Crime Scene at Cardwell Ranch. B.J. Daniels

She took another sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her glass, her eyes growing dark with a rage born of pain that he recognized only too well.

      Dana hadn’t sent the note. He’d only been fooling himself. She still believed he’d betrayed her.

      “The bones are human but you already knew that,” he said, finding his voice.

      She nodded, waiting.

      “We won’t know for certain until Rupert calls from the crime lab, but his opinion is that the body belonged to a Caucasian woman between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-five and that she’s been down there about fifteen years.” He met her gaze and saw the shock register.

      “Only fifteen years?”

      Hud nodded. It seemed that, like him, she’d hoped the bones were very old and had no recent connection to their lives.

      Dana let out a breath. “How did she get there?”

      “She was murdered. Rupert thinks she was thrown down the well and then shot.”

      Dana sat up, her feet dropping to the floor with a slap. “No.” She set the wineglass down on the table, the wine almost spilling.

      Without thinking, Hud reached over to steady the glass, steady her. His fingers brushed hers. She jerked her hand back as if he’d sliced her fingers with a knife.

      He pulled back his hand and picked up his wineglass, wishing now that he’d asked for something stronger.

      Dana was sitting back in the chair, her arms crossed, feet on the floor. She looked shaken. He wondered how much of it was from what he’d told her about the bones in the well and how much from his touch. Did she ever wonder what their lives might have been like if she hadn’t broken off the engagement? They would be husband and wife now. Something he always thought about. It never failed to bring a wave of regret with it.

      He didn’t tell Dana that the woman had still been alive, maybe even calling to her attacker for help as he left her down there.

      “I’m going to have to question your family and anyone else who had access to the property or who might have known about the dry well,” he said.

      She didn’t seem to hear him. Her gaze went to the large window. Outside, the snow fell in huge feathery flakes, obscuring the mountains. “What was she shot with?”

      He hesitated, then said, “Rupert thinks it was a .38.” He waited a beat before he added, “Does your father still have that .38 of his?”