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“No, ma’am—actually, yes. There is one thing.” I met Lila’s gaze squarely. She needed to hear this, too. “Pack up Lila’s clothes and anything else you think she’ll need for the next month. She’s going to be here a while.”

11

LILA

To: Lila Ford

From: Paul Tipling

Hi, Lila,

We at Utah Heart loved working with you last year. Would you be interested in a last-minute assignment?

As you’re probably aware, an executive order was signed yesterday that reduced a national monument by a million acres—a decrease of ninety percent. There’s a 30-day window before it goes into effect, and a lawsuit requesting an injunction has already been filed. We want to do our part at Utah Heart, and that’s where you come in. We’re looking for a cover shot that fully conveys what we stand to lose if this land is opened to mineral, oil, and gas companies, as well as additional photographs for the article. But we’re on a tight deadline, so it has to be now.

Are you in?

Looking forward to hearing from you!

Paul

Adrenaline spiked through my bloodstream as I scrolled the email on my phone. This was my favorite kind of job. High stakes, short turnaround, worthy cause. The gorgeous location didn’t hurt, either. Utah desert in autumn? Sign me up. I chewed the cuticle on my thumb and read it again, emotions tangoing in my gut. Excitement. Hope.

Fear.

Two weeks had passed since I’d arrived at Mercy River Ranch. Two weeks of nothing. I was beginning to think that maybe I really was crazy after all. Maybe getting slapped, burned, and stabbed had been three random, separate incidents. Had I really heard him whisper my name before he put his cigarette out on my shoulder? Memories were notoriously unreliable, especially in traumatic events. Maybe my brain had made the whole thing up.

The attacks felt like a dream, more hazy than real. My stitches were gone, leaving an ugly three-inch scar across my ribcage that was out of sight, out of mind for the most part. I could finally take a full breath without wincing.

But every night when I headed for bed, Seb reached for that manila envelope that had somehow gotten thicker as the days passed. He was still looking. Rereading the police reports for missed clues, combing through the photographs and witness statements. He didn’t think I was crazy, and when it came to bad guys with knives, I trusted Seb’s judgment more than my own.

I swapped my phone for the hot mug of rooibos tea on the table next to me, kicked off my Birkenstocks, and drew my knees up to my chest. It was fully autumn now, and even in the golden sunshine soaking the cabin porch, the air was chilly. I was grateful for the leggings, thick wool socks, and chunky sweater Mom had mailed me. That had been a whole cloak-and-dagger production by Seb to keep anyone from using the address to find me. It had gone to three other places before finally ending up at Mercy River Ranch.

Bringing the steaming mug to my face, I inhaled deeply. The woody scent of tea warmed me from the inside out. I wiggled my toes in my cozy socks, sipped my tea, and stared out at the red and gold trees interspersed with deep green firs. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my brain from looping back to the email. Yes? No? I couldn’t land on a final answer. Disconcerting, since indecisiveness wasn’t one of my many failings. I preferred to make a quick decision and let the lesson find me. But right now I was frozen.

Dust kicked up in the gravel driveway as Seb parked his ATV. The past two weeks, he had mostly left me to heal and rest. He was gone before I woke up in the morning, came home around noon for lunch, and then left again for more ranch work before coming home to make me dinner. It had been great at first—I’d spent most of my time sleeping and catching up on television shows I’d never had time to watch—but the past couple of days had left me feeling stir crazy.

“Hey,” he greeted me as he climbed out. Tan oilskin jacket slung over one arm, dark hair curling under his baseball cap, jeans clinging to his muscled thighs. Upsettingly attractive. “You eat lunch yet?”

“Not yet. But there’s a jar of olives calling my name.”

His lips quirked. “I’ll make us something.”

Us. The word slid through me, warm and sweet as hot honey. But there were those suitcases by the front door that turned me cold again.

“Thanks,” I said neutrally.

Spiraling over the email was preferable to spiraling over my ex-husband, so I put my energy into that as Seb jogged up the porch steps like a goddamn L.L. Bean model. He opened the screen door, then paused there with his body wedged between it and the heavier pine door, his hand on the doorknob. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his gaze on my profile. Slowly, he took a step back, the screen door banging into place again.

“What’s on your mind, Lila?” He flung his jacket over the porch railing and claimed the rocking chair next to me.

“It’s nothing.” I sipped my tea.

“It’s something. You’ve got that dent between your eyebrows you get when you’re thinking hard.”

Damn my expressive face. What else had it betrayed? Heartbreak? Fury? Horniness?

Sighing, I told him about the job in Utah. He was already shaking his head before I finished.