Chapter 4
Sadie woke with a start, heart hammering against her ribs, the remnants of her dream still clinging to her.
She’d been at prom again, Nash’s arms around her as they’d swayed to a slow song, his blue eyes looking down at her with that mixture of adoration and hope that made her feel both cherished and terrified.
Then the dream had shifted, as dreams do.
She was hiking up a canyon trail, the sun beating down on her shoulders.
Around a bend, she’d found Nash sprawled on the ground, lifeless, his hands clutching a pot of gold like something from a children’s fable about rainbows and leprechauns.
Blood pooled beneath him, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t move.
Sadie pushed herself upright, running shaky fingers through her tangled hair. Her ankle throbbed dully, a persistent reminder of yesterday’s disastrous encounter.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, testing the ankle. Still swollen, but bearable. Enough to move around her apartment, at least.
In the kitchen, she filled her coffee maker and leaned against the counter while it brewed, trying to shake off the lingering unease from her dream. The rich aroma filled the small space, but even that familiar comfort couldn’t dispel the knot of anxiety in her stomach.
Her gaze fell on Nash’s business card, still sitting on her coffee table where he’d left it. She limped over and picked it up, running her thumb across the embossed lettering: Nash Cross, Attorney at Law, Smith and Owens. She assumed it was some prestigious law firm.
Attorney. It suited him somehow. She could imagine him in a courtroom, that intense gaze focused on a witness, his mind working through complicated arguments with the same methodical patience he’d shown while taking apart complex math problems in high school.
He’d looked good. Fit. Strong. Muscular.
She thought of him carrying her yesterday; he’d done it without strain.
His black hair was shorter than she remembered, styled professionally but still with that hint of unruliness that suggested he ran his fingers through it when thinking deeply.
And those blue eyes—Wyoming sky blue, her teenage self had called them—were still just as piercing, still capable of seeing straight through her defenses.
Sadie sank onto the couch, coffee mug warming her palms, remembering the week before prom.
Nash had invited her to the Cross Creek Ranch.
They’d gone riding, and she’d been terrified at first—a city girl who’d never been on a horse.
But Nash had been patient, showing her how to hold the reins, how to move with the animal beneath her.
She’d ended up loving the freedom of galloping across open fields with him, the wind in her hair.
That evening, she’d had dinner with his family.
His father had teased them about prom, asking Nash if he’d learned to dance yet or if he was going to step all over her feet like he had at his cousin’s wedding.
Nash had turned bright red, and his brothers had roared with laughter while their father winked at her.
She’d liked Mr. Cross, with his weathered face and kind eyes.
Reading about his death two years ago in the online articles she’d found last night had made her genuinely sad.
After Nash had left her apartment yesterday, she’d spent hours researching the Cross family online.
Nash had barely any social media presence—a Facebook page that hadn’t been updated in three years, a LinkedIn profile that was equally sparse.
No pictures with girlfriends, no mention of relationships. Not that it mattered to her. It didn’t.
Sadie set down the business card and pushed herself up.
She went through her morning routine on autopilot—fixing a protein shake, taking her vitamins, then pulling her Bible from the nightstand.
She hadn’t been raised particularly religious, but after moving to Salt Lake, she and her mother had started attending a small nondenominational church.
Something about the community there, the sense of belonging, had called to them.
After years in witness protection, constantly looking over their shoulders, faith had offered an anchor.
Sadie settled on the couch with her Bible, attempting to focus on her daily fifteen-minute reading. But the words blurred before her eyes, her thoughts continuously circling back to Nash.
Should she work with him? The question nagged at her.
No. She didn’t want to put him in danger. She didn’t know what she was facing.
But wasn’t his family already in the thick of all this?
Her late-night research had revealed snippets about the Cross family and their connection to the so-called conquistador gold.
Articles about the fire at their ranch, vague references to “treasure hunters” and property damage.
And then there was the Stone family, whose gold hunt had apparently intersected with the Crosses’ in some way.
Everything she’d read suggested Nash’s family really was deeply involved in this already. There were so many questions she wanted to ask him about where he thought the gold might be, about the connections between Porter Rockwell and the conquistador treasure.
But she couldn’t pull him in. She’d already lost too many people—her father, her mother, and now Bill. She couldn’t bear the weight of another death on her conscience.
Even though it was crazy that Bill was connected to his father.
Sadie closed her Bible, set it aside, and slid from the couch to her knees.
Prayer had become her refuge over the years, the one place she could be completely honest.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, eyes closed and hands clasped, “please help me know what to do. I don’t want to be obsessed with this gold and get hurt or killed. I especially don’t want to hurt others.”
