Sylvia waved him away. “Get out of here,” she said with affection.

  After another glance at Trooper, who looked comfortable, lying there on the warm floor of the deck, shaded by the tabletop, J.P. rode away.

  He headed for the cabin next.

  The roof was falling in, and the front door lay like a ramp in front of the threshold, but this was nothing new.

  J.P.’s great-great grandparents, Alva and Mansfield McCall, had parked their broken-down covered wagon here, early in the last century, staked their claim and built themselves a one-room cabin.

  The original plot of land measured the standard one hundred and sixty acres. But over the coming years, Alva and Mansfield had slowly added to their holdings, raising crops and cattle, saving most of their money in the good times and riding out the bad ones with a kind of endurance that was all too rare in this day and age.

  They’d produced seven children, three of whom had lived to adulthood.

  Two sons and a daughter.

  They had sweat to hold on to the ranch, as had several subsequent generations, including J.P.’s own father.

  Now it was his.

  No wife, no children.

  Would the McCall legacy die with him?

  Would Becky and Robyn, who would inherit if J.P. produced no heirs, pass the place down to their kids, if they had any, or would they simply sell out and forget all about the men and women and children who had worked and struggled, suffered and celebrated, lived and died on this land?

  The thought saddened J.P. deeply, and the old and mostly secret desire for a family of his own flared fierce within him as he dismounted, left Shiloh to graze untethered and walked toward the wreck of a cabin.

  Looking it over, he rubbed his chin, felt the beginning of a beard roughening his jawline, even though he’d shaved only a few hours before.

  There wasn’t much left of the little house, actually.

  These days, it was a home for spiders, mice, rabbits and other such critters, but it hadn’t been a real home for almost a century, and it would never be one again.

  Books and movies romanticized the old West, painting it as a simpler time, but the lives of those early McCalls had been hard ones, for sure. As had those of all their neighbors.

  The nearest doctor was probably miles away, and haphazardly trained.

  Accidents happened, and sickness could strike suddenly, out of nowhere.

  J.P. had read, in an old diary kept by one of Alva’s daughters-in-law, about a neighboring family living a few miles away. They’d started the day as a unit, a father and mother and six sturdy children.

  Diphtheria had sneaked in with no warning whatsoever, and by nightfall four of those six children, lively and full of plans at breakfast time, were dead.

  The next day, the parents had dug four graves, with no help from anyone, due to the contagious nature of the disease, and laid two sons and two daughters to rest, with only each other for solace.

  J.P. made a mental note to come back in a day or so and hack away the bushes. Pay his belated respects.

  Presently, he hauled himself back into the saddle and nudged Shiloh into a trot.

  He was burning daylight, and there were still those caves to scout out.

  He wondered if Eli and the others had found anything and, more out of habit than anything else, pulled his phone from his shirt pocket.

  Not surprisingly, he had no service.

  He rode on and examined the first of several caves nestled into the low foothills surrounding Black Moon Mountain.

  It was small, that cave, and there was no room for a full-grown adult to stand upright.

  As kids, J.P., Eli and Cord had claimed that rocky hole in the hillside as a fort, certain it had once been part of a village. They’d scoured it for arrowheads, pot shards and Native hieroglyphics, all to no avail and spit-sworn to keep its existence a secret until death.

  They’d been ready to start high school when Cord’s grandfather informed them that generations of boys had staked their claim to that cave.

  After that, they’d lost interest.

  The second cave, high on the hillside and inaccessible even on horseback, was probably another dud—in terms of evidence, anyway. But J.P. dismounted and climbed up there anyhow, cursing as he went.

  As he’d expected, there was nothing.

  The third and final cave, also a few dozen yards up the side of the hill, could be reached by a narrow trail.

  Here, J.P. hit figurative pay dirt.

  The trail had been churned up recently, and using the flashlight feature on his phone, he made out the shadowy shapes of several off-road vehicles, hidden well back from the mouth of the cave.

  Upon further investigation, he identified no less than four mud-caked, rust-speckled ATVs parked there. A motorcycle, cobbled together out of random spare parts, leaned against the cave wall.

  None of the rigs sported license plates, but J.P. found the VINs after scraping away a few layers of dirt with the blade of his pocketknife.

  “Hello,” J.P. muttered, and after leaving the cave, he checked his phone again.

  Oddly enough, he had service again, though he knew it would be sketchy.

  He speed-dialed Eli.

  Zip.

  Maybe the sheriff was still in the canyon, where the signals from the nearest cell tower couldn’t reach.

  He scrabbled back down the trail to Shiloh, hauled himself into the saddle and set out for the meeting place at the base of Shadow Canyon.

  Cord had already returned, and so had the two deputies.

  Melba had gone back to town once the deputies arrived.

  Charlie Canfield, one of these deputies, had found the remains of a campfire in his travels, and a few crumpled beer cans on the far side of the creek, but Cord and the other deputy had come up dry.

  J.P. told them about the ATVs and battered motorcycle he’d found in the last of the three caves.

  Charlie let out a long whistle. “The sheriff is going to find that interesting,” he predicted. Like the rest of them, he was hot and dusty, and being unused to riding horseback, he was most likely saddle sore, too.

