Rusted Spur, Texas, is full of secrets…until now

Desperate to find her missing twin, Jessie Layton arrives at the Rayford ranch, the last place her sister was seen. But after meeting Zach Rayford, the reporter is left with only more questions. Like why is the extremely handsome rancher defending his family’s obvious lies regarding her sister?

Zach vowed to protect his family, but it’s become more complicated…especially with his growing attraction to Jessie…. But even as they spar, a lethal danger pursues Jessie. Together they risk their lives confronting secrets that could destroy Zach’s family…if he chooses to do right by the headstrong woman who’s corralled him!

“I know you have good reason to suspect me. But I swear to you, I’m not that kind of person.”

He studied her face, searching its depths for…something. Sincerity, perhaps, but between them, something else ignited, the spark of something far too dangerous to contemplate.

Or so she told herself, but with temptation arcing through her body, her eyes refused to obey. One glance at his lips and it was too late to step back. Too late to do anything but tilt back her head when he whispered, “I believe you.”

To do anything but part her lips when his mouth fell upon hers.

His taste was bittersweet: the mint of toothpaste mingled with the darker notes of coffee. But this sensation submerged completely beneath the unexpected pleasure, her every nerve ending flaring, awakening to his touch.

Some slim margin of her brain warned this kiss, this passion, was too sudden and too needful, flung at her like a net….

Dear Reader,

As I write this morning, I’m remembering some advice my sister, a traveling hospice nurse, has shared. In the end, she tells me, people never regret not having worked more hours, acquired more things or been more successful. Instead, they worry over missed opportunities to mend relationships and spend more of their precious time with loved ones.

Lone Star Redemption is the story of two people doing their best to fix their broken families. For career-minded reporter Jessie Layton, it’s all about finding her lost, chronically troubled twin sister—and honoring her vow to bring Haley home before their terminally ill mother dies. Stung by Haley’s behavior once too often in the past, Jessie is leery of getting caught up in another of her sister’s dramas, but she begins to rethink her position after seeing the sacrifices former marine corps fighter pilot Zach Rayford has made to return to his widowed mother and the sprawling Texas ranch she’s been left alone to run.

As I wrote Jessie and Zach’s story, I ached for these two wounded people, both struggling to find their way through a complex moral quagmire. And I held my breath at times, terrified they wouldn’t survive a killer bent on keeping the truth hidden…no matter who must die.

I hope you’ll enjoy Lone Star Redemption and keep your eyes open for a new tale from the Rayford Ranch at Rusted Spur, coming very soon.

Happy reading!

Colleen Thompson

Lone Star Redemption

Colleen Thompson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

COLLEEN THOMPSON

After beginning her career writing historical romance novels, in 2004 Colleen Thompson turned to writing the contemporary romantic suspense she loves. Since then, her work has been honored with a Texas Gold Award, along with nominations for a RITA® Award, a Daphne du Maurier Award and multiple reviewers’ choice honors. She has also received starred reviews from RT Book Reviews and Publishers Weekly. A former teacher living with her family in the Houston area, Colleen has a passion for reading, hiking and dog rescue. Visit her online at www.colleen-thompson.com.

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To strong and loving families: those we’re born to, those we give birth to, and those we cobble together from the broken pieces of our hearts.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Extract

Prologue

August 1st

If she couldn’t have her son back, was peace too much to ask?

The question reverberated through sixty-eight-year-old Nancy Rayford’s throbbing skull with an intensity untouched by the powerful prescriptions she had taken. Still, the knocking went on, a pounding at her front door. What time was it, anyway? How long since she’d drifted off?

Tossing aside the light throw she’d used as a blanket, she pushed herself up off the soft cushions of a leather sofa before blinking at the television. There, the muted figure of some late-night comedian clowned before his silent audience. All of them laughing up a storm, as though her sweetest boy had not been reduced to ashes in a small urn just two weeks before.

Not a boy; a man, she reminded herself, Ian and his brother both. But she’d never known either one as a grown adult, as a soldier, thanks to her husband’s scorched-earth approach to fatherhood. Now he was gone, as well, leaving her alone here, or as alone as an aging widow could get surrounded by thousands of acres of drought-plagued range and thirsty cattle.

The pounding started again, adding a desperate edge to the insistent rhythm. It sliced through her drugged reality, reaching a part of her that understood there must be something very wrong. Shaking overtook her at the suspicion that she would find another pair of uniformed officers at her front door, somber military personnel assigned to tell her that her surviving firstborn son, her Zach, was gone, too.

With a cry of pain, she lurched through the empty house, her shaking hand reaching for the door before she could wonder if it might be unsafe to do so. Because he was all she had left; if he’d been taken from her now, too—

With her heart pounding in her throat and the world careening wildly around her, she unlocked the door and flung it open so hard that it banged against the entry wall. Staring into the dark August night, she begged the same God who’d failed at every turn to heed her prayers that it not be the news she most feared. Please don’t take him, too.

But tonight’s visitor wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt rather than the dreaded uniform. She was a gaunt and pale young woman, with eyes shadowed by exhaustion and arms that trembled with the weight of the small child she carried. The sleeping girl of three—or was it four?—years, wrapped in a blanket, her tawny hair a matted mess.

“I can’t do this anymore,” the young woman told her, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I just can’t. I need your help, please, Nancy. C-can you take her?”

Drained from days of headaches and weak from dehydration, Nancy felt a jolt of pure energy restore her. Her long trance shattered, and a new sense of purpose moved her forward. She raised thin arms to lift the burden from the taller woman’s arms, to cuddle the child close to her breast.

Rather than weighing her down, the little girl’s weight made Nancy feel lighter than she had since her husband’s death, six months earlier, lighter and younger than she had in decades. And when she looked down into the precious face, so smooth and unblemished and impossibly perfect, the knowledge coursed through her, a swift river of current telling her that this was no accident at all.

This was, instead, a miracle, a reason to go on.

Chapter 1

Three months later...

Stiff and tired from hours of driving across the desolate northern Texas prairie, Jessie Layton climbed from her blue hatchback and stepped into the howling wind.

Bent low against the gusts, she slung her purse over her shoulder and raced for the steps leading up to the wide white veranda without waiting for her cameraman to follow. By the time she made it to the mansion’s front door, she was choking on the brick-red dust, her eyes and nose streaming and long ribbons of her reddish-blond hair whipping across her face. Shivering with a cold that her leather jacket barely cut, she felt scoured and sandblasted—and angrier than ever.

Leave it to my sister to drag me halfway to Hell.

No. That wasn’t right. As she pushed the hair from her face, she reminded herself she hadn’t driven all the way up to the Panhandle ranch, where her twin’s trail had gone cold, for Haley’s sake, no more than she was here for the “very personal human-interest story” she’d pitched to her news director as a pretext to get out of Dallas for a few days. Though the request must have come as quite a shock considering that she’d been on the verge of breaking a story bound to make national headlines, She had really come because she’d made a promise. A promise to the mother she was about to lose.

The thought brought with it a stab of fear, the same swirling sense of panic that threatened to pull Jessie under several times a day. She was still working to get past her father’s sudden death two years before, and he had barely acknowledged her existence, except to criticize her. Now, her mother, too, was dying, the one parent she could always count on for support, for love—Jessie couldn’t bear the thought.

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying her breathing, reminding herself that they still had weeks or months left. Or maybe even longer. Aggressive as the cancer was, her mom was holding her own at the moment, and the oncologist had allowed that spontaneous remissions had happened in a few rare cases.

If she could find Haley and bring her home to make peace, they might get the miracle they needed. Or maybe Mom just wants to see her one more time before she dies... The reason didn’t matter. Finding Haley, and getting her home fast, was more important to Jessie than anything else right now. Important enough that she scarcely gave a thought to the risk to her career and the story she’d been so focused on selling to her news director.

Henry Kucharski stumbled up the steps behind her, the bushy gray wreath that ringed his bald head swirling in the gale. A wiry little man with a woolly caterpillar of a mustache, he was struggling with the mini-cam, pulling off the lens cap as she pounded on the front door.

“Three in the afternoon, and it might as well be full dark,” he said anxiously. “Without decent lighting, this footage won’t be worth the—”

“Don’t you get it, Henry? I couldn’t care less about the lighting,” she said, “or the footage, either.”

Pried loose by the wind, a nearby shutter started banging. Concerned her own knock wouldn’t be heard, Jessie tried ringing the bell but didn’t hear it. As she’d suspected when she’d first spotted the darkened windows, the storm must have caused a power outage.

“That’s not what you told Vivian.” Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, Henry squinted against the wind. “And I’ll remind you, she’s my boss, too. You and I both know how she holds on to grudges. And how many ways she has of making our lives miserable.”

Jessie, who towered over him in the high-heeled boots she wore with a tunic and leggings, spared him an apologetic look, remembering how allergic the poor guy was to confrontation. And how sweet he’d been to postpone his wedding anniversary dinner with his wife of twenty-six years to make the six-hour drive out here with her when it was clear that no one else would. “I’ll take full responsibility. Don’t worry.”

She rapped at the oversize mahogany door again, more insistently this time. Please let someone be home. She’d spotted a big pickup parked out back, but for all she knew, the owners were off somewhere in another vehicle from the attached four-car garage.

“Oh, I’m not worried about me, so much. It’s you, especially after you jammed that story on the mayor down her throat. Vivian has friends, I hear, including one very close friend supporting—” As the doorknob rattled, Henry went silent, tensing as he readied his camera.

The moment the door cracked open, a gust sent a swirl of sand spinning into Jessie’s face. She cried out, covering her stinging eyes with her hands.

“Come inside, out of the wind,” insisted a female voice, thin and scratchy. “Quickly, please. You’re letting in the dust.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Henry as he ushered Jessie inside and pressed a handkerchief into her hands.

