There was a flash of something on his face—maybe regret, but it moved too quickly, too slightly. Like the rush of a breeze. There and gone, before I could be certain.
It didn’t matter what it was. I wasn’t here to scold a grown man for the lasting consequences of a choice he’d made twelve years ago. Neither my lingering resentment nor my frustrating attraction for Calder made any difference to the reality that he was my best shot at finding my sister.
Glancing back, I saw how far we’d walked from the house, the structure now small and sitting at the base of the shallow but measurable hill I hadn’t even realized we’d been slowly climbing.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to another, smaller cabin I could see beyond the Stone homestead; it looked to be about the same distance from the main house as we were, though the terrain between the two buildings appeared much flatter.
Calder didn’t even look before answering, “Watchtower. Where my brother Callum lives.”
“Watchtower?”
“He does all of the technological tracking, communications, and case management for the business.”
Squinting, I could just make out the large wraparound porch and the several satellite dishes attached to the roof. And then it hit me—the memory of the message Rachel had sent me a few years ago.
“Wait. He was the storm chaser?”
Bits and pieces of the news article about theWidowmaker, a massive tornado that had wrecked through Wyoming not that far from here, claiming the life of one storm chaser and paralyzing another. A picture of the famed tornado wrangler known for his easy smile and characteristic cowboy hat:Callum Stone.
When Calder didn’t reply, I yanked my head back in his direction and found he’d disappeared.
There was a row of ancient evergreens lining the top of the hill in front of me. Behind it was the only place he could’ve gone. Rounding the trees, I stopped short, realizing their purpose: to conceal the massive Airstream parked behind them.
Calder stood, holding open the silver door, waiting for me. “Come in.”
Chapter 3
Lara
“Coffee?” Calder offered, moving to the kitchen counter directly inside the massive camper’s front door.
“Sure. Thanks,” I said and scooted behind him into his mobile home. Another coffee would be good right now; I was long overdue for my second cup of the day.
Inside, natural light streamed through several small windows, illuminating the gray wood-paneled interior. The dining table had been converted into his workstation, his laptop closed on one side, folders and a notebook strewn across the top.
“French press or pour-over?”
I turned to my right, seeing the array of coffee makers, ceramic filters, and a digital scale positioned along the counter. And then Calder ... rolling up his sleeves to reveal a rugged topography of strength and sinew.
My mouth parted, my eyes roaming greedily. If muscles and tendons were protected like mountains and trees, Calder Stone would be the first man honored for his anatomical beauty.And I would be the first person caught trespassing over boundaries I should’ve abided.
Crap. I snapped my jaw shut and hoarsely picked the first option. “French press sounds great.” The only question I’d ever considered whenit came to coffee wasHow many cups?, and my answer lately had beenNever enough.
Calder started the electric teakettle and then grabbed the glass press and a bag of grounds, scooping them into the container.
Get it together, Lara,I chided, diverting my gaze to the rest of the space—to anything that wasn’t Calder’s arms at work.
Beyond the dining area was a living space, followed by the bathroom at the far end. In the living room, a couch faced a wall where a TV should’ve been but wasn’t. Instead, a bookcase claimed the surface, the shelves lined with slim little notebooks. I wondered whether they corresponded to each of his cases. If so ... My eyes widened at how many there were.
Abutting the bookcase were two frames. The first held a photograph of the Tetons, and on the second one below it, a hand-drawn topographical map, the wordStonewas scrawled in the corner. Looking closer, I saw distinct handwritten notes marking certain spots:Free Fall, Tree House, Watchtower, Lima Bean Lake.
The kettle beeped, and it had to be me, but the violent alert sounded just like our vital signs monitor in the hospital. I spun on instinct, an instant grip of panic around my throat. Calder looked at me, concerned, and I quickly buried the reaction.
“So, this is where you live?” I said, unsure whether it was a statement or a question or simply a distraction.
“You thought I lived at the house?” he rumbled, pouring the steaming water onto the coffee grounds and setting a timer on his phone.
Who knew making coffee could be as precise as surgery?
