Page 7 of A Curse On Black Lake (Black Lake Gothic Cowboys #1)

Chapter five

Killian

“Ha!” I yell at the cattle trying to go six different ways. “Tex, round ‘em up!” I holler for the dog to do his job, herding the cattle together. I need a ranch hand.

Me and my three other dogs, finally get the group of cattle into their new pasture and I close the gate frustrated and tired.

The weed that looks like a flower pops up at random times throughout the year, came up last night, and the cattle love it, so it was all I could do to get them to keep moving.

The heat of the day is making me sweat through my shirt, and I’m behind schedule.

I know I need help, but I don’t want to ask for it — especially from the citizens of Black Lake, sue me.

I take off my hat, swiping at the sweat on my brow, and set it back on before encouraging my horse, Daisy, into a canter. My mom named her when I got her, and I didn’t have the stomach to change it. It’s one of the last pieces I have of my mother.

The dogs bark towards the trees, and I frown. They’re gathered together, pointing at something. They aren’t hunting dogs, all mutts, but smart ones. They don’t do things like that, so I’m sure one of the cattle got stuck in the woods by the pasture.

Groaning, I lead Daisy over to the dogs and don’t see a steer. Hopping off, I follow them into the trees. They move towards an outcropping of rocks. One of the large boulders is smooth, as if a wave was frozen in time, and petrified.

Below the crest of the stone, a woman lays there, naked with closed eyes. I run to her, sliding my fingers to her neck, and I instantly know she’s not alive. Her body is colder than ice. I take a step back and call the dogs off.

Just what I need.

I study the woman carefully, noting the bruises around her ankles and wrists — she was bound.

Her throat is almost totally purple. I don’t have to be a coroner to know she was likely choked to death.

There doesn’t appear to be a speck of dirt on her skin, but there is something on her back that looks carved into the skin.

I can’t see the whole marking, and I don’t want to touch her to inspect it.

She’s posed with her knees together, at an angle, while one arm rests across her forehead as if she fainted.

There’s a flower like the one that bloomed last night, and it’s dried, placed in the hand resting at her side, palm open.

But what sticks out to me the most is her hair.

It’s not natural. It was dyed a blonde color, and her dark brown roots still show, as if someone didn’t know what they were doing.

Maybe she’s not the one that dyed it, or she was growing it out.

Aside from the odd detail, it appears washed, even blow-dried.

So either she got her hair done right before she was killed or the killer did it.

Regardless, she was meticulously cared for.

And the only question on my mind is why here, and why my property? I’m not a cop anymore, but I have seen this before, close to two years ago, but her hair wasn’t dyed.

I rub my face and take a deep breath before dialing the Sheriff’s Department.

He’s back.

“Did you touch the body, Killian?” Wyatt asks.

I sigh. “My first instinct was to check if she was alive.”

He hums and writes it in his notes.

“The only place you will find my fingerprints will be at her neck for her pulse,” I tell him.

“Have you had anyone on the property recently? Any vandalism?”

“Nope,” I tell him, not that I would call the cops. I would handle that on my own. It’s called dogs and a double-barrel shotgun.

“Have you seen this woman before?” he asks.

I give him a deadpan stare, and he throws his hands out. “Come on, man, you know I have to ask you this,” he mutters.

“I know,” I sigh. “No, I have never seen her before.”

He writes it in his notebook. Wyatt Sawyer is my cousin, probably my only friend left in this town, and we don’t talk much, not since my dad died, and that’s my own fault. But of all people, he knows I would never, could never do something so heinous.

“Alright, well, when the crime scene tech is done, we’ll be gone,” Wyatt says.

I watch Deputies Hoyt and Connor lift the woman into a body bag. This has happened before. In fact, it’s been happening for years, and we’ve never been able to catch the son of a bitch.

“We might ask you to come to the station,” Wyatt says.

“Why? I had nothing to do with this,” I snap.

Wyatt gives me a funny look and writes something down.

“Do you have anything else? I need to get back to work, and y’all need to get off my damn land.” At this rate, I’ll be working in the dark.

Wyatt’s jaw twitches. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Killian,” he says.

I lift a shoulder. It has been a while, and I stopped caring. I stopped caring about a lot of things since Dad died. I stopped caring about how people come and go from your life because it takes effort to stay.

“I don’t expect nothin’ from anyone, cousin,” I mumble.

Wyatt doesn’t respond, and I spin around, going back to Daisy.

Dad’s words roll around in my head, and I can’t help but wonder if this is what he was talking about. But how would he have known that?

Shaking myself from the thought, I move on with the rest of my work for the day.

My mind keeps spinning around the woman on my property, and the tug in my gut tells me it’s only going to get worse.

Why my land? Why the pose, and why was her hair dyed?

I’ve seen this perp’s work before. If it’s the same murderer, the flower is a dead giveaway, but this time was different, and it’s not only the hair.

Killian, 5 Years Ago

“We have a 10-54d up on Route 96 East on the north side by Black Lake. It … looks like the one from last month,” Deputy Hoyt says over the radio.

I take a deep breath, grabbing my gun, holstering it, and dropping my hat on my head before I head out to the crime scene.

When I arrive, I leave my lights on and hop out, crossing the street parallel to the lake. Deputy Connor is looking at the body as he walks the scene, taking pictures.

My stomach knots. Hoyt was right. It’s the same guy. He’s got her posed, a flower in her hand, and her throat is purple, likely strangled.

“Where’s Wyatt?” Hoyt asks me.

“He’s on his way. He wasn’t on duty tonight.”

Walking around the dump site, I look for footprints, or evidence of some kind. But as always, there’s nothing to find. And if we do find something, the weather or animal life destroys it, so it’s unusable.

I want to catch this bastard. I’ve been working tirelessly trying to get more than his signature. His motive eludes all of us. Every woman is different, with varying body structures, hair, and ethnicities. And never any evidence to work with other than what we can see.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I answer it, already knowing who it is. He should be asleep right now.

“Hey Dad,” I say.

“Son? When are you coming home?” he asks.

“I’m on night shift tonight, Pops. Remember?” I ask him.

It’s quiet for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I guess you did tell me that. Well, are you going to be able to help me move cattle tomorrow?” he asks.

I groan silently, looking up at the night sky, something that I get peace from. But tonight it’s offering anything but. “Yeah, I’ll help you,” I tell him. And completely disregard the fact that he has three ranch hands who work for him.

Telling my father to stop working is like telling the sun to stop coming up every day. We know his time is limited, and like any cowboy, he want’s to die with his boots on. What kind of son would I be if I didn’t make sure he gets what he wants in his final days?