Chapter Eighteen
Afterasolidthirtyminutes of searching, Cade gave up. There was no sign of the man Jolie had seen, not even a footprint so far as he could tell.
The moon lit up the road that ran past the house. It was unlikely someone could have come here on foot, though not impossible. It was a long walk from here to anywhere.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” Jolie had slipped out the front door, a coat wrapped around her.
Cade nodded. “Are you certain you . . .”
“Yes,” she said sharply, her eyes boring into him.
He sighed, wishing she’d been somewhat less certain. “It was probably a drifter. Hopefully you’ve scared him off for good.” Or someone more dangerous, but considering the man was on foot, that seemed unlikely.
“Do you think so?” Jolie cast her gaze across the dark expanse as she wrapped the coat tighter around herself.
She was frightened. Of course she was. They were out here by themselves, and she’d just seen someone sneaking around their house. He took a few steps until he was behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, and after a few seconds, she relaxed against him.
They stayed like that for a moment, the cold air circling them but unable to enter their embrace. He held tight to her, the weight of her against him something he relished.
“Thank you,” she said after a few minutes had passed. “For making me feel safe.” She turned in his arms and looked up at him.
“Always.” He lifted a hand to her cheek. Her skin was cold beneath his. “You’re freezing. Let’s go inside.”
She nodded, and he dropped his arms to let her open the door. The house was filled with a welcome warmth. Jolie went to get ready for bed while Cade ensured each door was locked. It had been an extra expense to install the locks, but one he was glad he hadn’t spared.
Reassured no one could come inside easily, he returned to the table to fold the newspaper. He frowned at it a moment, thinking of how Jolie had leapt up to toss out the dirty water just as he was about to kiss her again. It had been an odd reaction, and certainly not one she’d had before. He shook his head as he remembered the easy way she’d leaned into his embrace just a few minutes ago. Perhaps she really was concerned about the water.
He spotted her sketchbook on the crude wooden stand he had quickly cobbled together to serve as a temporary countertop. He reached for the cover, intending to deliver it to the bedroom as soon as Jolie was finished.
The little book fell open, and Cade grabbed it with his other hand—but not before a loose sheet fell from it onto the floor. That must have been the sketch Jolie was so intent on when she’d burned the coffee earlier.
Cade set the book on the table and bent to retrieve the fallen page. But when he picked it up, no gentle feathered strokes depicting a leaf or an insect caught his eye. Instead, it was a paper filled with handwriting.
He squinted at it in the shadowed light of the lantern, carrying it to the table to insert back into her book. But he paused when the light revealed it to be a list of names.
He skimmed the list, his eyes catching Sawyer’s name, along with the names of a couple of other neighbors Sawyer had mentioned. The handwriting wasn’t Jolie’s, either.
“Jolie?”
After a moment, she appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, a dressing robe wrapped around her. She smiled when he caught her eyes.
Cade lifted the sheet of paper. “This fell from your sketchbook.”
Her eyes widened, and she crossed the room to take the list from him. “It’s . . . well . . .”
If he wasn’t mistaken, her voice had gone to a higher pitch. “It appears to be a list of names that includes our neighbors. Where did you get it?”
“From Edie, the marshal’s wife.” She tucked the paper back into her sketchbook.
“All right.” That didn’t explainwhyshe had it. Cade was thoroughly puzzled. “I don’t understand why she would give you a list of names. Are you planning to host a dinner party?”
Jolie laughed, but it was strained. “No. I . . .” She looked down at her book, clasped it to her, and then straightened. “Please don’t be upset with me. I thought the man with the white horse might be someone who lives nearby.”
The man with the white horse. The one who might have something to do with Lucas’s murder. The one she claimed to have seen not very long ago.
“Right,” he said, his voice as steady as he could make it even though it felt as if a knife was piercing his heart as he thought of Lucas again. “And so this is a list of . . . men who own white horses?”
She shook her head. “Landowners. And according to the sheriff, no one nearby owns a white horse.”
