If Rick says one more thing, I’ll kill him.
Thomas straightened slowly.
Gone.
Not packed-and-planned gone.
Taken-from-under-his-nose gone.
Someone had moved her. Cleanly. Quietly. No panic.
That meant professionals.
His lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
“So,” he said softly, “the Rangers decided to play.”
One of the men shifted. “You think it’s them?”
Thomas glanced back at him, eyes sharp. “Who else in this town would have the nerve?”
He turned away from the house and started walking again.
They checked the windows.
Not breaking in—just looking.
Living rooms. Kitchens. Bedrooms.
Thomas took his time at each one, memorizing details.
Who slept where.
Which lights stayed on.
Which curtains moved when they shouldn’t.
He stopped outside the tavern.
A shadow moved inside.
A man passed a window—broad shoulders, deliberate stride.
Thomas recognized the silhouette instantly.
Saint.
Still here.
Still guarding.
Interesting.
“She’s not with him,” Rick said.
“No,” Thomas agreed. “She isn’t.”
That was the problem.
