Page 7 of Homicide in Water Creek

“I couldn’t take you into town tonight, girl,” she soothed, running her fingers through the silky mane. Dakota tossed her head. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

The mare wasn’t going to forgive the slight so easily. Jacks trekked to the tack room and grabbed a couple of apples from the basket to bribe her way back into the horse’s good graces. She tossed one in the air as she walked back, then held it out. Dakota lifted it carefully from her palm and chomped it down without dropping a single piece.

Jacks laughed, rubbing Dakota’s nose, then offered the second apple before bidding her goodnight and closing the barn door. She made her way to the back of the old ranch house and knocked on the door. Inside, the elder Jackson Miles sat at the kitchen table, his back to her.

“You don’t have to knock, Jackie. How many times do I have to say it?” he asked without turning.

Her granddaddy was the only one allowed to call her Jackie. She opened the screen door, stepped inside, grabbed a pop from the fridge, and pulled out a chair. She hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since she was nineteen and never planned to again, no matter how good a cold beer sounded after a day like today. She leaned over to kiss Granddaddy on the cheek before taking her seat.

“The man who raised me taught me manners and respect,” she teased, taking a sip of her pop. “Old habits die hard.”

“Unless it’s Dean King, right?” His brows knitted together the way only bushy, old-man brows could when they were asking a question.

Her eyes widened as she lowered the can. “What does The King have to do with it?”

Jackson leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his flat belly. At sixty-four, he didn’t look a day over forty, and he still worked as hard as a man half his age. Someday, she would take over this ranch. Though things would change, she would always remain true to the three lessons he taught her about running a business. Be honest. Don’t compromise your integrity. Dedication is what makes the dream work.

He motioned toward her and frowned. “I might be old, but I ain’t blind,” he spat. “He’s the only one in three counties who can put you in the mood you’re in tonight.”

Disrespectful as it was, she rolled her eyes. “Granddaddy, I had a long day. I’m tired. You made me babysit the guys, and I got my period. I don’t have the energy to care about Dean King tonight.”

She had just lied to her elder. Considering karma had already come calling today, she figured she was ready for whatever else it had in store.

“TMI, Jackie,” he said, shaking his head. “I just talked to Keene. It seems there’s been a murder in town. The sheriff told him you were the one who found the body.”

Keene was her granddaddy’s best friend and Dean King’s grandfather. The two of them were thick as thieves, and she found their constant meddling in her life more than annoying. They were worse than a bunch of old women in a knitting circle. If they weren’t warning guys off her, they were trying to set her up with the ones they deemed perfect. Those men were usually bald, in their forties, and had beer guts so large they couldn't see their own feet.

“It was only by chance. Blame Mr. Harvey,” Jacks said, eyeing him closely.

He was tired. She could see it in the lines around his eyes and in the way his shoulders stooped beneath his old, worn blue chambray work shirt. It was the end of the harvesting season, which meant the start of rodeo season for the Double J.

“You look tired. Maybe you need to slow down a bit.”

“I’ll slow down when I’m dead,” he repeated for the ten-thousandth time since she’d started living with him.

“You’ll be dead if you don’t slow down,” Jacks countered. It was her standard retort. A stalemate, but it let him know she cared.

“What did you see in town, besides the body of King’s mother?”

She rubbed her forehead in consternation. “Granddaddy, King doesn’t want her identity to get out. I googled, but as of yet, there’s no mention of her being missing. We have to buy him some time to investigate and find her killer.”

“You think she was murdered.”

She snorted sarcastically and took another sip of her pop. “Generally, women don’t stuff themselves into car trunks as a form of suicide. I’m pretty sure she was murdered.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Keene already told me we had to keep it on the down low.” Jacks chuckled at his attempt at teenage slang. “I won’t say a word,” he continued. “You know we have enough of our own family secrets. I won’t be the one to bring someone else’s out into the light.”

“Good enough.”

He motioned toward the cowboy barracks. “What’s the report?”

“Not much out of the ordinary,” she said, setting her can down. She started pawing through the mail on the table. “Basically, they were just a bunch of guys acting like idiots whenever a woman with legs or boobs walked by.”

“All women have legs and boobs.”

“Exactly my point.” Jacks shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Men are pigs. End of story. These guys are no different. Only one doesn’t fit in, even though he tries.”

“Wade Owens,” he answered immediately.