Page 5 of Cowboy Mountain Man

I choose a booth facing the window.

Outside, the orange lights sway gently above the sidewalk. The woman with the pumpkin has recruited a man to help her. Somebody laughs. Everything looks normal. I could almost scold myself for getting frazzled. But Martin’s message says otherwise. I read it again.

Then I set my camera bag beside me and open the pictures from the house. Entryway. Front room. Dining room. Kitchen. The mug. The boot prints. The tire tracks.

I enlarge the shot of the barn. A tiny orange point glows in the upstairs window.

I lean closer. It could be a reflection. Except the room around it is dark.

And just above that little point, barely visible behind the glass, is a human face.

Chapter

Two

HARLAN

The woman in the diner window is staring at her phone like it might bite her. She looks up when I park, tracking my truck until I kill the engine. Then she checks the street behind me. That tells me more than the call from my boss did.

Hope Rowan. Thirty years old. Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot seven, plus-sized. Hired to photograph and inventory the Bell place before the family puts it on the market.

Possible trespasser. Possible surveillance.

Those were the words of Marin Wolfe—Equinox’s COO, spreadsheet murderer, and scheduler.

But I prefer the words the client used when she called the attorney back. Somebody was watching me.

I step out of my truck and scan Main Street. Two teenagers outside the bakery. A man unloading bags of feed. Mrs. Abbott arranging pumpkins in front of her shop.

Nothing that needs my attention. Except the woman watching me through the diner window.

Her gaze drops to my boots, travels up, and stops somewhere around my shoulders. Then she looks at my face.

I take my hat off before going inside. “Afternoon, Harlan,” June says from behind the counter.

“June.”

The blonde waitress with friendly blue eyes and a knowing smile tips her chin toward the window booth. “She’s had two coffees and barely touched her sandwich.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Start by smiling.”

I give her a look.

“Or don’t,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you pulling something.”

Hope hears that. The corner of her mouth lifts before she presses it flat again.

I stop beside her booth. “Hope Rowan?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you’re here to tell me the house is haunted. Because I charge extra for that.”

“Equinox Protection Group. Harlan Mercer.” I offer a hand. Hers is slim and delicate in my grip. And there’s a fire in her touch that I can’t let myself think about.