I stared at the screen, something in my chest going tight. He’d remembered. Not just the seeds, but the details—the exactnumber I’d mentioned in that hotel room in Salt Lake, the one conversation we’d had about my vineyard that hadn’t been just passing the time.
I typed back“6.2-6.5 for the stock. 6.0-6.5 for the vines. 6.2 ideal for both”and hit send before I could overthink it.
The response came back almost immediately:“Good. I’ll keep an eye out.”
For what, I had no idea. We were twelve thousand miles apart, separated by an ocean and whatever mission had taken him to Lviv. But the fact that he was looking—that he was thinking about my vineyard, about what I might need—made my throat tight in a way I refused to examine.
I went back to the seeds, checking each tray methodically. The Belize variety was a gamble—a long shot that might not work in Montana’s shorter growing season—but the seeds had been a gift, and gifts deserved attention. Even from men who texted like they were writing mission briefings.
Even from men who’d never said what we were doing or why or if it meant anything.
The bracelet gleamed on my wrist when I moved between trays, the light catching the engraved “J” in the design. I hadn’t taken it off since Billings—had slept with it the first night, then placed it carefully on the nightstand the second, then started wearing it again the third. Now it felt strange not to have it on, like a piece of equipment I’d forgotten.
My phone buzzed again. I checked it without thinking: a photo of what looked like a Ukrainian restaurant, plates of food I couldn’t identify spread across a table. Underneath: “Dinner. Hotel security gets better food than actual security. Go figure.”
I stared at the photo, trying to figure out if there was a message in it beyond the obvious—if Cruz was telling me he was eating, that he was safe, that he was thinking about me. That he missed me.
I typed back “Looks good” and set the phone down, wondering when I’d started reading meaning into random photos of airport coffee and hotel food.
The seeds were doing fine. The drainage problem was still there. And somewhere in Eastern Europe, Cruz was eating dinner at a restaurant with a view of a border I couldn’t picture, texting a man he’d spent five nights with in six months.
It wasn’t enough. But for now, with the greenhouses warming in the morning sun and the seeds pushing up through the soil, it had to be.
* * * *
I was on my knees in the corner of the greenhouse, finally addressing the drainage problem, when my phone rang. Not a text—a call, which meant either Rawley or Sterling, and neither of them called unless something was broken, on fire, or about to be. I wiped my muddy hands on my jeans and answered without checking the screen.
“Reyes.”
“It’s Rawley.”
Two words, and I knew. The tone was flat, controlled—the voice he used when something was wrong but he wasn’t ready to share details over an open line. I sat back on my heels, pipe cutter in one hand, phone in the other.
“What’s the situation?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.
There was a pause—Rawley deciding how much to say. “Eleanor Peterson is in county lockup awaiting trial,” he said finally. “Has been for three months.”
I went still, the pipe cutter suddenly heavy in my hand. Eleanor Peterson. The name alone was enough to make my skin crawl—a woman with enough money and enough spite to maketrouble for everyone connected to the ranch. A woman who’d already tried to kill Burke and Danny’s baby once.
“And?” I prompted when Rawley didn’t continue.
“And we’ve had two separate sightings of unfamiliar figures near the eastern fence line in the past week. Tuesday night and yesterday morning.” His voice was clipped, matter-of-fact. “Jojo spotted the first one from the kitchen window. Burke caught the second on the north ridge with binoculars.”
I didn’t ask if they were sure. Rawley wouldn’t have called if he wasn’t certain. “You want me to ride the perimeter,” I said.
Not a question.
“I want someone with fresh eyes and no emotional stake in what we might find,” Rawley said. “First light tomorrow. Can you be at the stable at five?”
It wasn’t really a question. We both knew I’d be there.
“Yes,” I said, not asking for details or negotiating terms. “Five o’clock.”
There was a pause—Rawley registering the lack of pushback, the immediate yes. “Good,” he said finally. “Bring your phone. We’ll need photos.”
The call ended without a goodbye. Rawley wasn’t big on social niceties when there was work to do.
I set the phone down and looked at the half-cut pipe in my hand. The drainage problem would have to wait. I had a perimeter to ride and photos to take, and somewhere on the eastern edge of Black Butte Ranch, someone was watching.