Blotting her streaming eyes, Jessie blinked in the dim light of a surprisingly formal entryway for this part of the world. Half a dozen tiny flames flickered, where someone had set out candles atop a fussy table with carved, curved ivory legs. The soft glow was reflected by a tall, ornately framed mirror, its illumination warming the cool marble floor beneath a vaulted ceiling. Like the huge old house, miles from its nearest neighbor, this entryway had been built to impress, even overwhelm, potential rivals.

Having grown up in Dallas’s upscale Highland Park neighborhood, Jessie had long since gotten past the notion that privilege necessarily deserved protection. It was part of what made her fearless when confronting those who considered themselves untouchable, from a beloved sports legend who was systematically cheating customers at the car dealership he’d purchased, to the mayor of Dallas, who would very soon be facing his own reckoning over his crooked reelection campaign.

The lady of the house would find herself no more immune, especially if the woman kept doing everything in her power to frustrate Jessie’s search.

“Mrs. Rayford? Nancy Rayford?” She blinked at an attractive older woman with a silvered pixie cut and blue eyes a shade darker than her soft cabled sweater. It was hard to imagine this was the same woman who had answered her questions on the phone so brusquely before repeatedly hanging up on her. She was a tiny, mousy-looking thing, so frail and insubstantial that Jessie quickly closed the door behind her, half-afraid that a stray gust could waft her up into the shadow of the elegant curved staircase just behind her.

“Yes, why—” Voice faltering, Mrs. Rayford took a step back before reaching for a candle with one trembling hand. Lifting its light toward Jessie, she gasped and spread her hand over her chest. “Haley? Oh, my— I thought you weren’t—”

Jessie shook her head. “My sister. Remember? I tried to tell you on the phone.” Her heart fell with a realization. “Then, Haley really isn’t here?”

She’d been banking on finding her sister hiding out here, after having talked her way into some menial job with some sob story about being pursued by an abusive stalker. It was Haley’s time-honored method for avoiding creditors, former lovers and, Jessie suspected, her family, as well.

Mrs. Rayford’s blue eyes widened before she flicked a fearful glance behind her, toward the stairwell. “You’re— Then you’re really not her? Truly?”

“We’re identical twins,” Jessie explained, offering a smile in an attempt to reassure the frightened woman. And more important, to gain her trust. “Our own father couldn’t tell us apart.”

Not that he’d ever made much effort. But Nancy Rayford didn’t need to know that.

From outside came a low hum, and a moment later, the chandelier above them flickered on. The sudden illumination revealed the older woman’s pallor, painting gaunt shadows in her hollowed cheeks.

Reminded of her own mother’s illness, Jessie said, “I’m sorry I’ve upset you. Do you need to sit down?”

Taking the woman by the arm, Jessie led her to a bench seat and squatted before her when Mrs. Rayford sank down to it.

“Are you all right?” Jessie asked, thinking of heart attacks and aneurysms, and the sudden, fatal stroke that had taken her father over one of her family’s mandatory Sunday dinners. “Is there something I can get you? Someone I can call?”

No sooner had she asked the questions than she heard the sounds of approaching boot heels on the marble. As Henry faded back, turning to hide the mini-cam still perched on his shoulder, a deep voice boomed, “Generator’s back online, Mama. Should keep us up and running for a while, anyway—”

A tall man holding a broad-brimmed gray hat came striding through the archway and stopped short, looking in confusion from Henry to Jessie before finding Mrs. Rayford. She had leaned forward, holding her bowed head in her shaking hands.

“What’s going on here? Mama? Is something wrong?” He rushed toward her so quickly that Jessie rose and stepped out of his way. “These people—are they bothering you?”

Blinking back tears, his mother waved off his concern. “No, no, Zach. They’re just—” She looked to Jessie. “They took a wrong turn in the storm, but they saw our gate and stopped to ask directions to town.”

Jessie stared in surprise. Why on earth would you lie to your own son?

“I was just helping them when all of a sudden, one of my headaches came on,” Mrs. Rayford continued. “They’ve been very kind, but I’ll need my prescription. You remember where I keep it, don’t you? And some water, too, please.”

Clearly uneasy, he looked from Jessie to Henry.

“I’ll be fine,” his mother said, tenting her fingers over one side of her forehead. “Maybe it’s the wind, but this migraine’s getting worse. If you could get my pill right away...”

“Sure, Mama. I’ll be right back,” he said, his concerned eyes as vibrant a blue as his mother’s. But that was where their resemblance ended.

Where Mrs. Rayford was petite and frail, her rancher son was broad-shouldered and long-limbed—a trim six-three, at least, and only a few years older than Jessie’s twenty-nine. The wind, or maybe the hat, had mussed his short jet-black hair, but it was his strong jaw that caught her attention—that and the high cheekbones, deep tan and dark brows that hinted he had Native blood, despite the color of his eyes. To her surprise, there was no ring on his finger, she noticed, sneaking a glance at his strong, work-roughened hands as he rushed back in the direction he had come.

He might be wearing a barn jacket, boots and worn jeans—well fitted to the contours of his body—rather than Armani, but she knew instinctively that if a gorgeous specimen like him showed up in Highland Park, he’d have half the women in that ZIP code lined up, hoping for a ride. And if they had any idea how much land and livestock his family owned—and how much oil had been found here, according to her research—a good number would be out to permanently corral him. She couldn’t imagine herself among them, though, for if she’d learned anything from her last boyfriend, it was that guys who looked that good and had the money to back it up tended to have a lot more ego than she cared to deal with.

“You’ll need to leave now,” Mrs. Rayford told them. “Before my son gets back. Please.”

Jessie squeezed Mrs. Rayford’s ice-cold hand and said, “I’m very sorry you’re not feeling well, but I’m not going anywhere until I find my sister. My own mother— My mother’s seriously ill and needs to see her. And every lead I’ve uncovered stops right here at this ranch.”

Mrs. Rayford straightened to look her in the eye, her otherwise pale face marked by two splashes of bright color. “I told you on the phone, Haley Layton moved on six months back,” she said, her voice going cold and brittle. “She and that good-for-nothing boyfriend of hers sneaked out of the old bunkhouse they were renting without a single word—or a penny of the three months’ rent they owed me.”

The part about the money didn’t surprise Jessie. Haley had a long history of abusing the trust of everyone with whom she came in contact. Jessie herself had fallen for a couple of Haley’s hard-luck stories—the last time to the tune of nearly five thousand dollars—all the savings she’d had at the time.

The very last time, she’d sworn, cutting off all contact once her sister had skipped out of a battered women’s shelter and disappeared almost four years before. It had hurt Jessie, too, turning her back on someone so close. She felt almost like a part of Jessie’s own body, but she knew, too, that if she kept enabling her twin, Haley would never learn to stand alone—and would never stop resenting Jessie for the accomplishments that set them apart.

“I’ll write you a check right now for the back rent,” she offered, now more intent on offering her mother peace than in fixing her sister’s life, “if you can only tell me where she went or even this boyfriend’s name. Then I’ll be on my way.”

The woman moaned. “I don’t care about the money. As I told you before, I have no idea where your sister’s gone.”

“Then why act so evasive on the phone, and why hang up on me every time I tried to call back?” Jessie demanded. “When you saw my face, too, I saw how you—”

From behind her, Zach Rayford returned to interrupt them. “What’s really going on here? Who the hell are you people, and what do you think you’re doing upsetting my mother?”

“I—I’m looking for my sister, that’s all,” Jessie stammered, forced to step aside once more as the rancher gave his stricken mother the pill and glass of water he had brought.

Gently, he touched her rail-thin shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Mama. Take this, and I’ll send these people on their way.”

She tensed visibly and then, a moment later, nodded.

“I—I’ll do that,” Nancy Rayford said, her voice small as a child’s as she pressed the pill to her lips and swallowed with a sip of water. “And then, I might— I think I may go up and lie down for a bit. I’m not— I’m feeling a little—”

“Go on ahead, Mama. I’ll be up in a minute to check on both of you. And I’ll look after Eden, so there’s no need to worry.”

Bending his powerful frame, he helped the fragile woman to her feet. As soon as she was standing, she murmured to Jessie, “Forgive me,” with a plea in her eyes before she started up the stairs.

“Just her boyfriend’s name,” Jessie called after her, caring far less about this stranger’s inexplicable desire for secrecy than her promise to her mother. “Please, if you can tell me that much, I’ll be on my way.”

Zach Rayford narrowed his eyes. “It’s time for you people to leave. Now.”

Still looking at Jessie, Mrs. Rayford shook her head. “I—I’m not sure I can—”

“You don’t have to answer her.” Laserlike in its intensity, Zach’s glare flew from Jessie’s face to Henry’s, where he quickly did a double take. “What the hell? Is that a camera you’re hiding? You people are filming us? Right here in our home?”

He stalked toward Henry, saying, “Give me that right now, you little—”

Scrambling backward, Henry twisted in an attempt to keep the mini-cam out of reach, but the rancher wrested it from his hands before the older man could do anything about it.

“Wait!” Jessie said, fearing the expensive camera would be damaged. And fearing even more that her foolish attempt to appease her boss had cost her her only real chance at finding Haley.

Rayford stopped, a mirthless grin spreading across his handsome face as his gaze swung from her to Henry. “Now that I have your attention,” he said, “maybe I can get some answers. First of all, you’re going to tell me right this minute, who are you?”

He nodded toward the red-faced cameraman, who was rubbing his neck and darting glances toward the door. It didn’t take a mind reader to see that he was thinking about bolting before the rancher’s big hands found him, too.

“Henry Kucharski,” he finally murmured, shoving his own hands into the pockets of his jacket. “And I’ll need that camera back, or I’m a dead man when I get back to Dallas.”

