When they walked into the bar, Kansas and Dakota steered her to a quiet corner with a table and chairs instead of to her normal position, sitting at the counter.
“Do you want a beer or something else?” Dakota asked.
“A ginger ale, please.” Renee waved to a couple of her fellow pilots and sat with Kansas while Dakota walked to the bar for the drinks. “I know you and your brothers are in hotels. Are you really going to build one here or was that an excuse while you checked me out?”
“We’ve spent today visiting the facilities in the town and learning what is available. Calian is researching planning consent and the official stuff. We’ve checked out the job situation. We’re serious.”
“I’m glad. I’ve heard quite a bit of chatter from locals. They’re excited. You know food and other supplies can be tricky because the railroad is still not functional?”
“We’ve heard. Calian is taking that into account in the costings. If the budgets work, we’ll go ahead.”
“The Hallsten brothers are based here for part of the year. They’re award-winning builders and designers.”
“We’ve heard that too. I believe Calian has an appointment with Sax Hallsten.”
“I ordered food,” Dakota said as he arrived back with the drinks. “Are we good?”
“Not yet,” Renee said in a tart voice. “I get you want your sister happy, but that doesn’t mean you can accuse me of things or insult my integrity. None of you know me, and you have no right to judge.”
“You’re right,” Dakota soothed. “We only thought of our sister. We didn’t take the time to consider your reaction. We should have, and we’re sorry.”
Renee blinked. A man who wasn’t afraid to admit he was in the wrong. It sort of took theoomphout of a good grump. Her gaze skittered across their faces and away to land on those of two new arrivals. Every muscle in her body tensed. The two visitors from the previous day. They hadn’t even bothered to look in her direction, both ordering beers at the bar.
“What is it?” Dakota demanded.
“What’s wrong?” Kansas asked at almost the same instant.
Luckily, both men kept their voices low.
The door opened again, and Calian and Matto strode inside. Matto continued to the bar while Calian joined them.
“Did you tell your brothers we’d be here?” Renee asked.
“No, they tracked us down. They’re a pain that way,” Kansas said.
Calian smirked while Renee focused on the two strangers at the bar. They had to have seen her, recognized her from the previous day.
“Renee?”
Calian diverted her attention but didn’t halt the burst of trepidation sliding through her chest, the urge to run.
“Those two men—they were passengers in my helicopter yesterday. They didn’t ask the normal questions. They didn’t take photos. All they asked about was my experience with helicopters. When I didn’t answer, they pushed me.”
“You think whoever killed Hunter is after you too?” Calian asked in a low voice.
“No. Yes. I don’t know what to think. The police never found his murderer. Word on the street said it was a paid hit, and when the cops didn’t deny that, I decided to leave. The detective in charge of the case agreed to help me disappear. Someone was stalking me online, threatening me, and I didn’t want to end up dead.”
Matto had arrived while she was speaking. He set down the two beers he carried and squeezed into a spot beside her. He claimed her hand, enfolding it in his bigger one. Her heart—the traitorous organ—began to race.
“And that was when you closed your social media accounts,” Kansas guessed.
“Yes. I don’t have an email account, apart from a secret one I can use to contact the detective in charge of Hunter’s case.”
“The cops never mentioned a hit to Misty. They told her it was bad luck, with Hunter in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Dakota said. “Misty has been so angry because Hunter got through two stints in the Army. Two tours to Afghanistan and then he gets shot walking down a neighborhood street during an innocent trip to buy a carton of milk and a chocolate bar for her.”
“Do you think these guys are following you?” Matto asked.
The barman shouted out their number, and Kansas collected their snacks.