  “Did anybody bring beer?” the other deputy asked.

  Cord grinned, walked to his truck and pulled a cooler out of the back seat.

  The four men were slaking their thirst when Eli rode out of the canyon, looking grim.

  J.P. lowered his can of beer and approached. “You found something,” he said, looking up at him.

  Eli’s face was rock-hard. “Half a dozen dead deer,” he said. “Looks as though they were run until they collapsed.”

  “Shit,” J.P. cursed, crumpling the beer can in one hand.

  “J.P. found something,” Cord put in.

  “What?” Eli asked, his gaze on J.P.

  J.P. handed his friend a cold one and resettled his hat. Then he told the sheriff about his discovery.

  “Let’s have a look,” he said.

  Of course, he knew where the cave in question could be found, and he decided to drive there in his official rig, a rugged SUV.

  He turned to Cord and J.P. “Charlie and Ned and me will check out the cave. If you two wouldn’t mind tending to the horses, I’d be grateful.” He paused. “Hell, I am grateful. Thanks, both of you, for everything you did.”

  “That’s it?” Cord asked, annoyed. “We don’t get to be in on the follow-up?”

  “You’re civilians,” Eli pointed out. “And I’ve already pushed my luck by roping you into county business. We can meet sometime in the next few days, if you want, and I’ll fill you in on the details.”

  Eli’s tone was mild and his manner was easy, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t made up his mind about turning them loose. They knew their friend well; he would tell them what he wanted to, when he wanted to, and that was the end of it.

  The three of them made plans to meet at Scully’s for lunch the next day, and Eli and the deputies got into the SUV and drove off.

  Cord and J.P. dutifully unsaddled the horses, gave them each a quick rubdown with rags, and then loaded the tired animals into the trailer, securing them carefully.

  “Want me to follow you to your place and help you unload?” Cord asked.

  J.P. smiled, slapped his friend on the shoulder. “I can manage,” he said. “You go on home and rest up from that trip to Florida. You pretty much had to hit the ground running.”

  Cord returned the smile, sighed. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

  They parted then, driving away in their separate trucks.

  J.P. picked up Trooper on his way home.

  Like always, the dog’s very presence soothed him. They’d crossed some dark mental valleys, the pair of them.

  In the early days of his recovery, when the pain had been incessant and flashbacks had haunted him, asleep or awake, Trooper had kept him going.

  Back at the house, J.P. headed straight for the shower, where he scrubbed off the sweat and trail dust and thought about dead deer and wild horses and ATVs hidden in caves.

  He wanted to know a hell of a lot more than he knew now for certain. Maybe, as Eli would definitely point out if challenged, J.P. wasn’t a lawman, but these crimes—if there were crimes—had been carried out on his land.

  At least some of them, anyhow.

  Didn’t that give him a say in how things were handled?

  Stuck somewhere between yes and no, he got out of the shower, dried off and put on clean jeans and a worn T-shirt, a relic of a long-ago rodeo up in Kalispell.

  He padded barefoot back to the kitchen, built himself a sandwich, grabbed a bottle of water and sat down at the table.

  He’d left his phone there, beside the laptop, and remembering that he’d messaged Sara the night before—had it really been just last night?—he decided to check for a reply.

  His heart turned skittish when he saw that she’d responded to his uninspired, You okay?

  I’m fine. Is that horseback ride and picnic you mentioned still an option?

  It was a simple, ordinary text, and yet it made J.P. want to leap up, let out a whoop and punch the air with his fist.

  He didn’t want to startle the dog—or act like a damn fool—so he stayed in his chair, grinning widely as he typed his reply.

  Name the day, he wrote, and we’ll take it from there.

  To his surprise, she responded immediately.

  Saturday?

  J.P. didn’t hesitate. That was two days away.

  Saturday will be great, he wrote back.

  You provide the horses, Sara replied, and I’ll bring the food. What time?

  J.P. considered the question. He rolled out of bed at sparrow-fart, as his dad liked to say, so it would have been fine with him if she showed up before sunrise, but other people, especially if they lived in town, liked to sleep in on weekends.

  Sara might be one of those people.

  And he didn’t want to seem too eager. That might creep her out.

  So he wrote, How about 10 or 11 o’clock? I’ll have the horses saddled and we’ll have time to pick out a place for the picnic.

  Sara answered with, Suppose we split the difference and I get there at about 10:30. Anything in particular you’d like to eat?

  His response to that perfectly innocent question was a strident surge of heat and an instant erection. Now that you mention it... he thought, but didn’t write.

  He waited a few moments, collecting himself, and then responded.

  Whatever you decide on will be fine with me, Sara. See you Saturday.

  Her answer was a caricature emoji giving a thumbs-up.

  He grinned at that, then set his phone aside, finished his sandwich and waited for his hard-on to subside.

  When his makeshift meal was over, he decided to check out his sister’s girlhood bedroom, a large space Clare and Josie had shared, though often not willingly.

  Clare, the eldest, resembled Sylvia. She was tall, blonde and innately practical, and she’d been the studious type in high school, dating now and then but not seriously.