Ignoring him, Zach looked to Jessie. “And now you,” he ordered, “the woman with the questions.”

“As I’ve told your mother,” she said, her voice tight with anger, “my name is Jessie Layton, and I’m looking for a former tenant of yours—”

“A tenant? You think we’re running some sort of a boardinghouse here?” He glanced toward his mother, who lingered on the staircase, gaping at them as she clutched the railing for dear life.

She nodded, desperately, or so it seemed to Jessie. “Back before your brother...” Mrs. Rayford explained to her son. “While you were still away, I let Frankie McFarland and his girlfriend—you remember Frankie, don’t you?—he grew up right here in Rusted Spur—talk me into renting them the old bunkhouse on the East Two Hundred.”

Jessie threw up her hands in exasperation. “If you’d only given me that name when I asked you on the phone, I wouldn’t have had to come all the way here in the first place!”

Paying no heed to her outburst, Zach stared at his mother. “That old place?” He shook his head. “But no one’s lived there in years. It was falling apart.”

“At the time, they seemed like such a nice young couple. Down on their luck, that’s all.”

“From what I remember about Frank McFarland,” Zach said grimly, “there was never one nice thing about him.”

“I thought he’d changed,” his mother said, “but I was wrong. They disappeared six months back, without doing any of the repairs they promised in exchange for cheaper rent—or paying, either, for that matter.”

Turning to look at Jessie, Zach said, “So you’re looking for this woman, right? This deadbeat with the loser boyfriend really is your sister?”

“She’s my twin, and she’s missing,” Jessie shot back, her face heating to hear this glorified cowboy running down the sister with whom she’d shared a womb—a sister who had shared her every day and every thought for the first sixteen years of their lives. No matter how embarrassed she felt to be judged by Haley’s bad behavior, it came as second nature to defend her. “And for the record, I offered to pay your mother whatever Haley owed.”

Narrowing his eyes, he glared at Henry once more. “If you’re just here to find your sister, why’d you bring a cameraman? Tell me you’re not some damned reporter—”

She pulled a card out of her purse and admitted, “Jessica Layton, Dallas Metro Update, Channel 37. But I’m really here to find my sister, for my mother’s sake.”

“I don’t buy that for a second. You’re here for some sleazy story. Here to make my mother look bad somehow,” he accused as he fumbled with the camera’s buttons. “How do I— Where’s the release on this thing, before I have to tear it apart? There’s a memory card in here, right?”

“Don’t you touch that,” Henry managed, but, thoroughly intimidated, he sounded more apologetic than outraged.

Finding the right lever, Rayford ejected the memory card and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.

“No, please. I don’t—” Jessie shook her head. “Forget that. You can keep it. Just— I need to ask your mother a few more questions. Please.”

“What I need,” he said as he jammed the mini-cam back at Henry, “is for the two of you to get the hell out of my house and off my property before I call the sheriff—or go get my gun.”

Chapter 2

Zach was gratified to see the little cameraman scuttling out the door without a moment’s hesitation.

But the slim, green-eyed woman didn’t move a muscle as she stared him down. “For the record,” she challenged, the wind from the open door whipping her long, red-gold hair around her, “you’re threatening to shoot us?”

Though he’d like nothing more than to answer, Hell, yes, he hesitated for a heartbeat, remembering reporters and their underhanded ways. Innocent as this Jessica Layton appeared, with her tangled waves and a smattering of girl-next-door freckles, there was a stubborn set to her delicate jaw that promised trouble if he wasn’t careful. For all he knew, she had a digital recorder hidden on her and would take his bluff to the law if he were stupid enough to threaten her. Not that Sheriff Canter would likely do anything but escort this troublemaking outsider to the county line, but Zach didn’t need the aggravation.

And he didn’t need her raising more questions about his mother’s strange behavior. Why hadn’t she simply told the reporter what little she knew about Layton’s sister and her boyfriend instead of acting as if there was something to hide? And why had she lied to him about the reporter and her cameraman being lost in the storm and looking for directions?

“I’m not going to shoot you,” he admitted with a shake of his head. “But I promise you, I’ll pick you up like a bawling calf and carry you straight back to your car if you don’t leave.”

To her credit—and his irritation—Jessica Layton didn’t bat an eye at the threat.

“So you’re sending me back out into this storm?” she asked.

“And straight down the road to Dallas, if I have anything to say about it,” he said, thinking of the tears he’d spotted in his mother’s eyes. He wouldn’t have her getting sick again, an illness that had alarmed him into accepting the discharge he’d been offered, as his family’s sole surviving son, and into finally accepting his father’s unwelcome legacy.

The reporter waited without speaking, clearly hoping to make him squirm. But as an officer of the marine corps, he was familiar with the tactic. Had used it himself upon occasion, while staring down the younger pilots he’d trained.

He waited her out, thinking how pretty he might’ve found this clearly smart and stubborn woman if she weren’t some damned reporter, especially one who’d invaded his turf and upset his mother. Did this Jessica Layton have any idea that the woman she’d come here to grill had lost her son—his only brother, Ian—in combat a few months ago? Or that she’d still been reeling from her husband’s death at the time, which had left her responsible for running an enormous spread with no one but hired hands to help her?

“I’ll leave your property,” the reporter finally conceded, “but I’m warning you. I’m not making the drive home until I find my sister—or at least get some straight answers about where she might’ve gone. Because my mother isn’t dying without seeing her again.”

“You—Your mother?” he asked. “She’s—she’s what? You’re saying that she’s sick?”

Her jaw tightening, Jessica Layton nodded. Pain cracked through the mask of fierceness, the pain of a despair barely held at bay. A reminder that death hadn’t made its last stop at Zach’s family’s doorstep.

“I’m sorry for your family,” he said, really seeing the woman behind the reporter for the first time. A gorgeous woman, not just pretty, and one that his instincts assured him wasn’t lying in the hope of getting either an edge or a story. “But you just heard my mother. She has no idea where your sister’s gone.”

“You heard her as well as I did. It’s obvious your mother’s hiding something.” Jessica stared in challenge at his mother on the staircase.

A challenge he cut off by stepping between them, his heart pounding out a warning that this reporter, this intruder in his home, was too dangerous to sympathize with. “You crossed a line today, barging in here with a camera, and you’re crossing another, standing here and calling my mother a liar.” He squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height. “Now get out before I put you out.”

“I’ll be back,” she assured him, turning on her heel.

And leaving him to wonder, could his mother’s strange behavior have anything to do with another woman who had shown up unexpectedly to knock at their front door?

Reminded of the miracle she’d brought, Zach glanced up toward the landing and glimpsed a tendril of soft golden-brown hair and a pair of eyes peeking through the bars of the metalwork railing.

The green eyes of his four-year-old niece, Eden, who had been dropped off by her mother—an old girlfriend of Ian’s who none of them had ever heard of—in the weeks following his brother’s death. Still in San Diego, packing up the contents of his room in the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters, Zach had never met the woman, but Jessica Layton’s green eyes nudged a suspicion...a suspicion planted by his mother’s too-neat story to the night her “miracle grandchild” had appeared.

The moment the reporter closed the door behind her, the tiny girl—the child Zach swore had restored his mother’s will to live—trotted down the staircase and threw herself into his mother’s arms.

And in a small, sweet voice that drove a shaft of ice through his heart, Eden asked tearfully, “Grandma, is my mama coming back this time? Is she taking me away?”

* * *

“Thanks loads for the backup in there,” Jessie told Henry once she’d climbed behind the wheel.

His bald scalp reddened. “Did you see the size of that guy? And the muscles? Besides, I’ve got at least thirty years on him, or else I would’ve— I could’ve decked him....”

When Jessie raised her brows, Henry laughed at her skepticism.

“You know me all too well,” he conceded with a shrug. “Maybe I wouldn’t have at that, but I could tell that cowboy wouldn’t hit a woman, much less shoot one. You saw how he was with his little mama.”

“I figured the same,” she admitted as she started the car’s engine. “But he wasn’t going to back down from protecting her, either.”

“Protecting? You still think she’s hiding Haley?”

Jessie turned the car around and started back for the gate. “Not anymore I don’t, but she’s holding back. Or outright lying for some reason. I’d bet money on it.”

“I sure as heck noticed how she lied to him about who we were and then popped off your sister’s boyfriend’s name when her son looked at her funny. And right in front of you, too, after acting like she couldn’t remember.”

Frowning, Jessie shook her head. “She was so flustered by that point, I’m guessing she couldn’t keep it together any longer. But at least I have the boyfriend’s name now, so we can check him out.”

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced down at its face. “Not out here, you can’t. Not online, anyway. There’s no service, and—big surprise—no Wi-Fi signal, either.”

“How do people live like this?” Hours from the nearest Starbucks, she was going into withdrawal, and being cut off from the phone, email and internet was even harder.

As if on cue, a trio of cows—or bulls, or whatever the heck they were—wandered into their path. Apparently unfazed by the wind, the big red-and-white animals stopped to chew and stare at them.

“Come on, you three. Out of the way.” She tapped the horn, and one mooed. Another turned around and mooned her, before lifting its tail to...

“Not on my hood, you don’t!” she said, shifting into Reverse and backing the car a safe distance. Though she’d covered far more than her share of crime scenes, accidents and fatality fires on the night beat, she crinkled her nose and oohed at the disgusting display.

Henry grinned and said, “I’m guessing Bossy there doesn’t like us any better than that cowboy does.”

Jessie snorted, then tried to decide if her Prius could make it if she drove off the graded driveway and carefully skirted the cattle. The ground to either side was lumpy with rocks, and the tough grasses and thorny shrubs could easily hide holes where they might get stuck.

Fortunately, the cattle moved on, swishing their tails smugly.

