She didn’t seem nervous, didn’t look at Alden for permission.
Almost like she wasn’t afraid of him.
The interior of the house matched its exterior—Chesterfield leather sofas, a couple Robert Wogrin oil landscapes on the walls, and the kind of cleanliness that spoke of hired help. Family photos lined the mantelpiece, including several of Mack at various ages. Rowan noted the absence of any pictures that included him or his mother.
“Bro!” Mack appeared in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. “I didn’t think you were coming by until later.”
“Change of plans. Saxon found us a place to stay.”
“You’re sticking around?” Mack’s expression shifted to something that might have been relief. “I was worried you were going to disappear again.”
“Not disappearing. Just need a base of operations for a few days.”
Alden gestured toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s ready. Why don’t we sit down and catch up?”
It was like they were old friends or something. Rowan shot a look at Mack, who just lifted a shoulder.
Whatever. He was here for answers.
The kitchen had been remodeled—soaring ceilings with exposed timber beams, white custom cabinetry, and an island the size of most people’s dining rooms topped with dark granite. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, because yeah, people cooked in an open hearth these days. Frankly, the entire place looked like it belonged in a European villa.
Alden poured coffee and sat in one of the leather barstools at the massive island. Catherine handed Rowan a mug.
“Sit,” Alden said. His smile was all charm, political. “What brings my dead stepson back to Renegade after all these years? Must be something pretty important to drag you away from…what was it again? Firefighting?”
So, Mack had caught him up.
“Time was right,” Rowan said simply, accepting the coffee but not drinking.
“Time was right.” Jenkins chuckled, the sound carrying just enough condescension to set teeth on edge. “That’s beautifully vague. You always were the mysterious type, weren’t you, Rowan? Even as a boy. Secrets.” He looked at Saxon, beside Rowan, and waggled his eyebrows, like Rowan might be a little crazy.
Crazy might not be too far from the truth if he spent too long here.
“Heard there’s been some trouble around here lately,” Rowan said. “Cattle rustling. Suspicious deaths.”
Alden took a sip of coffee, his gray eyes on Rowan. “Suspicious deaths? Where exactly did you hear that?”
“Tom Hendrick was found by my dad’s old place. Murdered.”
Alden put his coffee down, frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
Please. Rowan didn’t believe that for a Montana minute.
“People are saying it might be connected to the rustling,” Saxon said.
“I’ll have to talk to the police chief, find out what’s going on.” Then he leaned back with the confidence of a man who controlled the narrative. “You know how people like to gossip, especially when they’re looking for someone to blame for their own poor decisions. Some folks just can’t accept that hard times come from poor choices.”
“Whose poor choices?”
A beat. “I suppose you’ve been talking with Sierra Blackwood.” He met Rowan’s gaze.
“I…not really.”
“Then you don’t know that she’s about to lose her ranch. Barely holding on after Elway passed. Cattle rustling is an insurable loss, so…”
Rowan stilled. “You think she’s lying?”
Alden lifted a shoulder.
