Page 1 of September’s Cowboy Travis

CHAPTER 1

TRAVIS

I’d been told not to show up at the rodeo office. That right there should’ve been my first sign that stopping by meant any conversation I had would be hell.

But when the committee notified me that a five-thousand-dollar deposit into my ranch account had been flagged and told me not to touch it until their financial review was complete, I stopped caring what they wanted.

Five thousand dollars had shown up in my account without my permission. I wanted to know how the fuck that had happened, and more importantly, why.

I drove to the rodeo grounds, parked near the livestock gates, and headed straight for the office trailer. The place had quieted down since Rodeo Royalty Weekend, but there were still stock trailers parked along the fence and volunteers hauling tables back into storage. Dust hung in the August heat, coating my boots by the time I reached the steps.

The office door wasn’t locked. Inside, it looked like someone had turned three filing cabinets inside out. Folders covered the desk. Sticky notes marked with dates, names, parcel numbers, and enough arrows to make my head hurt clung to the whiteboard.

A woman stood with her back to me, comparing two documents under the glare of a desk lamp.

Her dark hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she had on a button-down shirt rolled to her elbows. My gaze skidded down to notice the jeans clinging to her backside before I reminded myself I hadn’t come here to hit on the accountant.

She hadn’t heard me come in so I cleared my throat.

She spun around, one hand flying to her chest. “Jesus. You can’t just walk in here.”

“The door was unlocked.”

Her gaze traveled from me to the open door, then back again. Whatever she saw didn’t improve her mood. She yanked off her glasses and set them down on the desk.

“Unlocked doesn’t mean invited. Especially you, Travis Cole.”

So she already knew who I was. That figured. “Then we can skip introductions.”

“I’d rather skip to the part where you were specifically told not to come here.”

Her voice was calm again, but the color hadn’t completely left her cheeks. I stayed near the end of the desk instead of moving any closer.

“I got that message. What I didn’t get was an explanation for why five thousand dollars showed up in my account with a warning not to touch it.”

She studied me for another second before holding out her hand. “Kaycee Harper. Independent forensic accountant.”

I shook it. Her grip was firm and brief.

“The committee brought me in to follow the financial trail connected to Cedar Draw. I’m reviewing anything that might matter—livestock transactions, land leases, old accounts, modern transfers.” She pulled her hand back and reached for the folder nearest her. “Including yours.”

Cedar Draw.

The name had been everywhere for weeks. Old cattle records. Family secrets. Roy Pritchard and those forged livestock papers. Now everybody suspected Margaret Whitaker was the love child of a Kincaid and a Hollister, and apparently that had only given Mustang Mountain another hundred questions to argue over.

None of them had a damn thing to do with me. At least not until yesterday.

“What exactly did you find?”

Kaycee opened the folder and slid a page toward me. “The deposit hit your ranch business account three weeks ago. Five thousand dollars from a source account we’re still tracing.”

My own account number sat halfway down the page. Under it was a memo line I’d never seen before.

CEDAR DRAW — COLE LEASE PARCEL 17-B

The amount wasn’t enough to change my life. But it sure was enough to make it look like I’d taken money I shouldn’t have.

“I didn’t authorize this.”