“She says it’s too important. Part of both our families’ histories. That we can’t destroy the only evidence the wine ever existed.” I ran a hand through my hair. “She’s not wrong. But without the formula...”
“You’ll find it,” said Tryst with certainty. “You have time.”
“Do we?” My response came out harsher than I intended. “I don’t know how much time we actually have.”
Tryst moved to the cabinet and reached for two rocks glasses and the bottle of whiskey bottle he knew was kept on the top shelf. He poured two generous measures and passed one over to me.
I took a drink and welcomed the burn.
“What else happened tonight?” he asked.
Everything. Nothing. I kissed her, and she kissed me back, and then she shut down the second I asked her to confide in me.
But I couldn’t say that. Not yet.
Instead, I took the photo out of my pocket and set it on the counter. “We found this. Three women—Marilyn Hope, Concepción Avila, and someone identified only as Ellen on the back.”
Tryst picked up the photo and angled it toward the light. His brow furrowed. “Ellen,” he murmured. “I don’t recognize her.”
“Neither do we. But according to Concepción’s journal, E, who we’ve determined is Ellen, wouldn’tallowthem to make the wine again.”
“And you think she held part of the formula.”
“Maybe. She obviously had something to do with it, or they would’ve made it again the following year on their own.” I took another drink.
Tryst continued studying the photo, then shook his head. “I don’t know her. But some of the otherViejosmight. Men whose fathers were making wine in 1955—they might have heard stories, seen photos.”
Hope flickered in my chest. “You think so?”
“It’s worth asking.” He set the photo down carefully. “I’ll make some calls tomorrow. See what I can dig up.”
“Thank you.”
He refilled both our glasses even though mine wasn’t quite empty. “You look exhausted, Salazar. You have an early morning tomorrow—walking the vineyards with Saffron at dawn, yes?”
“I am.”
“Then, go home. Get some rest. This will still be here in the morning, and you’ll need your wits about you.”
He was right. I was running on fumes and emotion, neither of which would help me tomorrow.
I finished my whiskey, pocketed the photo, and stood. “Thanks,Tío.”
“De nada, mijo.”He squeezed my shoulder. “And, Salazar? Don’t give up on her. She’s worth fighting for.”
My throat tightened. “I know she is.”
The drive to my house took fifteen minutes through dark, winding roads. When I turned onto my street, I immediately noticed that Kick’s place was lit up, and there was a car in his driveway.
I slowed as I passed, trying to get a better look at the vehicle. It was small, dark-colored—a sedan maybe. The same kind of car I’d seen leaving Saffron’s driveway earlier tonight when I’d arrived.
Was it the same? I couldn’t be sure in the darkness. And even if it was, what did that mean? That Saffron’s “friend from town” was now at Kick’s place?
None of my business, I reminded myself. Kick’s personal life was his own.
But the coincidence nagged at me as I arrived at my house and parked in the garage.
My house in Paso Robles sat on three acres just outside downtown, separated from Kick’s nearly identical property by a stand of oak trees. We’d bought them five years ago, when rodeo winnings had started piling up faster than we could spend them. His property was on the left, mine on the right, and both had been designed by the same architect who’d managed to make them feel like home rather than showpieces.
