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“Hello, Mr. Bozeman. I assume you got my message.” Seegmiller, a former English teacher, was in his sixties with an old-school way of speaking.
“I did.” Anticipation surged through Casey’s body. “You said you had news. I hope it’s good.”
There was a pause. “I do have news. But I’m afraid it isn’t good. Not good at all, in fact.”
Casey’s heart dropped. “Tell me,” he said.
Seegmiller exhaled. “I was able to trace the Peterson family to Bakersfield, California. There was an address, but two years ago, somebody else purchased the home. I contacted the new owners to see if they might have a forwarding address. They said that the house had been vacant before they bought it. But a neighbor told them that the family who’d lived there . . .” Seegmiller paused, then continued, a catch in his voice. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bozeman. The neighbor said that the Petersons had been killed in a terrible highway accident.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CASEY STARED INTO THE DARKNESS, FEELING AS IF HIS HEART HADbeen ripped out, leaving a gaping, bloodless hole. Even if he could have voiced a response, there were no words.
“Mr. Bozeman, are you still there?”
“Yes.” The word emerged half-broken.
“I’ve e-mailed a copy of the news article I found. It’ll give you the details better than I can. After you’ve read it, take time to think about what you want to do next. Then call me with your decision.” There was a beat of silence. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Casey sat in silence for a long moment. Then he forced himself to get up and turn on the light. He had to deal with this tragedy—and ultimately, he would have to decide how to deal with Val.
Switching on the desktop computer, he brought up his e-mail. The message from Seegmiller was there. Steeling his heart, he clicked on it and opened the scanned file. There was no photo, only a half column of print from the back page of the local newspaper.
The Bakersfield Californian
June 2, 2019
DEADLY CRASH TAKES BAKERSFIELD FAMILY
A Bakersfield couple, traveling with their young son, lost their lives last night when their Ford van cut in front of a semitruck and was struck from the passenger side. The accident happened at 9:14 p.m. on Interstate 5 just past the Spicer City off-ramp. Phillip Peterson, the driver, and his wife, Cora Mae Peterson, were killed instantly. Their son Matthew, 8, was taken by ambulance to Memorial Hospital in critical condition. The driver of the semitruck was treated for minor injuries at the scene. An investigation is pending, but the driver is not expected to be charged.
Fighting the urge to cry out and punch his fist through the monitor screen, Casey read the item again, then reached for the phone and placed another call to Seegmiller. “What happened to the boy?” he demanded. “You must have checked, at least.”
The detective sighed. “I did. I contacted Memorial Hospital. The clerk could find no record of him. The only suggestion she could offer was that he must’ve died in the ambulance and so was never admitted to the hospital. There’s no record of his body being signed into the morgue, either. It’s a dead end. He’s gone.”
Casey ended the call, slumped in the chair, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.A dead end, Seegmiller had said. But how could that be? How could he just give up and walk away without knowing what had happened to his boy? He had to find out. If it meant putting off his return to work, so be it. He would go to Bakersfield and search until he found whatever was to be found—even if it was only a grave or a name on a death certificate.
And he could only hope that Val would go with him.
* * *
Prescott, Arizona, claimed to have the world’s oldest rodeo. The granddaddy celebration of them all—Prescott Frontier Days—was traditionally held in late June through early July. But there were other, earlier events scheduled for the outdoor arena. This one, sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, would have some high-ranking bull riders showing up to add to their point totals before the World Finals.
Tess was eager to show off Quicksand’s prowess. But she was more than a little worried. The black bull had done well in the smaller rodeos, bucking off every rider and running up impressive scores. But this would be his first appearance before a big crowd, with all the noise and commotion that went along with it. Would he freeze and refuse to buck, or would he do the Alamo Canyon Ranch proud? Ruben had brought a bundle of white sage to burn in case the bull became agitated before his turn in the chute—not that it was guaranteed to work.
But Quicksand wasn’t Tess’s only worry. Brock had said he would be here—their first meeting since she’d left him at the plane. When they’d spoken on the phone later, he’d told her that, for her own safety, she should avoid being seen with him, or even having her name linked with his.
Tess understood or thought she did. Still, the situation worried her. What if Brock planned to walk into danger—trying to draw out the person who was after him?
There were personal issues, as well. Brock was hard to read, let alone predict. The man who’d made love to her in the desert could also be aloof, indifferent, even cold. This weekend, with danger lurking, she would be the least of his concerns, or even a dangerous distraction. She would be wise to do as he’d asked and keep her distance.
After a long night’s drive, Tess and Ruben arrived before dawn and headed for the rodeo grounds. Prescott was an attractive town, capitalizing on its early western history. Its scenic setting, museums, shops, dining, and entertainment drew throngs of tourists. At this hour, the streets were quiet, but the pens behind the arena were already filling up as stock contractors unloaded their animals.
As they pulled into the lot, Tess glanced around for the big silver trailer with the Tolman Ranch logo on the side. She didn’t see it, but the hour was early yet. And Brock rarely traveled with the stock trailer. Surely, after the sabotage on his plane, he wouldn’t want to risk the men, the bulls, or the rig. Maybe he wouldn’t be coming after all.
Tess and Ruben unloaded the bulls and settled them in a pen with food and water. Two bulls would be bucking tonight. Quicksand and the remaining bull would be bucking tomorrow night in the event final.
Tess had rented a cheap motel room with two beds where she and Ruben could crash, wash up, and change. It would be no more intimate than sleeping in the truck, which they’d done countless times before, and it would keep her from looking like a homeless vagabond the next morning. Tess didn’t usually fuss over her appearance on the road—she would just jam her hat on her hair and go. But this time, she’d caught herself wanting to look presentable in case Brock showed up.