  She’d been married briefly, after grad school, but it hadn’t lasted.

  Clare remained single, and she seemed to like it that way.

  Josie, the middle child, was small, and she’d been one of the popular kids. Her grades were high, seemingly without effort, and things had come easily to her.

  Being so different from each other, and two years apart in age, Clare and Josie butted heads plenty of times.

  J.P., the youngest by almost seven years, had steered clear of what his folks referred to as the Sister Wars as much as he could. He loved his siblings, but the truth was he hadn’t known them very well, given the age gap. Besides, they’d been girls.

  Which meant they might as well have been aliens from the planet Pink.

  By the time he’d entered middle school, they were both grown up and gone, visiting for a week or two in the summer, sometimes coming home for Christmas or Easter.

  J.P. hadn’t really missed them, though early on there had been plenty of times when he would have traded them for brothers in a heartbeat.

  Cord and Eli had filled that role nicely, however.

  Now he stood in the doorway of the room, remembering those thrilling days of yesteryear.

  The wallpaper was pale pink, with tiny rosebuds printed on it, and the curtains over the long cushioned window seat were white lace.

  There were two twin-size beds with matching frilly linens, and a few plush animals—a unicorn, a teddy bear, a good-sized elephant—were still in evidence, though a bit timeworn and threadbare.

  All the furniture, nightstands, bureau, desk and chests of drawers were white, and the carpet—the only one left in the entire house—was a dusty shade of rose.

  The place could use some tidying up, but in a weird way, it looked as though Clare and Josie had just stepped out and might return at any moment, find him there and yell at him to get out of their room.

  He grinned at that.

  And he almost, but not quite, missed them.

  His once-a-week cleaning service would show up on Friday, so no worries about the place being ready for human habitation whenever the nieces actually arrived.

  Thanks to the renovations he’d done a few years back, his old bedroom was now a guest space. These days, it boasted sleek modern furniture and a spacious adjoining bathroom with a fancy claw-foot tub and a shower large enough to accommodate a small orgy.

  And it had never housed a single guest.

  J.P. went on to the master suite, where he slept.

  This part of the house had been renovated a few years after his parents had made the permanent move to their A-frame. With the exception of his sisters’ shared quarters, he’d changed practically everything.

  The house was big, with a huge living room, a combination man-cave/library and plenty of built-ins. For all that, when and if he found the right woman and started a family, he planned to add on.

  The right woman.

  The phrase snagged in his mind, and a reckless thought arose from the tangle.

  Maybe—just maybe—Sara was that woman.

  But was he the right man for her?

  He still had flashbacks, on occasion. Nightmares, too.

  Should Sara—or any other woman, for that matter—have to deal with those things?

  CHAPTER SIX

  ERIC’S PHONE, ALWAYS within easy reach, began to buzz and jiggle on the surface of the breakfast table.

  Sara, who hadn’t slept well, hoped the caller would turn out to be his girlfriend, Carly Hollister, or one of her son’s other friends, but she knew even as Eric answered that she wasn’t going to get her wish.

  “Sure, Dad,” Eric said, beaming. “That would be great. See you in half an hour.”

  A pause. “Right, I’ll tell her. ’Bye.”

  Hayley, finished with her light meal of yogurt and granola and standing at the sink, had stiffened at the word Dad, though she didn’t say anything.

  With jerky movements, she rinsed her bowl and spoon and stowed them in the machine.

  Sara watched her daughter out of the corner of her eye, while keeping Eric in her sights at the same time. It was a trick mothers learned early and well.

  Eric spared his sister a distracted glance, and if he noticed her discomfort, he didn’t acknowledge the fact. Instead, he met his mother’s gaze and announced, “Dad’s picking us up in half an hour. He’ll give Hay and me a tour of the mansion and the new housekeeper will serve lunch. We’re supposed to bring our swimming suits, because the pool is ready and waiting.”

  “I’m not going,” Hayley said. “Mom said I don’t have to.”

  Eric frowned. “Why not?” he asked. Hayley had his full attention now, and the mood in the kitchen bristled a little.

  Hayley spread her hands. “I don’t even know the man,” she said. “He could be an axe murderer!”

  The axe murderer part was an exaggeration, but Sara didn’t offer a comment. Hayley was making a point, however dramatic her delivery, and she had a right to speak her mind.

  Eric gave a bitter growl-like chuckle, shoved back his chair and stood, gathering up his empty plate, silverware and the glass he’d recently drained of orange juice. “That’s stupid,” he said with the kind of cutting disdain only teenagers can carry off. “He’s your father. And how are you supposed to get to know Dad if you won’t spend any time with him?”

  Hayley moved out of his way as he approached the dishwasher, though her mannerisms revealed recalcitrance, rather than any sort of intimidation. She could be emotional at times, but that had more to do with her age than her actual personality.

  “Maybe I don’t want to know him, Eric,” she told her brother. “Did you ever think of that? He abandoned us, remember?”

  Sara felt like a spectator at a fencing match. But, again, she didn’t feel compelled to intercede. Good point, kiddo, she thought.