‘Sawyer,’ Porter finished.‘The missing overseer.Only, he’s not missing—he’s been hiding in plain sight.’
‘Are you sure it’s him?In the photo—’
‘What, the bloke with the chipmunk cheeks, triple chin, bleached-blond mop, and the attitude of a rich kid blowing up Daddy’s money?’Porter had memorised that photo.Hell, the entire case was burned into the back of his brain.
‘We missed it.’
But he shouldn’t have.Although… ‘Sawyer’s dropped a heap of weight.Shaved the beard and cropped his dark hair.That photo in the file—it’s dated.Back when Seery thought peroxide and bad life choices made him invincible.’
Porter glanced towards the scrub, his chest tight now with the onset of rage.‘That photo showed a man-child who thought he was untouchable.Who we met?That Sawyer was something the bush chewed up and spat out.’
Amara folded her arms.‘The guy who tried to kill us, you mean?’
He frowned harder, thinking it through.
Sawyer had that rangy, worn-in look.Like the outback had scraped off all the soft edges—which this hostile environment had a habit of doing so easily.
‘He didn’t act like someone missing, did he?It was more like he didn’t want to be found.Which explains why he wanted us out of the picture.Wesawhim.’
‘I see you now, Sawyer,’ she whispered, repeating Tilly’s words.
Porter looked down at the crushed barrel again.‘Tilly keeps all her firearms registered.This one can be traced.And if I’m right about what I saw in the coroner’s report…’
He paused, jaw tightening as the pieces fell into place.‘Tilly’s husband died from blunt-force trauma.A skull fracture.No shots were fired.And where he was found, there were plenty of rocks near the body to create the suspicion that it was the rocks that had done the damage.’
‘Rocks in his head.’ Again, she repeated Tilly’s words.
‘Yeah… But Tilly always said that her husband never left the house without his hat, and it was sitting in his ute...’It’s what made Tilly suspicious about her husband’s death, refusing to accept it was an accident.
‘Now we have this,’ he said, holding up the rifle, ‘I’d bet my badge that this fits the pattern from the autopsy photo.’
The truth hung there, suspended in the rising heat.This wasn’t just a rifle—it had to be the murder weapon.
Porter stood, eyes on the horizon.No fences.No roads.Just a rifle that was possibly tied to a murder and a hell of a lot of questions he needed to answer.‘Break’s over.Let’s move, town’s not getting any closer.’
Thirty-four
Once upon a time, Amara had imagined that wearing a tiara and a ballgown would make her feel like a princess.Not some sweaty, red-faced idiot lost in the dust.
It was red.Hot.Itchy.Dust that settled like sandpaper across her skin, burrowing beneath the once-soft edges of her strapless powder-blue gown—now stained a grimy, defeated shade of red.
Her hair?A mess.
Her make-up?Melted.
Her pride?Long gone.
Right now, she’d kill for a glass of water.Even a muddy puddle would do.
She’d never been this lost.Not just geographically—but completely lost.And for once, she didn’t know how to fix it.Especially when it was all her fault they’d ended up in a place where there was nothing but endless red dirt tracks, and the dull ache of dehydration.
At least the horse’s hooves offered a rhythm.Her horse stolen, now found, with its steady, grounding beat against the cracked earth.With every plod, more dust lifted into the air, catching in the folds of her gown and the worn layers of her spirit.
‘You can climb on, Porter.Tempest is strong enough to carry us both.’
‘Nope.And stop asking.’
Was that because he’d never ridden a horse before?
