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“Always with the compliments, boss.” Argus is actually the best boss ever. He sends me lots of stories—good and bad. And he’s always felt more like a father figure to me than just another editor. I’ve only known him a few years, but for whatever reason, he’s felt fatherly since the day I met him. Even more so than my actual father, whose work as a salesman took him out of town for most of my childhood and young adult years. And whose fishing obsession keeps him out of town and even country for most of the year now. My father is, without a doubt, where I got my love of travel.
“You okay?”
“Nothing a lot of Pepto won’t cure, I’m sure,” I lie. There is no cure, and what’s more, there is no father in the picture, either. I have done everything I can to find Xander, short of breaking into the New York hotel and stealing their guest records for that night. But that’s the thing about sleeping with a str
anger. They’re tough to track down.
I manage not to let out the hysterical laugh bubbling up inside of me. Just barely.
He grunts in acknowledgment. “I have a new assignment for you if you’re up for it.”
“Of course.” Another rule of freelancing—you don’t turn down work from your best client. I pick up work from other magazines occasionally, but Argus is, hands down, my go-to editor.
“Have you heard anything about the Hollister brothers?”
I don’t even have to search my memory. “Wyoming ranchers. They’re leaders right now in sustainable ranching practices. They’ve been making a big media splash for trying some cutting-edge methods to make their ranch more environmentally friendly.”
“Exactly. I need you to go write us a feature on the Hollisters. Not just on their methods, but on the brothers themselves. There’s been some bits and pieces on them, but I want you to really dig in. The way they’re changing things out there is a story, but two billionaire ranchers really embracing environmental issues? Why? That’s your angle. Dig into the family and see what you find.”
“Do they know I’m coming?” I ask, dryly. It wouldn’t be the first time Argus sent me on interviews with people who had zero interest in talking to me—of course, those generally happened with people who liked to try to skirt environmental regulations. Not those actually trying to give the Earth more of a fighting chance.
“They know you’re coming,” he replies, his tone just as dry as my own.
A surge of nausea hits me, and I lay my head back on my pillow. Gotta keep it together. At least until I can get off the phone. “When?”
“I’ve got you on a flight this afternoon.” He hesitates. “If you’re up to it.”
“Of course. Feeling better already.” I try not to make lying a habit, but I am just swimming in untruths today. But I’m not ready to tell Angus what’s going on. I’m not ready to tell anyone just yet.
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll text you the flight details. If you can’t—”
“Like I said, I’m fine.” The room spins, mocking my reply. But I am not about to turn down an interesting project—probably the most interesting I’ve had in a long time. Especially because I am about to be supporting two people.
Crap. I’m so not ready for this.
Argus has rented me a car because there’s no commercial airport within two hundred miles of the Hollister ranch. The tiny economy Hyundai purrs happily down the two lane country roads. Blue skies are dotted with wispy clouds and desert mountains push at the sky in the distance. It’s dark outside by the time my GPS leads me to my destination. And by dark, I mean dark. I’m a city girl and missing my streetlights.
Thank God for GPS.
I drive down the longest driveway I’ve ever seen—gravel, not paved. Fences line both sides of the road, but their design appears more decorative than like they are trying to keep animals in. Then again, what do I know about fencing? At the end of the road, between my headlights and the nearly full moon, I can see a large house and a couple of big barns. If there are other outbuildings, I can’t make them out in the dark.
I slow as I approach the buildings, there are several vehicles parked haphazardly around—all pickups—and I’m not exactly sure where I’m supposed to park.
A man steps out of the nearer barn and waves at me, nothing more than his tall frame is visible in the dark. Thank goodness for their exterior lights or I might have missed him. Relief rushes through me. I’ve been half worried that I hadn’t even found the right house. I never fully trust my GPS, especially outside of the city. If it’d led me to the entirely wrong part of the state, I wouldn’t have even been surprised.
The man points for me to park in a spot next to the barn closest to the house. Thankfully, for the sake of my tiny rental, the spot is far from all the giant trucks. The man himself is big too, but I can’t tell much more about him in the dark. Other than the fact that he’s wearing a cowboy hat.
Welcome to Wyoming, about as far from Boston as I could get.
I finish parking the car and turn off the ignition. I’m a little nervous, but I don’t know why. This isn’t my first interview—not even my first interview out in the sticks. Maybe it’s arriving at night. The kind of night you only get so far from a city that there isn’t even a distant glow.
I’m not even entirely sure Wyoming has any cities big enough to glow more than a few miles away. Daylight had still reigned when I left the city.
I shake off the nerves and unlatch my seatbelt, then I open the car door. “Hi there,” I call out to the man.
“Miss Long?” He takes a couple of steps and catches my car door before it can shut on top of me. “Glad you found the place okay.”
His voice sounds familiar, but I still can’t see his face between the dark around us in the wide brim of his hat. There are exterior lights around the place, large commercial ones. But none penetrate the shadows the cowboy hat creates.
