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 winkedat 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 questionsshe 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.
