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from his own rear end.” Beau rose, slipping the bagged evidence into the pocket of his shirt. “I’ll hang on to this until we learn more. It’ll come in handy for matching if a suspect turns up.”
    Sky bit back what he’d been about to say. It was too soon to borrow trouble, too soon to make assumptions. He’d need to do more investigating on his own before he voiced his suspicions. But in the end he knew where his loyalties lay. Somebody had trespassed on ranch property and shot an irreplaceable old man—and somebody, whoever it might be, would have to pay.
    â€œMaybe I can find the casing from the shot,” he said. “If we don’t collect it now, it’s liable to end up in some pack rat’s midden.”
    â€œGood luck with that,” Beau said. “It could be anywhere within a couple of hundred yards, and we need to get back before long.”
    â€œGive me fifteen minutes.”
    â€œHow about a bet? If you don’t find the casing, you’ll tell me about your encounter with the delicious Miss Prescott.”
    â€œAnd if I do find it? Forget the bet. There’s nothing I want.” Sky started with the place where Jasper’s ATV had wrecked and backtracked from there. Before shooting into the seep, the tire tracks zigzagged erratically in the dust, bouncing against rocks and flying over hollows. Twenty yards back, the tracks changed to form a controlled line. This, then, would most likely be where Jasper had been when the bullet struck him.
    Sky studied the spot, calculating where the shot would have come from. The bullet had struck Jasper from the front, which would eliminate most of the area behind him and to the sides. Since Jasper claimed he hadn’t seen anyone, the shooter had probably hidden behind something—all guesswork, but if it led him to the casing, he would know he’d been right.
    By now the sun was coming up, its rim a blinding streak above the plains. Jasper had gone out early. Had he been facing into the sun when he was shot? Shading his eyes, Sky scanned to the horizon. A big clump of mesquite stood within easy shooting distance. Sprinting toward it, he circled and came in from behind.
    This had to be the place. There were plenty of tracks—the smaller, worn cowboy boots he’d noticed earlier and a larger pair that looked more like a motorcycle boot. There were motorcycle tracks as well. Sky studied the tread pattern, setting it in his mind. He thought about calling Beau over, but Beau was impatient to leave. He would look around for the casing and call it good.
    Just behind the mesquite clump, he could see a cluster of tracks, as if someone had crouched there. Most of these tracks were made by the smaller boots. But the larger tracks were here, too. Had the shot been fired from this spot? Following Beau’s example, Sky used his cell phone to snap a picture.
    At the base of a rock, the sunlight glinted on a bit of brass. It was the casing from the bullet. Sky photographed it in place, then picked it up with his clean handkerchief. Maybe he should have made that bet with Beau after all.
    Only as he was turning to go did he notice another object, lying in the dust. As soon as he saw it, Sky realized what it was.
    Without remembering to take a picture, he picked it up. His stomach clenched. It was a folded two-blade pocket knife—small, cheap, and old. The handle was covered in plastic made to look like mother of pearl. Sky turned the knife over, knowing what he would see. Two initials, darkened from years of handling, were scratched into the plastic.
    S.F.
    They were Sky’s own initials. He’d carved them himself, with the point of a nail, as a boy of ten.

CHAPTER 4
    â€œM ay I join you, Lauren?” Congressman Garn Prescott pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining room table. Lauren smeared a dab of strawberry jam on her wheat toast. She’d hoped to finish her breakfast and escape