“I think we’re dealing with people who plan ahead. Go home. I’ll handle things at the hospital.” Saxon pocketed his phone. “I called Detective Martinelli. He’ll meet us at the scene tomorrow morning. We need to process that area properly.”
“What time?”
“Early. Seven a.m. That’ll give you time to get back for the rodeo.”
The rodeo. Yes. He couldn’t miss that. Thankfully, Sierra’s monthly annuity check had come in, and she’d paid Huck’s entrance fee on Monday.
The drive home took fifteen minutes through muddy back roads. By the time he pulled into the Blackwood ranch yard, his gut was a coiled knot.
“Call me with updates,” he said to Saxon as he got out.
The house was dark except for a single light in the living room window.
Rowan eased the door open. “Sierra?”
A shotgun barrel appeared in the doorway, followed by Sierra’s pale face. Her hair was disheveled, a fierceness in her eyes. She wore pajama pants and an oversized flannel shirt, and her bare feet.
Her posture suggested she’d been sitting in the dark for hours.
“Well, hello there, Annie Oakley,” Rowan said.
Recognition dawned in her eyes. Her rigid posture softened slightly, but the gun remained steady.
“Maybe let me do the shooting,” he said as he gently moved the barrel away from him, then eased the weapon from her grip.
“How is he?” she whispered.
Rowan set the shotgun aside and pulled her into his arms. “He’s stable, on his way to the hospital.”
“Who would shoot Morrie?” Sierra’s voice was muffled against his chest.
“Same people who’ve been targeting your ranch. Same people who want your land.” Rowan held her tighter, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair. “But they made a mistake tonight.”
She lifted her head. “What kind of mistake?”
“They showed me exactly how far they’re willing to go.” Rowan’s hands framed her face. “And now I know how far I’m willing to go to stop them.”
Be brave.
Sierra took a deep breath, standing in the doorway of her grandfather’s office, morning sunlight streaming through the windows and illuminating dust motes that danced in the golden air. The rich wood paneling seemed to glow in the early light, and everything looked exactly as he’d left it. His reading glasses still sat on the massive oak desk beside a half-finished crossword puzzle. His coffee mug—the one that read World’s Best Grandpa—sat empty beside a stack of unopened mail that had been accumulating for months.
The familiar scent of leather and Old Spice aftershave hung in the air, making her chest tight with loss.
Yes, she should have done this days ago when they were putting the house back together, but every time Sierra walked into this room, she could still see him sitting at that desk.
Huck was so excited about the rodeo today, and she needed to focus on that, but these papers needed to be sorted, and maybe if she started with the easy stuff—old bills, ranch records—she could work up to the personal things. Rowan would be back soon, and then they could be, well, a normal family, right? Just going to watch their son compete.
Rowan’s words hung in her mind. I’m meeting Saxon and Detective Martinelli at the scene. I’ll be back in time for Huck’s competition, I promise.
She’d called the hospital this morning and gotten an update on Morrie from his wife. He’d survived the night, was out of ICU, the tough dog that he was.
Just start with something easy. She moved to the desk and picked up the stack of mail, sorting through bills and advertisements. Electric company, feed store, ranch equipment catalogs—all the mundane business of running a cattle ranch that had continued arriving long after the man who’d built it was gone.
“Mom!” Huck’s voice carried down the hallway, followed by the thunder of his boots on the hardwood floors. “Where’s my good belt? The one with the silver buckle.”
“Hanging in your closet behind your church shirt,” Sierra called back, not looking up from the papers.
A few moments later, “Found it! How long until Mr. R gets back? I want to show him my rope work before we leave.”
