Rodeo Standoff. Susan SleemanЧитать онлайн книгу.

       THREE

      Near the arena gate, Tessa kept her focus on the shoe print created by a leaky water trough. She felt Braden’s intense gaze on her. With the way she was reacting to him, maybe it should be unsettling, but with a big strapping lawman keeping an eye on her safety, she didn’t have to think about protecting herself at the moment, allowing her to work faster.

      Question was, why did he have such an overwhelming need to be looking out for her? Maybe it was the chemistry between them. She felt it deep in her core, and he’d made no secret that he was aware of it, too.

      But that was even odder, right? She was nothing like the kind of women she’d seen him with in the past. And a handsome guy like Braden would have his choice of women. He wouldn’t have to go out of his way to help her just because they were attracted to each other.

      Argh. She needed to stop speculating on his response to her. It was just a waste of time, when the last thing she needed was a man like Braden in her life.

      She forced herself to concentrate on the treads embedded in the mud. She wasn’t a shoe print expert, but an athletic shoe with a crack in the sole made this one stand out. Odd. Most people associated with the rodeo wore cowboy boots or Western work boots.

      “What are you working on?” Braden squatted next to her.

      At his nearness and the smell of his minty soap, her heart fluttered, but she ignored it. At least she tried, but she struggled not to pay attention to the way his gaze fixed on her and didn’t let go.

      She swallowed hard before speaking. “I’m trying to determine how fresh this shoe print might be to figure out if it’s from our thief.”

      “How’s it even possible to determine the freshness?”

      “See how the water from the dripping trough is running along the gutter? Only the tip of the print’s toe has filled with water, indicating it hasn’t been here long. If it had, the rest of the print would be flooded.”

      “Looks like an athletic shoe, but that’s an odd type of shoe to wear for someone who’d steal a bull, right?”

      “Right. Which is why I was debating if it’s important.” She stood to put some distance between them. “I’ll cast it just in case.”

      He came to his feet and remained standing far too close for her liking. “Anything I can do to help?”

      Move away so those startling blue eyes don’t distract me. “You can mix the powder while I take pictures. I’ll be right back with the items.”

      Feeling like a coward racing away, she hurried to her truck to grab a zipper bag of dental stone and pour the correct quantity of water into the bag. She took a few deep breaths for good measure, then returned.

      She handed the bag to him. “Simply mix this with your hands, making sure to get into all the corners so we use all the dental stone.”

      “Maybe I should close the bag so I don’t risk making a mess.”

      She shook her head. “Closing it could cause pressure and the bag might rupture.”

      He started mixing, and she laid an L-square near the print to demonstrate the size of the shoe and started snapping pictures.

      “If I had to guess, we’re looking at a male’s size ten shoe,” Tessa said.

      “A pretty common size.”

      She nodded and confirmed she’d taken clear photographs, before putting the scale back in her tote and holding out her hand. “I’m ready for the bag.”

      He set it on her palm. She took the top of the bag in her other hand and was careful not to touch him. She squished the liquid, about the thickness of pancake batter, to make sure Braden had thoroughly mixed all the lumps. Satisfied, she poured the casting material, moving over the length of the indentation and extending out a few inches until she’d covered the entire print.

      “How long will this take to dry?” he asked.

      She looked up at him. “I would have thought a detective might know some of this stuff.”

      He hooked his thumbs in the corner of his belt loops near a large PBR championship buckle. “I suppose I should at least have a passing knowledge, but I figure that’s why we have forensic professionals on staff, and I leave it to them.”

      She’d heard that plenty of times from deputies—including her family. “From my point of view, it’s always helpful when the detective at least knows how long things take, so they don’t nag me for results.”

      “I guess I’m guilty of that, too.” His lips tipped up in a playful smile that she’d seen him flash at the press and at fans plenty of times in the past, and even knowing it meant nothing, maybe less than nothing, her heart flip-flopped.

      “I think I’m going to learn a lot being with you,” he said.

      “About that.” She stuffed the empty bag into her tote and leveled out her tone to keep her wayward emotions out of her voice. “Let me give you a pass again on this babysitting detail. Dad will expect you to come along and shake his hand when I go to the rest area, but then you can get on with your weekend.”

      “I’m good with sticking around.” His tone was causal, but irritation flared in his eyes. “You didn’t say. How long for the cast to finish?”

      Good. Keep the focus on the investigation. “With this weather, I’d say twenty minutes and it’ll be set for transport.”

      “And then what?”

      “Then the cast sits in the lab to cure for seventy-two hours before I can wash off the dirt and clean it for analysis.”

      A thick eyebrow arched. “That long?”

      “It has to fully cure, or I could compromise the details of the casting.”

      He kept watching her, his gaze warm and familiar as if they’d known each other for years. She had a bizarre urge to run her finger down a long scar on his cheek that a bull had likely inflicted. Instead, she smoothed out the liquid so once it dried she could write the forensic collection details on the back of the cast.

      She wished he’d walk away, but she supposed it was her fault that he remained so close. She’d all but taunted him into learning about her job, and now she would have to pay the price of his nearness.

      * * *

      Braden shook his head in disbelief. His first day in Lost Creek wasn’t even over, and he was approaching the second crime scene of the day. Craziness. He was on vacation with a little PR volunteering thrown in. Just a few days to attend the rodeo to help friends and enjoy time away from the rigors of being a homicide detective. But this? Tessa. The stolen bull. Not at all what he had expected.

      She parked close to the yellow crime scene tape cordoning off the rustic rest area. A tall male deputy stood just inside the perimeter talking to another man who was clenching and releasing his hands. Braden figured he was King Slammer’s truck driver.

      “My dad isn’t here yet. Something must have come up.” Tessa shifted to peer at Braden, fatigue dawning as if she was coming down from the adrenaline. “I suppose since you took my phone and proved how pushy you can be, it’s too much to hope you’ll wait in the truck for my dad to arrive.”

      “Sorry about grabbing the phone,” he said sincerely. “I just didn’t think it was a good idea if you took off on your own, and I knew I didn’t stand a chance of convincing you on my own. Plus, I can help you here.