19. Arizona #2
The conversation around us fades.
Hank glances from me to the burned trailer and rests one hand against the scorched frame.
“I’ve spent enough years wearing this badge to know evidence tells the story better than people do.
” He gives the trailer one last look before meeting Red’s eyes.
“Still, when odd things keep happening around the same place, I pay attention.”
“We will too,” Red says.
“I figured.”
Hank settles his hat, climbs back into his pickup, and drives out through the ranch gates, leaving everyone standing where they are until the sound of his engine disappears down the road.
The ranch slips back into its usual routine as though unanswered questions can wait until tomorrow.
Red heads for the corrals after checking the front gate again, Willy disappears into the barn with a couple of ranch hands while making them laugh about whatever ridiculous story he’s telling, and Emmett grabs a toolbox before heading back to the fence damaged in the fire.
I watch them spread out across Dusty Spur until Sadie slips her hand into mine. “Cinnamon needs a ranch.”
I look down at her. “Does she?”
She nods so hard her curls bounce. “She can’t live in a bucket forever.”
“That’s a fair argument.”
She pulls me toward the workshop before I can question her brilliant planning any further.
We rummage through piles of old timber until she declares a stack of weathered boards perfect, then drag them back across the yard together while she explains that Cinnamon needs a bedroom, a kitchen, and somewhere to keep horse snacks because every horse deserves treats.
I prop two boards against each other. “Cinnamon cooks?”
“Everybody cooks.”
“I’ve clearly been doing life wrong.”
Sadie giggles and hands me another plank.
Emmett walks by carrying fence rails across one shoulder and slows when he sees us surrounded by crooked timber. “You two building a mansion?”
“It’s a ranch,” Sadie tells him. “You’d know if you were here.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “I stand corrected.”
“We don’t need help,” she adds before he can offer. “You’re busy.”
“I’ll stay out of the way then.”
“You probably should,” I tell him with a grin.
He laughs, shakes his head, and heads back toward the fence, stealing one last look over his shoulder before getting back to work.
By the time we’ve finished, Cinnamon has a tiny paddock wrapped around her upside down feed bucket, and Sadie looks ready to nominate it for a magazine cover.
Willy wanders over with an apple in one hand and a pocketknife in the other. He circles the little fence like an art critic considering a masterpiece.
“Needs a sign.”
Before either of us can answer, he drops onto one knee and carves CINNAMON’S RANCH into a leftover plank with theatrical concentration. He nails it to the front of the fence, steps back to admire his work, and folds his arms.
“Beautiful. People will travel for miles.”
The sign leans so far sideways it looks one strong breeze away from giving up.
Emmett glances over from the fence and laughs. “Looks like it lost an argument with gravity.”
“That’s called rustic charm,” Willy replies. “Fancy people pay extra for it.”
“I like it,” Sadie says.
“I knew somebody around here had excellent taste.”
Red crosses the yard with a saddle resting against his hip. His eyes flick to the sign before he keeps walking. “Ugliest thing on the ranch.”
Sadie plants her hands on her hips. “Cinnamon likes it.”
“Then Cinnamon’s opinion outranks mine.”
She smiles so wide I think her cheeks might hurt.
Red tips two fingers against the brim of his hat toward the feed bucket before carrying on toward the barn.
I lean against the fence while Sadie tells Cinnamon all about her new home and watch the men move around the ranch.
Willy somehow manages to keep a conversation going while he works, Emmett checks in whenever he passes by, and Red notices every gate left open and every tool lying where it shouldn’t.
I keep telling myself I’m borrowing this place for a little while.
The excuse doesn’t convince me nearly as much as it did yesterday.
By the time dinner’s over, Sadie is rubbing her eyes against Emmett’s shoulder while insisting Cinnamon isn’t tired yet. He scoops her into his arms anyway and promises they’ll visit the ranch again in the morning, earning a dramatic sigh before he carries her inside.
I smile as the screen door swings shut behind them, then tuck my hands into my jacket pockets and wander toward the practice arena.
A walk sounds like a better idea than climbing into my truck with my head full of Dusty Spur, and the fading light makes the pastures look peaceful enough that I almost believe today is finally over.
Movement near the tree line catches my eye, and I stop walking.
A man stands where the pasture gives way to the pines, facing Dusty Spur as though he’s taking in the view, except people admiring scenery don’t keep their attention fixed on the ranch house.
“Hey!”
His head whips toward me before he turns and disappears into the trees.
I break into a run without giving myself time to think.
My boots pound across the pasture as I cut through the grass and into the woods, branches dragging across my sleeves while flashes of dark clothing weave between the trunks ahead.
I chase him deeper until the sound of footsteps dies away, leaving me alone beneath the pines with my chest heaving from the sprint.
“Damn it.”
I sweep my gaze through the trees, searching for any sign of him, then pull out my phone and switch on the flashlight.
The beam catches fresh boot prints pressed into the damp earth before they vanish across a stretch of rock, and a crushed cigarette butt lies beside the nearest print with the stale smell of tobacco still clinging to it.
I crouch beside it, brushing my fingertips across the edge of the footprint while my thoughts drift back to the burned trailer, Sheriff Miller’s questions, and the look that passed between Red and Willy this morning.
Any one of those things could’ve been explained away on its own, but together they leave my stomach tied in knots.
Whoever stood out here came to watch Dusty Spur.
A branch snaps behind me.
I spin around so fast my heart slams against my ribs, but the trees stretch away in every direction without giving up a single answer.
I stay where I am long enough to listen, then slide my phone back into my pocket and head toward the ranch, picking up my pace as the porch light appears through the pines.
Shit.
What the hell is going on here?