“I am so having a nice, juicy steak tonight, if I can find one...” she grumbled.

The caterpillar mustache twitched. “I’m sure our host will be glad to hear that. Good for the cattle business, after all.”

“Oh, right,” she said, wishing she could declare for vegetarianism, instead. But she’d been raised on good Texas beef, and she’d miss it like crazy if she had to give it up. “Well, all that aside, I think I saw a diner back in Rusted Spur. And I’m betting there’s a signal there, too, so I can hop on the web.”

“Glad to hear it ’cause right about now, I could eat that cow whole.” Henry slanted her a look, reminding her she’d been in such a big hurry to reach the ranch, they’d had nothing since first thing that morning. Not that there had been a lot of restaurants to choose from once they’d left the state highway. “You’re sure the place’ll be open?”

“Judging from the number of pickups parked out front earlier, I figure it’s the local hangout. Thank goodness it wasn’t boarded up like most of the other businesses in town.”

“Town seems like a stretch,” said Henry, who was a city boy himself, born and raised in Chicago.

Jessie had to agree with his assessment. When they’d driven through Rusted Spur forty minutes before finding the ranch, the winds had just begun to blow, making the depressing collection of weathered, mostly wood-frame buildings, older vehicles and a single, flashing red light look positively bleak. She hoped that she was wrong, that some unexplored cross-street would reveal a thriving downtown with actual human beings she could talk to. Because even if her sister had been a stranger here, Haley’s boyfriend wasn’t, which made it likely he had friends or family members who would know where he had gone.

“It’s late for lunch and early for dinner, but let’s head that way, anyhow,” she suggested. “With a little luck, we’ll find some chatty local who’ll tell us about Frankie McFarland.”

“Could be they won’t like outsiders,” Henry warned. “Especially not outsiders asking questions about a local boy.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” she said. “I’ll bet you a nice, crisp twenty there’s somebody eager to rat out old Frankie. Either because he’s a jerk—my sister’s boyfriends always are—or for the chance to be on TV.”

“Not for some Dallas station they don’t even get here.”

Henry’s cynicism reminded her of the other type of people news crews frequently encountered: those who called them vultures—or worse—and slammed doors in their faces. Thinking of Zach Rayford’s contempt, she decided to forget about the camera and the microphone and simply play up the worried-sister angle. Her reunion with her twin later would make for more compelling viewing, anyway.

By the time they rolled into town, the storm had completely blown itself out, leaving behind a faint orange haze and chilly temperatures for late October.

Before heading toward the diner, they took the time to drive around town and found a few more going concerns, including a feed cooperative, a small post office located inside a rundown grocery store and a combination car repair shop and gas station. A lone pickup crossed the intersection ahead of them and a couple of lean brown dogs trotted along a buckled sidewalk.

“I’m starting to wonder if that storm blew us back in time,” said Henry as he peered at a long-since-closed theater. “This place looks like something from another century.”

“Another planet,” Jessie agreed, thinking of the tangled freeways and shining skyscrapers of downtown Dallas.

They easily found parking in front of a place called Tumbleweeds, which sported a peeling, hand-lettered sign proclaiming it the HOME OF THE PANHANDLE’S BIGGEST CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK!

“I notice they didn’t bother to claim ‘best,’” she said, making a mental note to order something healthier than the breaded, fried and gravy-laden dish.

After hiding the mini-cam in the rear hatch, they went in to scope the place out. At only a few minutes past four, the small, wood-frame structure was deserted save for a plump, dark-haired teenager cleaning tables and an older man Jessie assumed to be the cook, judging from his hairnet and apron, dozing as he leaned against the counter.

The waitress put down the rag she’d been using and smiled at them with crooked little teeth. “Welcome to Tumbleweeds. Are y’all here for dinner?”

“Sure thing,” Jessie said, unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the girl—Mandy, according to the name tag on her apron—didn’t seem to recognize her, which probably meant she didn’t know Haley. But that didn’t mean the teen couldn’t be of help.

An hour later, they came out, full of saturated fats, since there hadn’t been so much as a single veggie on the menu that wasn’t deep-fried or infused with bacon drippings, but little wiser than they had been.

Although Mandy had seemed sympathetic when Jessie told her about her search, it was clear that she knew nothing about Haley. She had, however, told them that Frankie McFarland’s brother, Danny, worked at the nearby feed store. Searches on both names with her cell phone, which was working decently if slowly, didn’t turn up anything of use. Apparently, the McFarland brothers didn’t stay connected with their friends on social networks, either.

Jessie and Henry had nearly reached the car when the girl from the diner came trotting out after them, her dark braid bouncing behind her and her round face pink with exertion. As soon as she caught her breath, she warned, “I didn’t want to say it in there with Crabby Leonard listening, but Danny’s nickname around town is Hellfire. On account of his temper.”

“You mean he’s violent?” Henry rushed to ask.

“He’s been tryin’ to pass himself off as respectable since he bought out the local watering hole, but everybody knows he’n Frankie have always been quick to take offense and even quicker with their fists. I’ve heard Sheriff Canter joke about naming one of his jail cells the McFarland Suite.”

Jessie’s stomach twisted with sudden apprehension as for the first time it occurred to her that her sister might not be deliberately hiding from her family, but in trouble. The kind of trouble that came with being involved with a violently abusive man.

An approaching rumble cut like a chainsaw through the small-town quiet. Swiveling her head, Mandy gasped and whispered, “Oh, gosh. Here he comes now. That’s Hellfire.”

As a big chopper-style motorcycle came into view, the waitress glanced from Henry to Jessie and begged, “Please don’t tell him I said anything about his temper. Or that stupid joke the sheriff made, okay?”

“It’s already forgotten,” Jessie promised.

But she was talking to thin air, for Mandy was already hurrying back inside as Danny McFarland roared up, his ragged, reddish beard and hair wild in the wind beneath the level of the skull-and-crossbones bandanna he was wearing. A big man with a bigger belly, he hid a portion of his bulk beneath an oversize black leather jacket. As he dismounted, she saw the name Prairie Rose Saloon had been emblazoned across the back. Beneath those words, a rattlesnake, all coiled menace, gaped among yellow roses with wicked, blood-tipped thorns.

As biker art went, it was impressive. But Jessie had neither the inclination nor the time to appreciate the view as Hellfire turned around to look her over. Though his eyes were hidden behind wraparound reflective glasses, Jessie’s skin crawled at the contempt that seemed to roll off him in waves.

“Careful with this guy,” Henry warned, shrinking back as she stepped forward.

Though Jessie had interviewed motorcycle “thugs” who’d turned out to have hearts of gold underneath their rough exteriors, her instincts screamed at her to retreat to safety. But McFarland was the only lead she had to follow, so she held her ground, even when he removed the glasses to reveal a pair of teardrops tattooed beneath his right eye. Teardrops that often signified a stint in prison—or worse.

In a moment, the mask shifted, morphing from simple toughness into fury before he burst out with, “You stupid bitch. You think anyone’s gonna be fooled by a freakin’ haircut and some fancy clothes? What’d I tell you about—”

“Haley is my sister,” Jessie said, jolted by the knowledge that he’d mistaken her for her twin. That he clearly knew—and hated—her. “She’s also your brother’s girlfriend, from what I hear. Can you tell me where they went?”

“Your sister? What the hell’re you trying to pull, girl?” He stopped abruptly to scowl at her, grooves furrowing his weathered face before blinking in surprise. “Wait a minute. You ain’t kidding, are you?”

“Our mother’s— Our mom’s dying,” Jessie admitted. “She only wants to see my sister one more time.”

“Well, I can tell you, Rusted Spur’s the last place you’re gonna find that girl, or my brother, either. Now you get on down the road, too—if you want to stay alive.”

Jessie’s jaw tightened. Does everyone in this one-horse town intend to threaten me? Nevertheless, she stood her ground, insisting, “I can’t go anywhere without Haley.”

McFarland looked from her to Henry and back again, his lip curling to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. “Maybe then you won’t be leaving. Alive, anyway.”

Jessie didn’t give an inch, demanding, “Where is she, Hellfire? Where’d your brother take her?”

As the biker’s gaze turned dangerous, Henry grabbed at her arm. “Let’s get out of here, Jessie. I’ll drive this time if you want.”

Jerking her arm free, she didn’t budge and didn’t take her eyes off McFarland for a second.

Without further warning, he surged toward her, faster than she would have imagined such a big man capable of moving. With a cry of alarm, she backpedaled, choking with fear and nausea as her hands came up to ward off his attack.

Chapter 3

Zach was astonished at how swiftly his mother jumped up and trotted upstairs to the landing. Showing no sign of illness, she knelt before Eden and wrapped the tiny girl in her thin arms.

“No, sweetheart. You remember,” she insisted. “Your mama’s job has her flying overseas now. That’s why she had to leave you with me.”

Zach’s gut tightened as his suspicion deepened. Was she reminding Eden of a truth—or coaching the child to stick to some story she’d come up with?

Looking frightened, the girl stared into his mother’s face. “I want to stay with you, Grandma, and Uncle Zach, too, and my pony. Please don’t make me go back there. I don’t want to leave.”

“I promise, baby, you don’t have to. Your mama signed the papers so you can stay with us forever.”

“And get my puppies, too, soon as they’re ready to leave their mommy?” Eden asked, brightening at the mention of her favorite subject.

Zach’s mother shot him an aggrieved look, since he’d been the fool who’d taken her with him to see his friend Nate, a bachelor who was even more clueless than Zach was when it came to four-year-olds. Not only had he shown Eden the litter of fluffy Australian shepherd pups in the barn, he’d encouraged her to cuddle and play with them, then pick out the one that she liked best.