The shrill ring of her cell phone cut through her prayer. Startled, she pushed herself up too quickly, forgetting her injured ankle. Pain shot up her leg as she put weight on it.
“Ugh!” Sadie hopped awkwardly across the room, grabbing the edge of the counter for support as she reached for her phone.
She didn’t recognize the number on the screen.
Normally, she’d let an unknown call go to voicemail, but something—perhaps the lingering solemnity of her interrupted prayer—made her answer. “Hello?”
Silence greeted her, then the sound of heavy breathing.
“Hello?” she repeated, unease crawling up her spine.
“Stop investigating Porter Rockwell’s gold.” The voice was distorted, as if speaking through some kind of modulator.
Sadie’s heart rate doubled instantly. “What? Who is this?”
More heavy breathing, then: “Stop investigating, or we’ll have to deal with you like we did with Bill Harris.”
The line went dead.
Adrenaline surged through Sadie’s system, making her hands shake so badly she nearly dropped the phone. She clutched the counter for support, suddenly lightheaded. The threat replayed in her mind, each word a hammer blow. Like we did with Bill Harris.
Her phone rang again, displaying a different number. Sadie stared at the screen in horror. No way was she answering another unknown call.
The rational part of her brain kicked in, cutting through the panic. She needed to move. Now.
Sadie grabbed her phone and keys from the counter.
Whoever had threatened her might already be watching her apartment.
She needed to find Nash, needed to talk to him in person.
Despite her reservations, he was her only ally now—the only person who knew about her research, about Bill, about the danger.
She didn’t bother changing out of her yoga pants and oversized T-shirt. She just jammed her feet into tennis shoes, wincing at the pressure on her swollen ankle, and grabbed her purse. Her hand hovered briefly over Nash’s business card before she snatched it up and stuffed it in her pocket.
Sadie disengaged the three locks on her door, then peered through the peephole. The hallway appeared empty. She slipped out, locking the door behind her, and hurried toward the stairs as quickly as her injury would allow.
In the parking lot, she scanned her surroundings, suddenly aware of how exposed she was. Every car could hide a watcher; every window could conceal someone tracking her movements.
She climbed into her older Toyota Camry, fumbling with the keys before managing to start the engine. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she checked her rearview mirror repeatedly, watching for any vehicle that might be following her.
Fifteen minutes later, Sadie was parked outside the downtown office building listed on Nash’s business card. She sat for a moment, gathering her courage, trying to formulate what she would say to him.
Someone threatened me. I’m scared. I need your help.
Simple. Direct. Terrifying.
Sadie took a deep breath, checked her mirror one last time, then climbed out. As she limped toward the imposing glass entrance, she felt oddly vulnerable in her casual clothes amid the stream of well-dressed professionals entering the building.
At the reception desk in the lobby, she smoothed her hair self-consciously. “I need to see Nash Cross, please. It’s urgent.”
The receptionist eyed her disheveled appearance with barely concealed judgment. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but he’ll want to see me. It’s about …” She trailed off. “Please, just ask him.”
The receptionist’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly. “I’ll see if Mr. Cross is available. Your name?”
“Sa—” She caught herself. “Amanda. Amanda Levitt.” If Nash had mentioned her to anyone in the office, he would have used her high school name. It felt strange on her tongue after so many years as Sadie Blair, like trying on clothes that no longer fit.
The receptionist made a brief call, spoke quietly, then looked up with obvious surprise. “Mr. Cross will see you immediately. Fifteenth floor, suite 1520.”
In the elevator, Sadie caught her reflection in the polished brass doors.
She looked exactly like what she was—a woman who’d thrown on the first clothes she’d found, hadn’t bothered with makeup, and was running on fear and adrenaline.
Not the impression she’d wanted to make in a professional setting.
But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was the threat, the breathing on the phone, the awful knowledge that whoever killed Bill now had her in their sights.
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped into a sleek reception area with the law firm’s name emblazoned on the wall in understated silver lettering.
Before she could approach the desk, Nash appeared.
He was dressed in a tailored gray suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt, and a blue tie that matched his eyes.
The professional image was somewhat undermined by the concern etched across his features as he caught sight of her.
“Amanda.” He covered the distance between them in quick strides. “What’s wrong?”
Something in his tone—the genuine worry, the lack of judgment—broke through her carefully constructed composure.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Someone called me. They know about the gold. They know about Bill. They said they’d deal with me like they dealt with him if I don’t stop investigating.
” She swallowed hard. “I think they’re watching me. ”
Nash’s expression hardened. Without hesitation, he placed his hand gently on her arm. “Come with me.”