Saxon’s phone rang. He dug it out of his leg pocket. “Martinelli.” He put him on speaker.
“We heard the sirens,” Martinelli said without preamble. “What’s your status?”
“Everyone’s alive.”
Sierra leaned over to the phone. “We’re at the old Wallace place. It’s on fire.”
Seemed like a too simple thing to say, really. Rowan’s hand clenched.
“Who took you, Sierra—did you see them?”
“Yeah,” Rowan growled, cutting her off. “Alden Jenkins. My stepfather.”
“You sure?”
Rowan grabbed the phone. “Yeah, we’re sure, Mike. So put out a BOLO for the guy?—”
“Rowan, don’t?—”
“Do not tell me don’t.” He hung up. Handed the phone to Saxon, his entire body shaking. He met Sierra’s eyes.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder as fire trucks and ambulances raced toward the scene. Red and blue lights flickered through the smoke, promising help that was still minutes away.
“Rowan.” Sierra’s voice was soft but steady. “Look at me.”
He knelt beside her, noting the way she held her ankle and the bruises forming on her wrists from the zip ties. But her eyes were clear, focused, alive.
“He wanted me to sign papers,” she said. “Land transfer documents. Said they’d kill Huck if I didn’t.”
“Did you sign?”
“Yes.” Her voice cracked. “Of course I did. I signed everything.”
Of course she did. Rowan’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining. Then he leaned forward, pressed his forehead to hers. “I would have too. You are the bravest person I know.”
She huffed out a breath. Looked at Huck. “I was terrified.”
Emergency vehicles were already arriving—fire trucks with their lights strobing red and blue against the smoke, ambulances with EMTs moving toward them with equipment.
Fire personnel got out, started unwinding hoses, probably to keep the fire from catching on the dry grass and starting a wildfire.
“Sierra!” Jackson Stewart jogged over with an oxygen mask and medical kit. “You okay?”
“She could use air,” Rowan said and got up. Huck refused to move from where he sat beside his mom.
Jackson fitted the mask over her face, then began checking her vitals. Sierra leaned into the oxygen, her color already improving as the clean air replaced the smoke in her lungs.
“Rowan!” Detective Martinelli’s voice cut through the noise as he approached at a near run, his face grim. “I put out the BOLO.” He stopped, crouched in front of Sierra, and Rowan would forgive him for the look of tenderness. “You okay?”
She nodded.
Martinelli turned to Rowan. “I don’t understand. Why would?—”
“Because this land belongs to Rowan,” Sierra said. “All of it. But with Rowan dead, Alden grabbed it. Or thought he had hold of it, and then, of course, Rowan came back, and it got complicated.”
“But what about the lithium and the land rights?”
“He’s the mayor. Of course he knows how valuable the mineral rights are,” Saxon said. “My guess is that when Sierra and the others didn’t give in, well, this was his last best hope.”