When Eden, who was as crazy about animals as Ian had been at her age, had been unable to choose between a merle female and a male tricolor, Nate had joked, “Then why not take both, Eden? This week only, they’re free to pretty girls.”

Zach was still mad at the big idiot, though the two had been fast friends since high school. It wasn’t so much that Zach minded the idea of getting a dog for the ranch—especially one from Nate’s Bonnie, one of the smartest, most intuitive animals he’d ever known—but puppies were a lot of work. Besides, his mother, who had always firmly believed that animals belonged outdoors, had been quick to remind him how Eden had cried herself to sleep for days when they wouldn’t let the pony come up to bed with her at night.

When his mama didn’t answer right away, Eden said, “I already thought of the best names for them. The girl’s gonna be Sweetheart and the boy is Lionheart. Sweetheart’ll kiss me when I’m lonesome and Lionheart will chase away the scary dreams at night.”

“Those are good names.” As Zach followed Eden and his mother upstairs, he was troubled by the girl’s mention of the night terrors that had her waking up screaming several times a week. During the daylight hours, she seemed happy enough to ride sweet old Mr. Butters under his watchful eye or to curl up on his mama’s lap and listen to the same children’s books she’d once read to him and Ian. And he’d never once heard the girl ask about the mother who’d abandoned her. And she never mentioned Ian, either, or showed any interest in looking at old photos of her father.

Her alleged father, he reminded himself, realizing there was not a shred of proof other than a stranger’s word. How could he have been so gullible as to accept it at face value? Was he as addled by grief as the mother who had raised him? Or maybe it had been her improvement, the swift change from deep depression to life and purpose, that had convinced him. A man saw what he wanted to, when his heart got in the way.

Looking deeply troubled, his mother said, “You can bring home the puppies, darling. As soon as they’re big enough...”

Her voice faltered, and she suddenly dropped to her rear on the hallway’s carpeted floor.

“Mama?” he asked, taking her sagging shoulders to keep her from falling onto her side. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, my,” she managed, lifting a hand to her head. “It’s just my medication—I’m afraid it’s made me dizzy.”

He helped her to bed then, but as Eden “tucked Grandma in,” he thought he glimpsed a measure of shrewdness in his mother’s eyes, a look that more than half convinced him she was deliberately exaggerating whatever symptoms she’d been feeling.

And even more deliberately avoiding the hard questions that she knew he must ask.

* * *

Sheriff George Canter stepped down from his Trencher County SUV, wearing a khaki-colored uniform and a look of disapproval. A tall, chiseled man whose broad-brimmed hat shaded his eyes, he made a beeline for Jessie, who’d been waiting with Henry in the car outside the diner for almost an hour.

“He looks madder than McFarland,” Henry said. “Maybe we should just forget this and move on.”

Wondering how the cameraman had survived decades in their line of work without a backbone, Jessie silenced him with a look. Once she’d slipped her phone back into her pocket, she climbed out to meet what passed for law enforcement in this one-horse town.

“Sheriff Canter. Good to see you.” She barely restrained herself from adding, finally.

He studied her carefully before replying, “So you’re the little lady who felt the need to drag me halfway across the county because she got herself pushed.”

Jessie struggled to hold her temper in check.

“Where I come from,” she said tightly, “a shove is an assault.”

He snorted. “Turns out we got the memo on that all the way up here in Rusted Spur, too, Miss Layton. But at best, it’s only a Class C Misdemeanor, hardly worth the effort to write the ticket, by the time all’s said and done.”

“He knocked me to the ground, Sheriff. I thought he was going to stomp my head in with those studded boots he was wearing.” She shuddered, remembering how he’d stopped short at her scream.

“But he didn’t really hurt you, did he?” The sheriff removed his hat to push back thick, dark hair with splashes of silver at the temples. A handsome man who looked to be in his early forties, he narrowed his dark eyes.

“Not really, no, but he threatened to—”

“And where the hell were you, sir, during all this?” Canter challenged Henry, who had gotten out of the car.

Flushing fiercely, the smaller man admitted, “I was going for my phone. I’d left it in the car, you see, and— I did tell him to back off.”

The sheriff made a scoffing sound and shook his head in disgust, clearly unimpressed with the cameraman’s conduct.

“Listen, Sheriff,” Jessie said. “Danny McFarland threatened to kick my teeth down my throat next time, if I didn’t get in the car and go back to wherever it was I came from.”

“To your TV station back in Dallas,” Canter supplied, the creases in his forehead underscoring his disdain.

Fury fading, she blinked at him in surprise. Though she’d given the dispatcher her name, she hadn’t mentioned a word about where she lived or her profession. She’d been hoping to enlist his help in the search for her twin, but in her experience, small-town law enforcement often hated big-city reporters, too many of whom were quick to paint the local cops as ignorant yokels.

“You’ve been talking to Zach Rayford,” she guessed. For all she knew, the rancher and his mother were his cousins, old friends or the elected sheriff’s main campaign contributors.

Canter shook his head and smirked. “Might surprise you to know we’ve got the internet at my office. When it’s working, anyhow. Your name caught my attention, so I did a quick search. Didn’t take me twenty seconds to come across your picture on your station’s website.”

“So I’m a reporter. That doesn’t give some tattooed thug the right to knock me down and threaten my life.”

“Threaten that pretty smile, you mean,” he reminded her. “Let’s get your story straight.”

She glared, unable to believe this. “Seriously, Sheriff, what exactly is your problem with me?”

He stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Well, maybe you look a little too much like your sister,” he conceded. “And maybe that just makes me want to slap a pair of cuffs on you and drag you down to my jail, out of habit.”

* * *

Eden looked up at Zach with big green eyes. “Please, can I come with you? I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t bother you a single bit.”

“I’m sorry,” he told her, though he didn’t blame her for wanting to come out with him instead of being cooped up with their long-time cook, the no-nonsense and even less fun Miss Althea, while his mama rested. But bored as Eden might be at home, he wasn’t about to take a four-year-old with him to help supervise the cowboys as they resumed the dirty, sometimes dangerous work of separating out the older calves from the herd, now that the storm was over.

For one thing, he knew the tenderhearted four-year-old would burst into tears once she figured out the mama cows were bawling for their babies. But even more, he needed time to think through this situation with his mother and their unwelcome visitor. Wishing he had never set eyes on Jessica Layton, he gently unwrapped Eden’s arms from his leg and said, “I’m going to expect an excellent report from Miss Althea.”

The broad-hipped, graying woman nodded her approval.

“I’ll let you help me make a batch of thumbprint cookies,” she told the girl, “with real raspberry jam.”

“Those were your daddy’s favorites,” Zach added, smiling at Eden. “Mine, too, for that matter, so you be sure to save me some.”

“I wanna go with you,” said Eden stubbornly, her tiny hands balling into fists. “Wanna see the cows and horses.”

Hoping to avert a full-fledged tantrum, Zach shrugged at Miss Althea. “Well, I was going to take this young lady to visit those puppies later on,” he said, “but if she’s not even willing to help you make your famous cookies...”

“I can help!” Eden exploded, jumping with excitement. “I’ll be the best helper!”

“And you won’t pester Miss Althea or your grandma by asking when I’ll be home?” he prompted.

When she crossed her heart and hoped to cry, he knelt for another hug and ruffled her silky, golden-brown hair. “Be good, now,” he said, grabbing his jacket and making his escape while he still could.

He cleared his throat the moment he was outdoors, trying to break up the lump of dread lodged firmly inside it. Anger, too, that he’d let himself be suckered. Allowed himself to believe that, against all odds, some part of his brother had survived.

He cranked the big pickup’s engine and listened to it roar to life. How stupid can you get? The Ian he knew and loved never would have kept a child secret, never would’ve failed to see to Eden’s support or named her as a beneficiary in the event of his death, either. Sure, their father would have cursed him for a fool for fathering a child out of wedlock, but like Zach, his younger brother had used the military to put distance between himself and the harshness of the old man’s judgment.

To put distance between himself and the legacy of dust and duty that was all Zach had left now.

He was pulling up to the corral when a call came through on the satellite phone he’d purchased to keep in touch with his cowboys anywhere on the ranch.

“Zach, this is Sheriff Canter,” said the caller as soon as he had answered.

Hearing the agitation in the man’s voice, Zach guessed, “That reporter stopped by your office to see you, did she? I figured she might, after we told her we hadn’t seen her sister.”

“Not exactly, she didn’t. She had a little run-in with ole Hellfire over by Tumbleweeds.”

“Danny McFarland?” Zach swore under his breath. Unwelcome visitor or not, he should’ve warned the Layton woman about tracking down and questioning Frankie’s ex-con brother. Probably, that would have only made the mule-headed reporter more eager to find and question the man, but still... “He didn’t hurt her, did he?”

An image of her pretty face, bruised and bloodied, flashed across his vision. He swallowed hard, jaw stiffening, though he couldn’t say for certain why it was any of his business.

“Nah,” said Canter, the casual contempt in his tone reminding Zach why he hadn’t liked him years before and still didn’t. “Hellfire looks big and bad, but he’s toned down his act these days, now that he’s a man of bidness. Just made her mad enough to call and insist on pressing charges. Waste of time was what I told her. Sooner she heads home and forgets about this nonsense, the better. From what your mama told me months ago, the sister skipped rent and skipped town with her lowlife boyfriend. Which suits me just fine, I can tell you. I was gettin’ mighty tired of driving out there to make sure they weren’t at each other’s throats again.”

Zach rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache of his own coming on. “So Frankie was violent with her?”

“Hell, when those two got to drinkin’, they were violent with each other. I had to put ’em both in separate cells one night to cool off after they got into a knock-down drag-out over at the Prairie Rose.”

