Page 3 of Lone Star Rescue

Blunt force trauma. And Rafe’s mind began to whirl with the possibilities of that, and he mentally sped right to the worst-case scenarios that would cause something like that. Assuming the worst was the hazards of the job.

Or rather jobs.

For twelve years he’d been special ops in the military. An elite Air Force Combat Rescue Officer, a CRO. When things had gone to hell in a handbasket with that particular career, he’d gotten out of the service to work for a prestigious private consulting group, Maverick Ops.

In both jobs, he’d seen more than his share of dead bodies. And in one case, he’d literally been holding the person when she’d taken her last breath. But Rafe pushed that aside. He couldn’t go there and deal with this, too.

One shitstorm trauma at a time.

“I don’t see any obvious defensive wounds,” Ollie went on a moment later as he fanned a flashlight over the remains. Even though it was early afternoon and there was plenty of springsunshine, there were some dark areas in the grave. “No broken fingers or gashes to any of the bones on the hands. Of course, with no tissue, I can’t tell if there were cuts or bruises at the time of her death.”

Again, that vised his lungs, and Rafe had to mutter a reminder for him to breathe. His body had to understand he wasn’t in combat. There would be no sprinting through the desert to save someone.

Because this person was past the point of being rescued.

Ollie got to his feet, dusting off his gloved hands, and faced him. Since Ollie was nearly six feet tall, he didn’t have to look too far up at Rafe to get direct eye contact, only a couple of inches, and Rafe immediately saw the mix of emotions in the ME’s expression. A mix that took Rafe a moment to interpret.

Hell.

Did Ollie believe he’d killed Tessa?

Rafe didn’t get a chance to set him straight because there was the roar of an engine. Emphasis on roar and the equally noisy stop of brakes jarring to a stop on the narrow driveway that fronted the inn.

Wade.

Rafe looked over his shoulder at the massive, barrel-chested man with the sugar-white Stetson that was the identical color of his hair. In a blink, Wade was out of his silver truck and hurrying toward them.

“Is it her?” Wade shouted. “Is it my baby girl?”

Baby girl.

The term struck Rafe as both sad and endearing. Tessa had been twenty-two when she’d disappeared, and if alive, she’d be the same age as Rafe. Thirty-eight. But technically she would always be Wade’s baby girl since she was his only child.

“Is it Tessa?” Wade demanded with both the volume and the panic rising in his voice. He had his attention pinned to Rafe.

“We don’t know,” Rafe said, stepping in front of Wade to keep him from charging right into the burial pit.

That didn’t relieve one ounce of the tension that was coming off Wade in thick, hot waves. “The worker said there was a red jacket.”

“There is, but we don’t know if it’s Tessa,” Rafe insisted. “She’ll have to be examined before we know for sure.”

Wade shook his head, the tears already welling in his dust-gray eyes, and he made another attempt to bolt to the grave. Rafe was no lightweight, but Wade outsized him by a good fifty pounds. Plus, there was all that fierce determination of a father to see his child. No way to battle that, and Wade managed to get close enough to the edge to look down at the bones.

A hoarse wail tore from Wade’s throat. It sounded more animal than human. Pure primal grief that seemed to rip through every part of him. And Rafe had been right. Wade dropped to his knees.

“My baby,” Wade sobbed. “My beautiful baby girl.”

Rafe stooped down and reached to take hold of Wade’s shoulders to anchor him and stop him from falling face-first onto the ground, but the man fell into his arms instead, burying his face on Rafe’s shoulder. Wade cried a flow of tears that seemed endless.

Rafe didn’t even attempt any questions. Though he had plenty. Specifically, he wanted to know the last time Wade had heard from Tessa. Rafe knew about one long text that’d come shortly after she’d disappeared.

That one had been an apology of sorts, a “this town is just too small for me” sentiment.

Rafe had gotten a nearly identical one that’d crushed what was left of his twenty-two-year-old heart. That was his one and only correspondence from Tessa, but Rafe remembered about ayear later that Wade had called to say he’d received another text, and in it, Tessa had assured him she was all right and happy.

Had Tessa already been dead by then?

If so, the texts could have come from her killer.

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