Page 73 of If the Boot Fits

“Sanders and Hansen are out with the herd,” Martin reported. “I’ll send Green and Foster to relieve them first thing. They can be back here in less than an hour.”

“That everyone?”

“Everyone but the foreman,” Martin said. “Kendrick’s got his own cabin behind the main house. Usually has breakfast with the family.”

Duke Kendrick had access to the house. Which meant he had access to Samantha. If he was the man with the birthmark . . .

Asher pushed past the sheriff to get to the door. The instant Asher’s boots hit dirt, he ran for the main house.

33

Samantha let herself into the house and made her way to the kitchen. Her father usually had the stove stoked and coffee brewing before Mrs. Stewart woke. He wasn’t one to let a drop of daylight slip by without putting it to use.

Sure enough, when she pushed open the kitchen door, she found him cranking the wheel on the coffee grinder. He turned at the sound of the door, his eyes widening when his gaze landed on her.

“Samantha?” His hand fell away from the grinder. “What are you doing here?” He took a step toward her, and that was all the invitation she needed.

She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. He hugged her tightly, his cheek pressing against the top of her head. Then all at once he stiffened.

“Why does your hair smell like smoke?” He held her away from him and scanned her from head to toe, no doubt taking in the borrowed dress that didn’t quite fit, the circles under her eyes, and the signs of exhaustion and heartache that no amount of soap and water could wash away.

“There was a fire, Daddy.” Her voice rasped slightly, her throat still raw from the smoke and her cries for help. Tears rushed to her eyes, but she ruthlessly batted them away. She wasn’t a child seeking a father’s comfort. She was a woman on a mission to catch a villain and protect those she loved. “We got out—Aunt Regina and Uncle Obadiah, too—but only because Asher found us.” She swallowed, hating the residual fear that made her knees tremble as she recalled the horror of being surrounded by fire with no escape. “Whoever set the fire locked us inside. Sabotaged the shutters and bolted the doors. If Asher hadn’t smelled the smoke and investigated . . . Well, I just thank God he came when he did.”

It seemed her knees weren’t the only ones struck with the wobbles. Her father grabbed the back of a kitchen chair with both hands and braced himself.

“I thought you’d be safe there.” Sorrow bowed his back as his head hung low. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do.”

His voice broke, and his vulnerability tugged at her heart. She came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest, and laid her face against his back.

“It’s all right, Daddy. I know what to do.”

He slowly straightened and turned to face her. “Go back to Boston?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m going to identify the man who tried to kill me.”

“How? Did you see him set the fire?” When she shook her head again, he blew out a breath. “Sheriff Jeter and I have questioned everyone we can think of who might have a motive to hurt you, and we’ve come up empty.”

Samantha chose her words with care. “I came across some new evidence that points to someone here at the Three Cedars. The sheriff and Asher are at the bunkhouse now, questioning the men.”

Her father stiffened. “Without me present?” He broke away from her and strode toward the back door.

Samantha grabbed his arm. “Please, Daddy, let them handle it. It’s better for you to stay here. With me.”

His expression darkened. “What aren’t you telling me, Samantha?”

She couldn’t let him put her on the defensive. He’d pry all her secrets from her in a heartbeat.

“I’m asking you to trust me.” She released his arm but moved to place herself between him and the back door. “Just stay in this kitchen with me. Drink some coffee. Sheriff Jeter will check in with you in a few minutes. I promise.”

He glared at her, and Samantha swore she could see his internal debate play out in the clenching and unclenching of his jaw.

A movement caught her eye from the hall. Clint. Her priorities shifted as rapidly as sand in an upturned hourglass. Sidestepping her father, she moved to intercept her brother.

“Sam? I thought I heard your voice. What are you doing here?” He rubbed a hand over his bed-mussed hair as he neared the kitchen, his bare feet padding soundlessly on the wood floors.

“Clint. You shouldn’t be up this early.” She took him by the shoulders and tried to steer him back the way he’d come. He couldn’t be here when the sheriff gave his report. Sheriff Jeter wasn’t a man to mince words. There was no telling what he might say. She hoped to spare her father from deducing the truth, but he was a grown man. Clint, on the other hand, was still a child. A rather tall and obstinate child, who refused to budge no matter how much force she applied.

He brushed her hands away. “Quit pushing me.” He crossed his arms and glared. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on. Why are you here?”