Nash scowled at her. “What do you mean, you couldn’t reach out?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then flashed them open. “I just couldn’t.”
He sighed. “Fine. We can talk about it later.”
“No,” she said quickly, trying to shut the door. “We are done talking.”
“Wait.” Nash pushed the door back. “What are you doing researching Porter Rockwell’s gold?”
Sadie tensed. “Look, I’ve read about your family and everything you’ve gone through with the conquistador gold. The fire at your ranch, the treasure hunters. That’s exactly why you need to stay away from me.”
He looked confused. “What do you mean? Is your life threatened?”
She wished he would just go. “Nash, just leave me alone, please.”
Nash’s expression shifted, concern replacing frustration. “Amanda?—”
“I need to go.” Sadie pulled the door again.
Finally, he stepped back and let the door go.
She turned on the car and started the engine.
Nash crossed his arms, scowling.
Feeling guilty, she rolled down the window. “Please, Nash. For your own safety, forget you saw me today.”
Before he could respond, she backed up the car. Through the window, she could see him standing there, his expression a mixture of confusion and determination.
Thirty minutes later, Sadie pulled into the parking lot of her modest apartment complex in Sugar House, a neighborhood on the east side of Salt Lake City. The pain in her ankle had intensified during the drive, and she knew she needed to elevate and ice it immediately.
She hobbled up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, wincing with each step. Inside, she engaged all three locks onher door—the deadbolt, the chain, and the extra-reinforced bar she’d installed herself. Old habits from a life spent looking over her shoulder. She leaned against the door, letting out a long breath as the weight of the day’s events crashed over her.
Eight years of careful anonymity, shattered in an instant by a chance encounter.
Nash Cross. Of all people.
She limped to the kitchen, filled a plastic bag with ice, and wrapped it around her swollen ankle. Then she limped to her small living room, where her research wall dominated the space—maps of the Salt Lake Valley, historical photographs of Porter Rockwell, and newspaper clippings about hidden caches of gold allegedly secreted away in the mountains.
And there, in the corner, was an article about the Cross Creek Ranch fire, with a family photo showing Nash standing alongside his brothers. She’d recognized him instantly when she’d seen the article three months ago. He looked older and more serious in the photo, but his eyes were the same.
Sadie reached for her phone, finger hovering over her FBI contact’s number. Agent Winters had warned her to report any unusual encounters. But what would she say? That she’d run into her high school prom date, who just happened to be researching the same historical gold cache she was? It sounded absurd, even to her.
Outside, a car engine cut off. The sound of a door closing echoed through her open window.
Sadie froze, then moved cautiously to peek through the blinds.
Her heart stopped.
There, in the parking lot, climbing out of a black Jeep and scanning the apartment building with determined eyes, was Nash Cross. He looked up, as if he’d sensed her watching, and their eyes met through the slats in the blinds.
Sadie stepped back, heart racing. How had he found her? What was she supposed to do now?
CHAPTER 3
Nash wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing as he strode toward the apartment building. Finding Amanda—or Sadie, or whoever she was—had been almost too easy. He’d simply followed her at a discreet distance, keeping far enough back that she wouldn’t spot him in her rearview mirror.
Years of growing up with brothers who were experts at tracking had taught him a thing or two. Porter’s military training, Colt’s ranching skills, Chance’s law enforcement experience—Nash had absorbed lessons from all of them over the years.
