Page 11 of Outlaw Ridge: Ryker
There was no denying it, he was attractive as hell. Always had been. And not just the square-jawed, broad-shouldered, dark-eyed type of attractive, though he had that in spades. It was more than that. The smirk that could cut and soothe in equal measure. The gravel in his voice when he got serious. The way he moved like he’d been trained to kill but chose restraint every time. A mix of danger and discipline wrapped in great-fitting jeans and quiet loyalty.
She was sure plenty of women had felt the same tug. Hot, charming, and with just enough of that lethal edge to make the whole package impossible to ignore.
And she’d felt it too.
The moment she’d walked into the station a month ago and seen him at the end of the hall, leaning against her uncle’s old desk like he’d always belonged there.
That heat had flared all right. But she’d buried it fast.
Because she didn’t trust heat anymore. Or chemistry. Or whatever romantic fantasy her heart used to buy into before Ethan taught her what it really meant to misread someone.
She didn’t trust herself, not when it came totugsorflashesorheartbeats.
Not when it came to men who said the right things and made her feel like something dangerous and wonderful all at once.
She turned back to the window, forcing her breathing to slow. This wasn’t the time. Wasn’t the place. And even if it was… she wasn’t ready.
The cruiser crested a low ridge and dipped into the clearing where the scene had been called in. It was desolate, just brittle ground and pump jacks rocking back and forth in slow, mechanical rhythm. The oil rigs groaned in the cold like they were working through pain.
Sleet dusted everything in a thin, gritty film. There were no houses, no barns, no structures of any kind. Just open land and the weight of something waiting.
Ryker pulled the cruiser off the shoulder behind another patrol unit. Hayes Brodie and Deputy Jesse McCain were inside, their silhouettes visible through the windshield.
Emma felt her jaw tighten as they stepped out into the wind. The sleet hit harder here, the flat landscape offering noprotection. She pulled her collar up and followed Ryker toward the other vehicle.
Hayes and Jesse climbed out as they approached. “Bomb squad’s still about thirty minutes out,” Hayes said, his breath visible in the frigid air. “CSIs are holding position until they get the all-clear.”
Emma scanned the area. No sign of the body yet. Just the pump jacks, the sleet, the wind.
Then she saw it, about fifteen yards out, a dark tarp flapping against the hard-packed ground near the base of one of the pumps. It wasn’t secured, just weighed down by the shape beneath it.
Hayes pulled a set of binoculars from his coat pocket and handed them to Ryker. “Jesse and I backed off when we saw there were possible explosives. Here, you’ll want to take a look.”
Ryker took them and raised them slowly, his mouth set in a grim line. Emma stood beside him, her hands clenched inside her coat pockets, heart racing faster even though she hadn’t moved. The sight of that tarp, the way it fluttered like something was gasping for breath beneath it, it was sickeningly familiar.
Moving a few steps forward, Ryker adjusted the binoculars as he zeroed in on the tarp near the pump. Emma followed without a word, boots crunching over gritty frost, her eyes fixed on the rippling sheet of plastic that barely concealed what lay underneath.
He lowered the binoculars and held them out to her.
Emma took them, the cold metal biting her fingertips even through her gloves. She raised them slowly, bracing her elbows to steady the shake that she couldn’t quite suppress.
The figure under the tarp was unmistakably human. Definitely male. One arm had slipped free of the covering, stretched awkwardly toward the right leg, palm up and fingers curled slightly.
The face was obscured by the mask. But the build, the size, it was close enough to stir a low ache in her chest.
She couldn’t tell if it was Ethan. Not from this angle. So, she took a few steps to the side, shifting her view for a different perspective. Ryker followed silently, staying close.
“Zoom in on the hand,” he said, nodding toward it.
Emma adjusted the focus. And her breath caught.
A ring.
Worn on the right hand, third finger. Silver, dulled with time, with a thin black band inlaid around the center, simple, understated. She remembered when Ethan had bought it. And he’d worn it every single day afterwards.
Her throat burned. She lowered the binoculars slowly, heart pounding. “It’s his ring,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Either someone had murdered Ethan Ross… or someone wanted her to believe he was finally dead.