Despite the sweetness of its name, the century-old saloon perched on the town’s outskirts was as famous for its rowdy brawls as its watered-down liquor. Zach remembered a handful of fights he’d taken part in back in the day, burning off his restless energy and frustration in the weeks before he’d left home. In fact, it had been George Canter—still a deputy at that time—who’d advised him to get your sorry ass off the ranch and out of this town before it completely ruins you.

“Hellfire was tryin’ his best to reform him, but the rest of the Prairie Rose crowd had been layin’ odds on how long it would be till Frankie finally up and killed her.”

What if he had, Zach wondered, then taken off for parts unknown? Could Jessica Layton, with those green eyes that looked so uncomfortably like Eden’s, be looking for a living sister when she should be searching for a corpse? It would certainly explain why Frankie had suddenly skipped town, and possibly why his mother had been so quick to react—or overreact—when Haley’s twin showed up asking questions.

“What I don’t understand,” Zach said as another thought struck him, “is why’re you calling me about this.” Had the reporter said something to Canter, something that might raise the sheriff’s suspicions about his mother?

His gut twisted with the thought—and with the certainty that a third loss would utterly destroy her. Especially the loss of a child as sweet and full of life as Eden.

“I’m calling to find out a little more about Jessica Layton’s visit out to your place this afternoon.”

“Mama told her on the phone that Haley had moved on,” Zach said, struggling to sound casual, “but Jessica had to come see for herself, I guess, make sure we weren’t hiding her twin under a cow pie or something.”

“I guess you know as well as anyone how these reporters are, always smelling a conspiracy,” Canter said, his pointed look reminding Zach of the incident that had cost him his wings. “And that young woman—I’m thinkin’ that she’s not finished sniffing around here yet.”

“You’re sure? You said that Hellfire knocked her down, and you warned her yourself to move along.”

“I didn’t warn her.” Canter sounded testy at the suggestion. “I just gave her a little friendly advice. But when she and that sawed-off excuse for a man she’s got with her rolled out of town, I noticed that she didn’t take the road toward Dallas. Best that I can figure, she’s headin’ straight back to your ranch.”

The hell she is, Zach decided, intent on heading her off and sending her packing before she had the chance to bother his mama again—or get a closer look at his supposed niece.

Chapter 4

The light was almost gone by the time the dusty blue Prius followed the power lines that led them to the old bunkhouse.

“You sure this is it?”

Jessie peered past Henry and nodded. “Has to be. Nancy Rayford said herself the place was on the East Two Hundred—and you saw what I brought up on the satellite map.”

During their long wait for the sheriff’s arrival, Jessie had taken full advantage of a nearby cell tower, using the connection to pore over the area surrounding the Rayford ranch. Sure enough, there was a large parcel to the east of the ranch house, and she’d been able to zoom in on the only rooftop, which appeared to belong to a small outbuilding. Some days, she absolutely loved technology.

Despite her show of confidence, however, she hadn’t been entirely certain whether they would come across the bunkhouse or a half-collapsed barn—not until her headlights skimmed the front porch of the narrow structure. Putting the car in park, Jessie took note of the boarded windows, the sagging roof and the tall brush. Piles of spindly tumbleweeds had blown up against the west side of the narrow building, mounding like a snowdrift. As sad and lonely as the place looked, she was almost certain it had served as someone’s living quarters. But had her sister and her boyfriend lived here recently?

“Looks like it’s been empty for a while,” she said, pointing out the unbroken yellow stalks of grasses that had come up in front of the steps. “Months, at least.”

“If I didn’t know better,” said Henry, “I’d say the place has been abandoned for years.”

Jessie nodded, speechless as she took in the warped, unpainted wood and the air of desperation. Despite the presence of electricity and what she thought might be a well house, Jessie ached imagining her twin living in a shelter that barely looked fit for animals.

If their father could have seen this place, would he have relented on his own vow to never give Haley another penny? Would Jessie herself have driven here to get her?

Maybe not, though the sight of this place would have given her nightmares for months afterward. Especially if it was as infested with rats and spiders—or even snakes—as its appearance suggested.

Her stomach crawled at the thought, but she forced herself to trot out her best intrepid young reporter act. “Flashlights are in the back. You ready?”

“Ready for what?” Henry asked. “You can’t mean we’re going in there. This is private property. If the owner doesn’t outright shoot us, that sheriff will throw us both in the hoosegow for the sheer pleasure of it.”

“Hoosegow?” She grinned, wondering when the last time was she’d heard someone refer to a jail by that name. But then again, Rusted Spur was an outdated place, its sweeping plains reminding her of the Spaghetti Westerns her father had once loved.

At the thought, her imagination conjured the image of Zach Rayford, long and lean and tough as nails as he scowled down from the saddle aboard a coal-black stallion. As the soundtrack whistled a cinematic warning, sheeplike townsfolk scurried out of sight. Still, she couldn’t help thinking about how handsome the guy was. How smoking hot, despite the glower.

“You think I’m kidding?” Henry went on. “Because I’m telling you, the sheriff wasn’t. He wants us gone from here, and I’m starting to think that’s a damned good idea.”

She frowned, wishing she’d left her cameraman in Dallas. But that would have meant bucking her news director, and Jessie had no intention of losing her job, not when she was so close to breaking a story she had risked so much to chase down. So why didn’t Vivian run the piece live before I left? Could there be another reason she’d seemed relieved when I asked to leave town right before the date we had agreed on?

Unfortunately, she was afraid she already knew the reason; she simply didn’t want to believe it could be true.

“Quit worrying so much,” she said, hoping a display of girl-reporter spunkiness might move him. “Seriously, who’s going to see us?” She gestured at the rolling rangeland all around them, its bleakness broken only by a smear of rose and orange that stained the western horizon. “Maybe you could get some footage for your— You brought an extra memory card, right?”

“Of course I did, but it’s too dark now. We’d only have to come back later, anyway. So let’s wait till tomorrow.”

“We can’t afford to, Henry. You know as well as I do, by the time Rayford and Canter get through laying down the law around here, we won’t be able to buy so much as a glass of water, let alone a tank of gas or a scrap of information. And I’ll never find my sister, at least not before our mom’s—before she’s too sick for it to make a difference.”

“If we started now,” said Henry, “we could reach Marston before nine. That’s where you made our reservation, isn’t it?”

“Closest lodging I could find.”

“We can rest up and make a new plan for the morning.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we take a look inside that house,” she said, “before somebody hightails it out here to clean up any evidence.”

Henry frowned. “Evidence of what?”

“Whatever really happened to Haley.” A chill crawled down her neck like some many-legged insect. “Whether it’s a forwarding address or—or something worse.”

“Like what? You don’t seriously think a tiny little thing like Mrs. Rayford’s done something to your sister?”

“Not her, but what about Hellfire’s brother, Frankie?” Jessie shook her head and climbed out into the breezy chill, not wanting to think about the kind of damage a violent man could inflict on a woman. Beatings, strangulations, shootings—she’d covered nearly every brand of bad news on the night beat.

Haley couldn’t be dead; it was impossible. Close as they had once been, Jessie would have felt the void.

Wouldn’t she? Or had Haley’s choices—and Jessie’s own—forever severed the connection? The questions whistled past her on a hollow wind, eliciting a shiver.

Leaving the headlights on and the car idling, she retrieved two flashlights from the rear and then passed a rusted barbecue grill on her way to the porch. As her foot creaked on the first step, she heard Henry coming up behind her.

“Think it’s safe?” he asked. “The last thing we need is for one of us to fall through.”

“Just a little noisy, that’s all,” she said, grabbing the wooden railing as she turned to look at him.

With a loud crack, a section of the railing snapped off in her hand.

“Or maybe not,” she said. “Be careful, Henry.”

“My middle name,” he joked, accepting the flashlight she offered with a shaky hand. “At least that’s what my wife claims.”

On the porch itself, they found a sand-filled coffee can bristling with ancient cigarette butts. Broken pieces of beer bottles lay scattered, along with a few crushed cans. Beneath a rough-hewn bench, she spotted a soiled wad of cloth. Using the broken length of railing, Jessie poked at the cloth, then jumped reflexively as a couple of scorpions disappeared into the crevices between boards.

Jessie shivered, but she forgot the nasty little things as she turned her attention to what turned out to be a worn T-shirt.

As she poked and then lifted it with the piece of railing, the torn and holey shirt’s design sent a jolt of recognition through her. With its feminine scooped neck and its red-and-white Texas Rangers logo, she felt certain it had to be her sister’s.

Seeing her face, Henry frowned. “You recognize it, then?”

“Haley’s favorite team.” A memory of a family trip to the stadium in Arlington—of a time they’d still been a real family—froze the breath in Jessie’s lungs.

She shook it off and said, “You see the stains here?” With her flashlight’s beam, she indicated darker splotches. Large splotches.

“Mold?” he asked.

“Or blood.” She used her on-air voice, its calm confidence belying the panic that gripped her, the desire to scream or cry or pray her way out of this possibility. It could be Haley’s blood here, right here, the DNA so close to mine it would take a team of scientists to tease out the differences.

“Should we call the sheriff?” Henry asked.

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Like you said before, he’d just arrest us for trespassing, and nine chances out of ten, this shirt would disappear before it could get tested. We’ll bag it before we leave, get an independent lab to check it out.”

“But it could be—I’m sorry to say this, Jessie, this being your sister—but this might be evidence of a crime. You can’t take it.”

“What else would you suggest? Leave it here and run home to tell my mom some fairy story? Because I’m not going to do that. And I’m not trusting Canter with this.”

“What about someone else?” He pointed at the shirt’s logo. “Maybe the real rangers?”

“Great idea,” she said, thinking that the legendary Texas Rangers would be perfect, “but before they’ll come, we’ll have to convince them the locals aren’t willing or able to handle this investigation. And that there’s more to this than some reporter’s overactive imagination.”

