Page 111 of Shadow

In the back seat, Destiny just sat staring out the window.

Roger hadn’t said anything either, his jaw tight.

“How much farther?” Daphne asked.

Asher checked the GPS on his phone. “Forty-five minutes. Next right onto County Road 17. Then twenty miles.”

“And you’re sure no one knows about this place?”

“I’m sure.” He finally looked at her. “The deed is in a private trust name. Property taxes get paid automatically. Mail goes to a lawyer in Denver.” The closed expression on his face said the topic was done.

She drove in silence.

The highway narrowed, two lanes becoming one and a half. Pavement cracking. Fewer cars. More space between houses and ranches and civilization.

They passed a sign: COUNTY ROAD 17 – 2 MILES.

Asher shifted in his seat. Winced.

And then she saw it—the bloody stain on his chest. “You’re bleeding through your shirt. I’m pulling over.”

“We’re almost there.”

“Asher—”

“I said I’m fine.” His voice went hard. Sharp. “Please, just drive.”

Daphne clenched her jaw. Drove.

County Road 17 appeared on the right, a gravel road that wound into a valley.

“Here,” Asher said.

Daphne turned. The SUV bounced over potholes and ruts. Pine trees closed in on both sides. Aspen groves with leaves turning gold. Rocky outcroppings. The road climbed, no houses, no signs. No indication anyone lived up here.

Just wilderness.

Then the trees opened up.

And Daphne’s breath caught.

The ranch sat in a valley surrounded by mountains, sagebrush and wild grass spreading across the land. A creek running through the property glinted under the encroaching twilight. Mountains rose, purple and gold in the distance.

And the spread itself—beautiful. The main house was massive. Log-and-stone construction. Two stories with a steep, red metal roof. Large windows catching the light. A wraparound porch. The kind of place you saw in magazines.

A barn sat fifty yards away. Weathered wood. Same red metal roof. Corrals beside it with three horses grazing.

A smaller cabin sat closer to the creek. Also log construction.

“Asher,” Daphne said quietly. “This is⁠—”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a little thick. “It is.”

She drove down the dirt road toward the main house. The road curved around plantings—sage and native grasses and rocks, the touch of professional landscaping.

A man emerged from the barn. Fifty-something. Weathered. Jeans and flannel. Cowboy hat. He raised a hand in greeting.

Asher nodded back. “That’s Duke. Ranch manager. He lives in the cabin. Manages the day-to-day. Leases the land for hunting. Takes care of the horses.”