Chapter 9
The question hung between them.
Wes watched Rowan closely, the same way he’d been watching her since she’d nearly run him off the road yesterday.
For a brief second, he thought she might actually answer him. Really answer him instead of redirecting his question.
Something vulnerable flickered across her face. But just as quickly, it disappeared.
Her shoulders stiffened as her gaze met his. “What makes you think I’m in trouble?”
Deflection, he realized. Did she really think he wouldn’t see past that?
He crossed his arms. “Number one? You’re not answering my question.”
Her jaw visibly tightened. “That’s because I don’t have an answer for you.”
Wes let the silence sit.
Back in high school, Rowan always filled the silence the second it appeared. Talking, joking, distracting—anything to keep people from looking too closely. Funny how some habits never changed.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “I came here to get away from things. That’s all. Sometimes you just need a change of scenery.”
Wes studied her another second.
He didn’t believe her.
Despite that, he let the statement settle without challenging it. “All right.”
He didn’t press further. Not here. Not like this.
He wanted her to open up because she desired to share parts of her life with him. He didn’t want to demand it. Still, not knowing killed him.
They started walking again, slower this time.
Their paths had crossed again for a reason. Wes felt certain of that.
Maybe it was just for closure. Maybe it was because his heart had been stuck on her for years. And maybe it was finally time to let her go . . . and their time together now would prove it.
Wes slowed as they reached the edge of the burn area, Remington ranging a few feet ahead.
The fire crew had done their job last night. The flames were out, and the immediate danger gone.
But what remained made the scale of it harder to dismiss.
A wide swath of blackened ground stretched across the acre, the grass between the trees reduced to ash and char, and the soil dark with moisture from the hoses.
He let his gaze move across the pattern without rushing.
He wasn’t an expert, but he did know that most fires spread unevenly. They were wind-pushed, and they followed dry patches, moving in unpredictable directions.
This one had a center. A clear, concentrated origin point near the tree line where the char was deepest before spreading outward.
He crouched near the origin point and studied the ground. The soil there was darker than the surrounding area, more saturated with heat. Whatever had been used as an accelerant had pooled here before it caught. Gasoline, if he had to guess.
Rowan wandered the perimeter while Remington drifted through the trees, his nose low and his body focused.
The canine stopped just inside the shade of the first trees, ears forward and attention fixed on a patch of ground.
Wes straightened and followed his dog. This area was back far enough from the burn that no fire crew would have had reason to come here.
It was back far enough for someone to have stood here and watched the fire without being seen.
His stomach tightened at the thought.
Wes studied the flattened vegetation. Someone had stood here long enough to leave an impression, he realized.
“Wes.” Rowan’s voice sounded quiet.
He glanced back and saw her crouched a few feet away, looking down at something near her foot. When she straightened, she pointed at something on the ground.
He leaned closer
A toothpick.
“There are more.” She pointed. “Two others. Right here, close together.”
Wes moved to where she was standing.
She was right. Three toothpicks scattered within a foot of each other.
She looked up at him. “Travis Henderson had a toothpick in his mouth when I talked to him yesterday.”
His breath caught when he heard the name. Travis Henderson.
He didn’t know the man, but he wasn’t surprised by this news either. He’d heard enough about that family.
Wes pulled out his phone and crouched, framing the toothpicks against the flattened vegetation—close enough to show the cluster, wide enough to show the sightline back toward the burn. He took three shots from different angles then straightened.
He fished a small bag from the inside pocket of his jacket—one he generally used to hold small screws—and crouched again. Using the edge of his sleeve over his fingers, he eased each toothpick into the bag without touching the surface and sealed it.
“For Sheriff Sutherland,” he said.
Rowan nodded, watching him.
He tucked the bag into his jacket pocket and looked back at the flattened vegetation. The crushed grass. The position just inside the trees, angled with a perfect sightline toward the burn.
Someone had stood here and watched the fire happen. His gut twisted at the thought of someone being that calculated.
He glanced at Remington.
The dog had gone completely still. His ears were up, and his nostrils moved in small, rapid pulls.
Wes had learned to treat that posture the same way he treated a cocked weapon.
Someone was out there. In the woods.
Hidden.
Watching.
Keeping his eyes forward, his hand moved to his jacket. Then he stopped himself.
Every trained instinct he had said turn around. Identify the threat. Close the distance before it closed itself.
Instead, he remained in position.
He had Rowan beside him with no backup and a forest full of shadows.
The math on turning around didn't work. Not today.
“Wes?” Rowan glanced at him, sensing something was wrong.
“Don’t look back.” He kept his voice even, not wanting to alarm her.
Rowan stilled beside him. “What’s going on?”
“We need to walk. Keep the same pace as we came in.”
With another look of trepidation, she fell into step without a word.
The distance back to the yard was maybe a hundred fifty yards of open ground. Wes had crossed it without a second thought twenty minutes ago.
Now he felt every foot of it.
He kept his shoulders loose. Kept his breathing even.
Twenty yards. Forty.
The house was visible now beyond the fence line . . . yet it looked so far away.
Rowan hadn't made a sound. He didn’t look at her. But he felt the tension coming off her in waves.
Seventy yards. Sixty.
He kept walking until the fence was ten yards ahead, then five.
Finally, they were through the gate.
Only then did he exhale.
Someone had been back there.
Watching.
Waiting to see what they’d do next.
And possibly planning their next move.