and we cannot afford to feed the horses or the man who feeds them.”

“We can afford a couple of old horses, and Mitch knows he’ll work in the fields.”

“When?”

“You can have him today. After he feeds the horses he’s all yours.”

Lines around José’s mouth deepened as he studied the animals. “Lydia gave you a dog. Why didn’t you give him a dog?”

She thought back to the mutt Lydia had given her after the first harvest. The Golden Shepherd mix had been six weeks old. Like the grapes, the dog had not cared about her past. There was simply now. Sadie had lived eight years and been there to greet her each morning, barking when she’d left for Texas Tech and when she’d returned. “I spotted the FOR SALE sign at the horse farm while I was driving home. Buying the horses made sense.”

José snorted and kicked the dirt with his boot. “You can’t save the world.”

“No, not the world.”

José flexed his hands, now bent and swollen by arthritis. “But you hope to do for him what Lydia did for you?”

“I promised Lydia I would help one person. Just one.”

“And he is your one?”

“I asked Dr. Stewart to give me someone to help. He gave me Mitch. So yes, he is the one.”

“Why was there a Texas Ranger here yesterday? Was it about the hanging?”

“Yes.” She shoved out a breath. José didn’t trust the law. “And he’s Mitch’s uncle.”

A string of Spanish curse words rumbled out with his next breath. “Was he here for the hanging or the boy?”

“Both.”

“Why would he ask you about the dead man?” She rubbed the back of her neck with her hands. “Because I knew him.”

“How?”

“From before Bonneville. From Shady Grove.”

José frowned. They’d never talked about that time but Lydia had told him. “That is not good.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

She’d thought a lot about Shady Grove in the last twenty-four hours. She’d not kept up with any of the kids from her pod, not even Betty, whom she’d had a chance meeting with a couple of years ago at a wine festival. Greer had been taken back. Their conversation had been awkward, each anxious to gain distance from the other.

Shady Grove and the accident had been a distant dull pain until yesterday.

Why did you do this to me, Rory? Why now?

With Rory’s death, Mitch, and now Bragg’s watching, she feared she’d bitten off too much. “How do the grapes look today?”

“They’re plump and ripe. The spring was good to us, and if these next two or three weeks are hot and dry, we will be ready for harvest by early July.”

“How many tons do you think this year?”

“The new vines you planted five years ago will be ready. With them, I think we’ll have twenty-thousand tons.”

“A sizeable load.”

“The wineries will be pleased. We could turn a nice profit this year.”

“Next year we will be making our own wine, just as Lydia dreamed.”

Frowning, José pulled a bandana from his back pocket and glanced back toward land cleared for the winery. He disapproved. They were farmers in his mind. They grew the finest grapes in Texas and were no winemakers.

A smile teased the edge of her lips. “Go ahead and say it, José.”

For a moment he was silent. “I fear you’ve extended yourself too far, Greer.”

There were days when she thought she teetered on the edge of the cliff. “I’ve taken a risk.”

José again wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. “You’ve always done the work of three, but you are only one person.”

I’m living for me, as well as Jeff and Sydney. “Maybe I’m tired of playing it safe.”

Bragg arrived at the forensic technician’s lab at a quarter before five. Melinda Ashburn leaned over her microscope, analyzing a section of rope. “That the rope that hanged Edwards?”

She didn’t lift her gaze as she adjusted the focus. “It is.”

“That unusual?”

“It’s a natural synthetic, heavy duty, and could be purchased at any number of hardware stores.”

“How much do you have there?”

“A couple of hundred feet. It couldn’t hurt to check area stores for anyone who bought this kind of rope.”

“That’s something. What about the cigarette butt?”

“Did get some DNA and have sent it off. It’ll take weeks or months unless your victim’s brother puts a little heat on the system.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I’ll give him a call.”

“Good. Because I’m a little curious myself.”

“Tire tracks?”

“Got a clear print. I’m now checking databases to find the make and model. Shouldn’t be long.”

Bragg dug out a slip of paper from his pocket. “Let me know if it matches this brand.”

She glanced at the paper. “Who does the tire belong to?”

“Vineyard near the crime scene.”

“You’ll be the first I call.”

“Any other evidence from the crime scene?”

“Footprints. Size eleven. Athletic shoe. Hard to tell if it’s a man or a woman. The wearer’s left foot pronates out. Note how the back heel is worn.”

Bragg studied the print. “Another piece to the puzzle. What about fingerprints?”

“Only the victim’s on the photograph. Whoever else was out there was careful not to leave prints.”

He thought about the roads leading to the area where they’d found the body. Back rural country roads had little traffic at night. “The closest gas station to the site is five miles away.”

“And there are no cameras there. I checked on the way out.”

Bragg had barely stepped through the front door of his home when he heard Mitch’s keys in the door. He stood at the small kitchen table, his hat tossed casually in the center, and was reaching to unsnap his gun from the holster.

He straightened, doing his best not to look like a Ranger. He’d perfected this stone-faced expression during his years with DPS and the Rangers. He could slide on the expression as easily as a worn pair of boots. But with Mitch, he’d worked hard knocking down barriers. Life had done a good bit to build walls between them, and he didn’t want to add more bricks.

But the more he showed concern for Mitch the more the boy retreated into himself and so he was training himself to hold back. A little.