“You’re trespassing on dangerous ground,” Chase said, his scowl worsening.
Axel took another step back and spoke fast. “Miss Taylor came to Colorado Springs three years ago after surviving a car accident in California that killed her mother and left Miss Taylor disfigured. A lawsuit provided her the financial resources to seek out the best plastic surgeon and she found Dr. Franco Spatafore. Dr. Spatafore wrote the book on facial reconstruction and has performed extensive plastic surgery on Miss Taylor with obvious success. But due to her vicious denials of ever having surgery, Franco Spatafore found it necessary to bring it to the attention of his psychiatrist brother, Mateo Spatafore.” The man paused as if trying to remember his next line. “Dr. Mateo Spatafore diagnosed her with DID. Uh…in case you aren’t familiar with the term, it means dissociative identity disorder. In short—a split personality. Miss Taylor’s new looks spawned an alter ego known to fly into a rage whenever she suffers stress or pain.”
“Get the hell off my ranch, you lying prick,” Chase growled.
“Message delivered,” Axel said. Holding his hands with his palms out at chest level, he began backing away. “I’m leaving.”
“Trespass again, and I’ll ram this iron so far up your ass, my brand’ll be on your forehead.”
“Message received.” Axel turned and all but ran to his car.
“Who the hell was that?” Bob asked, having kept an eye on the situation.
“Bob, take over for me,” Chase said and handed him the branding iron. “Jade may be in trouble. I need to find her.”
“Yes, sir,” Bob said. “Tell me where you’re going in caseyouget in trouble.”
“Colorado Springs,” Chase said, removing his leather gloves and then his chaps as he walked to his pickup where he’d left his cell phone. He opened the door, tossed in his gloves and chaps, and grabbed his phone.
“Do you need me to go with you, Chase?”
“No.”
“Should I call Cash?”
“No.” Chase inclined his head for Bob to go back to branding.
Chase called Jade’s number. No answer. A generic voice said to leave a message. He’d not called her before, so he didn’t know if this greeting was new or her regular one. He didn’t leave a message. He checked for a text from her. Nothing. She had promised to leave her phone on so he could reach her. He got in his truck and set his phone on the passenger’s seat next to his Ruger Blackhawk .357. Starting the engine, he took off toward the cattle ranch gate. His long-sleeved shirt and jeans were dirty, and he was sweaty. Damn. West, toward the Springs and Jade, or east, toward his house and a shower?
“To hell with it.” He turned west.
* * *
Chase wishedhe had his Corvette; he would have flown. He rarely saw law enforcement on this road and knew the cops in the area. So far, none of them had given him a speeding ticket. He called Jade again. Nothing. Pressing the truck’s gas pedal to the floorboard, he made it to the Springs in record time. He veered onto Foote Avenue and slowed down enough not to fishtail into Jade’s driveway. Turning off the truck, he grabbed the Blackhawk and hopped out. Sliding his gun into the back of his belt on the way to her front door, he prayed she was home.
He knocked, but she didn’t answer. He knocked harder and called her name. No sign of her. He headed between the house and garage. Looking through the window of the side door to the garage, it was empty. In the fenced backyard, he peered into the plate glass window of the kitchen and saw the tops of their breakfast dishes still stacked in the sink. Walking to the larger window of the living room, their wine bottle and glasses were at the end of the sofa where they’d left them. He jogged back to his truck.
“Hello there,” a slim, gray-haired fellow said, standing in the yard next door. He wore a ball cap with a golf club logo on the front, golf shirt, shorts, and two different colored flip-flops. “Looking for Jade?”
“Yes, have you seen her today?”
“No, I haven’t seen Jade since last week,” the older gentleman said, walking toward Chase. “There was a Corvette in her driveway early this morning before I took off to the golf course to make my 7:00 am tee time.” He extended his hand and said, “I’m Bill.”
“Hi, Bill,” Chase remembered Jade referring to Bill and his wife, Carol, as her neighbors. “My name’s Chase Cooper. I’m a friend of Jade’s,” he said and shook Bill’s hand. “The Corvette’s mine.”
“Oh.” Bill seemed perplexed. “My wife, Carol, woke me up during the night thinking we had an intruder. I grabbed my five iron and looked out the window that faces Jade’s driveway.”
“What did you see?”
“Best I could tell, a stocky man—bald and about five foot nine—was poking around the Corvette. I thought the car belonged to him.”
Chase had wondered how Axel Bisbee had found him, and now he knew. “If I give you my phone number, would you call me if you see Jade?”
“Yes, sir, be happy to.” Bill pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Carol and I worry about Jade. Other than that guy last night and the one who drops by, usually wearing surgical scrubs, she has no visitors. Groceries are delivered once a week, and a lawn service takes care of the yard.”
“What does the guy wearing scrubs drive?”
“A white Mercedes.”
