Page 3 of Cowboy Mountain Man

I should go into town and get lunch. I can upload the first batch of images from the inn, confirm who’s had access, and return tomorrow.

Instead, I look at the time. Two forty-seven. Plenty of daylight. And the study is right across the hall.

Ten minutes. A few photographs. Then I’ll leave.

The study smells of old paper and wood polish. Shelves cover two walls, and a heavy desk faces the window.

Here, too, someone has disturbed the dust.

A rectangular patch on the desk is cleaner than the rest. One drawer sits slightly open. I photograph it before touching anything.

Inside are envelopes, rubber bands, and a fountain pen in a velvet-lined box. The envelopes have been pushed to one side, their corners bent. Someone looking for a document, maybe?

The family.

The attorney.

I keep supplying perfectly sensible explanations while the skin between my shoulders tightens. On the floor beside the desk, a crumpled receipt catches my eye.

I crouch.

Woodbridge Market. Coffee. Bottled water. Bread. Batteries. Dated four days ago.

I photograph it in place, then stand. That settles it. Somebody’s been here. I take notes of everything on the tablet, then set it carefully on the dust-free section of the study desk.

Now I just need Martin to tell me who.

A dull thump comes from the back of the house. I stop breathing. My feet break into a sprint before I can stop myself. The raven caws. I chase the shadows back into the light of the bright kitchen, heart slamming against my ribs.

Then I see the culprit. The swinging kitchen door moves an inch, then eases back.

Wind.

I left the front door open. There’s probably a draft. I watch the door until it stops.

“You’re losing it,” I whisper to myself, clutching my chest where my pulse still hammers. “Call it low blood sugar. Jet lag. All I know is I need lunch, and this place… can wait.”

I don’t wait for the house to agree.

My camera bag is still where I left it. I sling it over my shoulder, pull the front door shut, and fight with the lock again, still wishing it were a little more cooperative.

I add WD-40 to my list of must-haves in town. That and bottled water and snacks.

At the car, I glance toward the barn. The upstairs window looks like an empty black square. I get in. Lock the doors. Then feel ridiculous for everything that’s happened since the slam of the door. It’s not often a place spooks me, but I wasn’t anticipating it being Mrs. Bell’s place. It sounded so cozy on paper.

The little hatchback rental bumps down the driveway, leaves flicking up behind me. At the road, I pause long enough to check both directions.

A dark pickup sits on the gravel shoulder farther up the mountain. I didn’t notice it on the way in. Its windows are tinted. One headlight has a pale strip of tape along the edge.

Maybe somebody’s hiking? Or maybe everybody here drives a pickup, and I’m going to look very silly remembering individual ones?

I turn downhill. A few minutes later, the truck appears in my rearview mirror.

“Coincidence,” I whisper under my breath determined not to repeat the panicked dash at Mrs. Bell’s. But still, my hands tighten on the wheel.

There’s one road into town. Of course it’s behind me.

The driver stays back through the curves, close enough that I can see the taped headlight each time the road straightens.