“Or an attempt to add a little ‘sex appeal’ to a routine missing person story.” He sketched air quotes around the phrase, alluding to the Ranger mystique viewing audiences lapped up so eagerly.

She felt her face harden. “You really think I’m angling here? We’re talking about my family.”

Raising his palms in surrender, Henry quickly backpedaled. “I didn’t mean you, personally. Only that’s what these law-enforcement types are gonna think you’re up to.”

She sighed before admitting, “A lot of times, I would be.”

“Not you, Jessie, not that I’ve ever noticed. You’re not like that at all.”

She skewered him with a look, reminded of a recent conversation. “I’m not too soft for real news. Look how long I’ve covered the overnight crime beat.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I have plenty of ambition. Look at that story I just did on the mayor,” she insisted.

“You mean the one that Vivian wouldn’t let run before we left?”

“She’ll run it,” Jessie insisted. “When the time is right, she’ll—”

“It’s locked,” he interrupted, trying to hide his enthusiasm as he pointed out the padlock on the bunkhouse door. “Guess we’ll have to leave, after all. Wait. What’re you doing? You aren’t seriously thinking of breaking and—”

Using a small folding knife she’d pulled from her pocket, Jessie pried at the latch that held the lock in place.

“Entering,” Henry finished. “You surprise me, Jessie.”

“Which part?” she asked, easily dragging one screw from the dry-rotted wood. “The knife or the ambition?”

“You’re not letting me forget that, are you?”

“Not likely.” Her pulse jumped as the latch fell away. Rusty hinges squealed in protest as the bunkhouse door swung open.

She grabbed the porch rail, which she’d leaned against the wall, and gestured toward the black maw. “After you, sir.”

“Ladies first,” Henry said. “Though for the record, I still think this is the worst idea you’ve had all day. And considering some of the other ones, that’s really saying something.”

Jessie ducked beneath a cobweb that draped the upper portion of the doorway and stepped inside. But the chance that the stains on the old T-shirt might be blood had her heart pounding. Was it possible her sister had never left this glorified shack alive?

No way, she told herself, even as the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. Surely, whoever had come to put on the padlock would have noticed something as obvious as a dead body—or its odor.

Shaking off her jitters, Jessie aimed her flashlight down the long and narrow space. Startled by her entrance, something scuttled across the floor, and she swallowed back revulsion.

There wasn’t much to see: a grimy tunnel-like room with a stained mattress pushed off to one side, a threadbare, plaid sofa with a distinct sag in the middle. Feet crunching over grit, she took another two steps inside. Enough to spotlight the kitchenette, with its rusty sink and a plug-in electric burner on a plywood countertop. At the far end was a single doorway, which must lead to the bathroom.

Jessie tried a light switch, found it dead as she’d expected, and walked the length of the bunkhouse, her eyes straining for forgotten oddments: a bent fork, a piece of junk mail—anything that might convey the slightest clue.

But there was nothing, no trash or personal possessions in the kitchen drawers or the tiny pantry. Even the dented refrigerator had been left unplugged with its doors propped open. Since Jessie couldn’t imagine her sister or her boyfriend taking the trouble to clean before running out on the rent, she supposed that Mrs. Rayford had had whomever she’d sent to secure the door deal with the mess.

Sighing, Jessie lowered her light. “Guess you’re right. There’s nothing left to see.”

Henry sidled toward the door. “Let’s get out, then. Before somebody catches us here.”

“Might as well check the bathroom first,” she said. “Then I’ll be right behind you.”

The beam of light preceded her, sweeping dated fixtures. A strand of hair lay in the sink, reddish-gold and longer than her own. Unease crawled on spider’s legs up her neck. Haley’s hair, she thought, raising her eyes to the mottled glass of a partially de-silvered mirror.

There, her attention zoomed in on the brownish speckles along the lower edge—speckles that made her think of dried blood.

“Henry!” she called.

But he was shouting her name even louder, screaming, “Jessie, don’t come out!”

Heart contracting, Jessie reached for the bathroom door to slam it shut. But in that fractured second, she looked out through the narrowing gap to see Henry’s splayed hands rising, his feet scrambling backward as he struggled to escape.

Reacting on pure reflex, she flung open the door rather than retreating. Unable to bear the thought of anyone hurting her reluctant partner, she launched herself forward, intent on dragging him out of harm’s way before—

She had barely made it a step when an impossibly loud boom exploded.

With that single blast, Henry was falling, crumpling as an arc of scarlet sprouted from his back. In the span of that same panicked heartbeat, an invisible blow caught her right hand, a shock that brought with it a wave of dizziness that dropped her to her knees. And pain, pain like she had never known, turned her vision red and dragged a cry from her lungs, sending streamers of shock cascading through her.

Abruptly biting back her scream, she looked at Henry: her coworker, her friend. A man she’d known for every day of the four years she had worked for Metro Update, a family man with a devoted wife and three grown children, with his first grandchild on the way.

He lay twitching in an expanding puddle, as his choking rattle gave way to a sigh, then utter stillness. Gone. He’s gone, she understood, the dark certainty slamming her like a mallet. And the bullet that had killed him must have passed through and caught her hand, too.

Get inside that bathroom, his voice seemed to shout inside her brain, before the shooter comes to finish you, too.

Adrenaline pounding through her, she fought to get up, to get away, but panic tangled her legs. So she moved as best she could, crawling toward the bathroom using knees and elbows while struggling to keep her throbbing right hand off the filthy floor...and to keep herself from looking back again at Henry—or checking for the gunman in the empty bunkhouse doorway.

Instead, she swore to herself she was going to get through this. Going to survive to make the animal who had gunned down Henry pay.

At least, she would if the shooter got in his vehicle and drove away now.

But that hope died moments later, when she smelled the first acrid wisp of smoke.

* * *

It was the dust that gave away the intruders, dust rising from the dirt road leading to the East Two Hundred. Thick as it was, the cloud lay heavy along the horizon, reminding Zach of smoke as he raced toward it, hell bent on throwing the reporter and her cameraman off his land before Jessie Layton found the proof that could upend all their lives.

If he was right in his suspicions, that same proof might end his mother’s. Even if it didn’t outright kill her, the web of lies she’d told could easily lead to lawsuits or even prison if the wrong jury got hold of the case.

The thought of his frail, grief-stricken mother in a cell turned his guts to ice water, and his skin grew clammy beneath the jacket he was wearing. But as horrible as it was imagining himself unable to protect her, the possibility that she hadn’t actually lied but somehow believed what she’d been claiming disturbed him even more.

Could Ian’s death have pushed her beyond the bounds of reason? Or was Zach himself the crazy one, imagining that his mother would spin such a tale? Back when he and Ian were kids, nothing would get them sent to their rooms (or whipped with their dad’s belt, if he happened to hear them) faster than telling lies, and Zach had never—not even in these past few stressful months—seen any signs that she might be delusional. Fragile and often ill, yes, but never out of touch with the sad reality of their recent losses.

As he lowered the window, the ashen odor filtered into his truck, and his heart lurched at the realization that what he’d been seeing really was smoke, not dust, and that the flickering glow could only mean one thing. Fire. Had the Layton woman and her cameraman somehow accidentally set it? Or was she so upset about what had happened with his mother and then later in town, she’d taken out her frustrations with a lit match?

Furious at the thought that the flames might spread to the drought-plagued pasture and threaten his livestock, he mashed the pedal to the floorboard and crested a low hill.

From that vantage, he saw flames leaping from the collapsed front porch of the structure. Just as he’d suspected, he spotted a car there, too, the same blue hybrid he’d watched Jessica Layton and her cameraman climb into before leaving his house this afternoon.

A new worry goosed his heartbeat. Could the two still be inside?

He reached for his phone to call for help a split second before he started around a curve and was blinded by the high-beam headlights of a fleeing pickup. The blare of a horn followed, flooding him with adrenaline as he wrenched the wheel to the right.

The two speeding trucks came within inches of colliding head-on, but Zach didn’t have a moment to celebrate his survival as his vehicle careened down the steep side of a gully. He fought to regain control, to steer or brake to halt the bone-jarring descent, but the truck slid sideways until the right front tire struck something unyielding and the wheel crumpled, the axle snapping audibly.

After that, there was a single, confused moment as the pickup leaned, then started over, and before he understood what was happening, there was a tremendous crunching and the sounds of shattering glass and screaming metal, followed by a pain shooting through his jaw as it struck the steering wheel.

It might have been five seconds or an hour later when his senses returned and his eyes opened. Though his dash lights remained on, the stars above had vanished, and blood was running the wrong way, dripping from the top of his head....

He was hanging in his seat belt, he realized, upside-down in the darkness. But as he blinked, he spotted a glow on the horizon. A glow that looked like firelight.

Had Jessie and her cameraman gotten out, or were they still inside the burning bunkhouse? Fumbling for the seat belt latch, he depressed the button and dropped down with a thump. For several minutes he struggled to extricate himself from the tangled belt before crawling out through the open window. His body aching with the effort, he rose to his feet, dizzy and wobbling but relieved that he could still stand.

A few steps later, a fresh wave of dizziness had Zach staggering to a stop. He bent forward, resting his hands above his knees before reaching up to probe his bloody chin. When his finger found the spot where the steering wheel had split the skin, bursts of color exploded in his vision and sirens wailed, so loud and so close he covered his ears with his hands.

It took him several moments to remember that he’d never called anyone for help. The sirens, maybe even the fire and smoke he had been seeing, couldn’t be real. Instead, they were from there, he realized with a shudder. Another crash, another time.

Only that time, he had parachuted down to safety, watching his jet nosedive, watching a second explosion blossom, a lethal flower that consumed houses, cars and twenty-two lives, including that of his best friend. Lives lost while he hung helpless in the air above them, his chest split in two by a howl of pain and grief. The echo of that cry still woke him some nights, two years later, along with the sound of sirens in Kabul and the sense of utter helplessness.

