Page 120 of Wild Sanctuary

His mouth does the thing again, that slow curve. “Nowhere. That’s the point.”

Then he’s gone, down the stairs two at a time, only stopping to pull on his boots at the front door. Colt’s voice rises in mock offense at something I can’t catch before the screen door bangs shut.

I press my face into his pillow, breathing him in one last time, and let myself have it for exactly five seconds.

Then I get up, wincing at the protest of muscles that haven’t been consulted in a while, and pad across the hardwood to the window. Colt’s truck is parked at an angle that suggests precision wasn’t a priority, and I can see them by the barn. Wyatt has his arms crossed and his hat on, already back in ranch-owner mode.

He glances up at the window, finds me there, and touches two fingers to the brim of his hat without breaking stride in whatever Colt is saying.

I smile so hard my cheeks ache, then make my way to the bathroom. Within five minutes, I’m showered, dressed in jeans and a white shirt, and on my way downstairs barefoot with damp hair.

The kitchen is empty and the house is quiet. I start a pot of coffee and stand at the counter while it brews, watching the empty driveway through the window.

I plug my phone into the charger on the kitchen table and pour a coffee while it powers up. Everything I have lives on this phone now. Six months of research, cloud-backed and encrypted, untouched by whoever gutted my cabin and took my laptop. They got the hardware, but they can’t touch the work.

I sit down, pull up my notes, and let the journalist take over.

But the journalist doesn’t have anywhere new to go. Same names, same dead ends.

Whitmore’s gone. Mountain West is a ghost.

Danny Cutter is in a hospital bed, and his daughter’s too scared to talk.

That’s some top-notch investigative reporting, Monroe.

I huff out a frustrated breath as I continue to stare at my phone as though it holds the answers to life’s great mysteries.

Alma will call. I truly believe she will. But until she does, I’m left sitting at a kitchen table with a cold coffee and a chain that goes nowhere I haven’t already been.

Tires on gravel pull my attention from the phone. Through the window, a silver SUV parks beside the barn, and Shelby Reynolds steps out in boots and a sundress, her sunglasses pushed up into that dark hair like a headband.

I open the front door before she knocks. “Hey, Shelby.”

“Daisy. Hi.”

Her smile is warm and genuine, and I feel the familiar, stupid twinge of jealousy that I really need to lose. The woman is just pretty. That’s not a crime.

“Is June around? I’ve been trying to call her about the Mercer wedding next week but she’s not pickin’ up.”

“She’s at Maggie’s. Been there since yesterday.”

“Ah.” Shelby pulls out her phone and frowns at it. “That explains the radio silence. I’ll try her there.”

She hesitates on the porch step, then tilts her head. “How are you doin’? I heard about the break-in.”

“I’m fine, thankfully. Nothing that can’t be replaced.”

“Still. That’s scary, being out here alone when it happened.” She leans against the porch rail, watching me with concerned eyes. “My sister Lauren works at the bank in town. She said everyone’s been talking about it. Honestly, nothin’ stays quiet in this place for more than five minutes.”

My coffee mug stops halfway to my mouth.

Her sister works at the bank. The same bank that called Wyatt about a flag on the operating loan that kept him off a truck that went off a cliff twenty minutes later.

“Lauren Reynolds?” I keep my voice easy. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”

“You wouldn’t have. She transferred from the Bozeman branch about four years ago when Mom got sick. Does all the commercial accounts now.” Shelby waves a hand. “She’s the responsible one. I got the looks, she got the brains. Don’t tell her I said that.”

I smile, but my mind is already filing.