But that time wasn’t this one, he understood as the phantom sirens abruptly fell silent. Here, there might be something he could do, not only for himself but for anyone still trapped inside the bunkhouse....

His burning bunkhouse? He drew in a breath of air, and quickly understood that it was real smoke he smelled.

Remembering his phone, he pulled it out and was grateful to discover it hadn’t been damaged in the accident. He punched in 9-1-1 and quickly got out his location to the dispatcher who picked up.

With a glance toward the glowing horizon, he added, “Send an ambulance along with a fire crew. Send everything you’ve got. I think there might be people trapped inside a burning building.”

“I’ll have first responders there as soon as I can,” the dispatcher promised. “You need to wait for them outside, sir. Well beyond the fire’s radius.”

“I understand,” he told her, cutting off the call before he could say more. Before he could lie to her, because there was no way in this world he was letting it happen again, allowing himself to waft downward on a gentle breeze while others burned to death.

Shaking off his swirling vision, he lurched forward through the dry grasses, desperate to get there as fast as possible, to change the outcome of his nightmares, if only he could keep focused on the here and now.

He dropped the phone into his pocket, then dragged out a wadded bandanna. Holding it to his chin, he broke into the fastest pace he could manage with his vision fraying like an old rug at its edges. Unsteady as his gait was, his long strides quickly ate up the distance, and soon he crested the hill—and saw the reporter’s Prius parked there, its headlights trained on the last few flickering flames licking lazily up the side of the bunkhouse doorway. He stared for a moment, confused to see that the blaze had died down considerably from the initial glow.

Why? Had some accelerant burned off before it had had time to soak in? An accelerant meant to burn the evidence of a crime?

Angry as he’d been about the reporter trespassing, he thought of the fleeing truck and felt a rush of apprehension. For the rising moon revealed there was no sign of either the Layton woman or her cameraman. No sign of life at all, save for the distant yipping of coyotes.

Zach approached cautiously, relying on the same instincts and training that had kept him alive through three deployments. His mind was clear, his senses sharp as he pushed back both the pain of his injuries and his emotions to circle the bunkhouse at a distance, alert for any sound or movement.

Seeing nothing, he called out, “Anybody in there? Miss Layton? Henry!” He couldn’t recall the cameraman’s last name, but it didn’t matter, he realized, as he got his first good look at the open doorway.

Gut tightening, he sucked in a sharp breath at the lump that blocked the entrance, a clearly human, and partially burned, body. Hurrying up the steps, Zach checked for signs of life, but quickly realized that the small man who’d sneaked the camera into his home was beyond help.

But what about the woman traveling with him?

Looking past the body, Zach made out the dim shapes of furniture, but the rest of the room lay in shadow.

“Miss Layton? Jessica? You in here?” He stripped off his jacket and beat down the last few flames at the base of the doorway. As he stamped out the embers, he raised his voice. “It’s Rayford—Zach. I’m here to help you. It’s safe to come out now.”

There was a faint echo but no other answer. Pulse pounding, he stepped over the dead man and moved deeper, using the faint illumination from the headlights of the Prius as his guide.

For a moment, he wondered if the driver of the pickup could have taken her. Then he spotted the blood trail, and what looked like drag marks leading to the closed door of the bathroom. A door that gave only an inch or so when he tried to push it open.

“Jessica!” he shouted, giving it a hard pop with his shoulder. But the door stubbornly refused to yield, as if something heavy blocked its progress....

Something he very much feared would prove to be the beautiful reporter’s corpse.

Chapter 5

Something bumped against Jessie’s back, thumping repeatedly until it woke her. Her heart stumbled as she peered into the darkness. Where was she? What was happening?

Remembering, she gasped and tried to sit up. Making the mistake of pushing off the floor with her injured hand, she shrieked with the agony shooting up her right arm into her shoulder.

She nearly blacked out again, pale stars streaking across her inky vision. But the knocking and the noisy rattling of the knob above her head refused to allow her to escape the pain.

“Move back from the door,” a muffled male voice instructed. “Let me help you.”

Help...yes. She had to have help to get out before the place burned with her in it. But what if it was the shooter out there, trying to trick her into letting him inside to kill her?

Not right, she realized, for why would the man urge her to let him help when he could simply shoot her through the closed door? Or leave her here to die, as she surely would without help?

Her mind conjured an image of her mother, the mother she couldn’t risk leaving to die alone. With the thought, she focused on dragging her body farther back into the bathroom, gritting her teeth as she slid through something wet and slimy. Blood, she realized, her blood, and she wondered if the pool was anywhere near the size of Henry’s. Was it already too late for her, as well?

The door pushed into her again, this time opening wide enough to smell the ash and hear the speaker.

“That’s good.” His words were calm and reassuring, a lifeline to grasp and cling to. “A little more now. You can do this.”

“I—I can do this,” she echoed, moving onto her side and sliding back a little farther.

This time it was far enough.

A moment later, a big man crouched beside her, silhouetted by a dim light behind him.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said, finding the flashlight she’d dropped earlier.

When he switched it on, she saw red. So much red, on the floor, on her clothes. Had it all come from her? Looking up at the man who loomed above her, she recognized Zach Rayford, from the ranch.

He was bleeding, too, she saw, blood that ran from chin to neck, painting a dark bib down the front of his shirt. But there was nothing frightened or confused in his face, only grim determination. “We’re going to get you to the hospital,” he told her. “Don’t worry. An ambulance is on the way.”

“Fire,” she murmured. “I—I smelled fire.”

“The fire’s out,” he assured her. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay!” she burst out, her mind leaping to another fear. “What if he comes back? Comes back and shoots us, too, like Henry?”

“Like who shot Henry? Do you know who did this?”

“I didn’t see, but Henry—he’s really dead, isn’t he? It wasn’t just a nightmare?”

“You’re safe now,” Zach told her, laying a big hand on her shoulder.

“Henry—he didn’t want to come here. He argued after you told me, the sheriff told me, too, to go home. But I—I had to see if Haley had left something, anything to help me trace her.”

“For your mother,” he finished for her, with what might have been understanding in his voice.

“Yes.” She nodded, half choked on her own tears. “But someone must’ve followed us. I was back here, and Henry shouted. There was a boom—and he was falling, and I—I was hit, too, and then I watched him—I saw him—”

She couldn’t make herself say die.

“I know,” Rayford told her, just as if she had. “But right now, I’m worried about you. Now tell me, Jessica, are you hit anywhere else? We need to see if we can stop this bleeding.”

“Only—only here.” She glanced down at the hand she cradled, then sucked in a sharp breath and jerked her gaze from the bloody hole and the white glints of bone in it.

“Try not to look at it, all right? Any other injuries?”

She shook her head, her stomach threatening upheaval and the pain spiraling in on her. “I don’t think so. I only remember hearing one shot, anyway.”

“Then I’m going to move you outside now, where there’s more light and the air is better. Can you help me get you up?”

“I—I’ll try.”

Taking her uninjured arm, he got her to her feet.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructed.

“Why? I don’t want—”

“Just close your eyes, Jessica. I need you to trust me.”

Something in his voice made her obey, made her follow his lead, though her legs were so wobbly she only made it a few steps.

“That’s fine,” he said, lifting her in his arms and carrying her outside, to the fresher air.

Carrying her past Henry’s body, she realized, when she unclenched her eyelids after he’d set her down a few steps from the bunkhouse’s front porch, beside the old barbecue grill she’d spotted earlier.

“Th-thank you.” Her teeth chattered, her limbs so shaky, she had to cling to him to keep on her feet.

He wrapped an arm around her, giving her a squeeze before easing her to the ground. “I need you to sit right here for a minute, Jessica. We’ve got to get this bleeding stopped now before you black out again.”

“We have to go!” she tried to tell him, but he was stripping off his shirt already. The bright moonlight revealed the chest of a man who kept himself in peak physical condition.

Shrugging back into his jacket, he tore the shirt along a side seam.

“Now!” she begged, peering all around the darkness. “Before he comes back to finish this.”

“Whoever shot you isn’t coming back,” Zach Rayford reassured her as he tore another strip from the shirt. “Not the way he lit out of here. Nearly crashed into me. Ran my truck right off the road.”

That must have been what happened to his chin, she thought, unable to believe how calm and in control he seemed. How focused on her welfare while he, too, was bleeding and in danger. “Did you see him? Did you see who did it?”

“I’m sorry, no. Nothing but a pair of headlights. Happened way too fast.” He squatted beside her, warning, “Sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

“No! Don’t touch it,” she begged, but he was already grasping her wrist and shining the flashlight at the hand with a bloody hole drilled through its center.

Drilled through—she was sure of it—by the same bullet that had first torn through Henry’s body.

Because of me, she thought, collapsing into sobs at the thought of how she’d verbally pushed at Hellfire before he’d pushed back, how she’d disobeyed Zach Rayford’s order to leave his ranch and ignored the sheriff’s warning to leave town.

“All my fault,” she wept. “It’s all my fault—poor Henry.”

“Shh,” he told her. “Hold still, Jessica. I need you to hold still for me right now so I can get this bandaged, so you can live. So you can live to figure out who would do this to your friend.”

Both firm and kind, his voice punched through her despair. Reached through to offer her the courage to draw another breath.

“So you can make who did this pay,” he said.

“So I can—make him pay.” She looked up into his face, her body going still as she repeated the words. Words that gave her purpose, even as the strength drained from her.

But the respite didn’t last long. As the rancher bound her injured hand, agony and anguish forged a pain so overwhelming, she cried out and fought to pull away from his grasp. Fought until the blackness rose up, offering the only real release from pain and guilt.

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