Page 127 of The Lonely Road

“On my way. I’ll see you there?”

“Yes, you will.”

I get to Silverbell in eighteen minutes, which is two minutes faster than I told Clara and involves a stretch of county road where I form my own opinion about the speed limit.

The Sheriff’s cruiser is already in the drive when I pull in. So is a second vehicle—Wiley Buchanan’s truck, parked at the far end of the drive where it’s visible from the road.

Clara opens the door before I reach the steps. She’s been crying—red-eyed, pulled together, running on the adrenaline of a mother who doesn’t want her kids to know she’s scared.

I hug her first. Tight. She holds on with the grip of someone who needed that.

Then she lets go and straightens.

“The Sheriff is here. Wiley, too.”

The Sheriff is at the kitchen table, coffee in front of him. Wiley is standing by the window, arms crossed. He doesn’t look happy.

In Wildflower Canyon, the police force dresses in civilian clothes and wears their badges on their belts—they mostly look like cowboys who’ve been deputized. Wiley’s hat is on the kitchen counter. The Sheriff’s is on the table beside him.

Wiley is in his mid-thirties with a full head of hair. Hugh Dillon is clean-shaved and in his early fifties, give or take. Between the two of them, they have the kind of law enforcement experience that matters in a ranching community.

I look into the living room.

Dakota is on the couch watching television. Eli is asleep with his head on her lap. She looks up at me and nods. She’s sixteen, so she knows today wasn’t good. She’s scared, too.

Part of me wants to tell Clara to take the money and be done with it—nothing is worth putting that look on your child’s face. But I know exactly how companies like High Mesa work. They bribe and intimidate and bludgeon you into doing what they want. That’s the whole point.

I walk over and crouch beside the couch. “You, okay?”

Dakota nods.

Her eyes find her mother through the doorway. She drops her voice. “Don’t let Mama sell the ranch to them, Taya. I know she’s had a scare, but—don’t let her do that.”

Losing her father and carrying the weight of this ranch has made her grow up fast. I put my hand on hers and squeeze. “We’ll make sure y’all have nothing to worry about.”

She gives me a weak smile. “You almost believe that, don’t you?”

I hold her gaze. “I absolutely believe it. You should, too.”

I go back to the kitchen and sit beside Clara.

“She say anything?” The Sheriff’s eyes are on Dakota through the doorway.

I shake my head. “I just checked in.”

“I don’t want you talking to her,” Clara says tightly.

“Not going to do that, Clara, unless it’s warranted.” His tone stays calm—important right now, because we can all sense she’s holding on by a thread.

Wiley walks to the kitchen doorway and murmurs something to Dakota, then pulls the door closed between the kitchen and the living room. He goes back to his post by the window.

Now that the shock has settled into sequence, Clara is clearer.

“Walk me through what happened,” the Sheriff says, opening his notebook.

“I came home, and there was a truck. I thought maybe it was Duke or Mav sending help, but it had Tennessee plates.” She takes a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t see him clearly from my truck, but I knew something was off. He was talking to Dakota.” A sob escapes her. I put my hand over hers.

We give her a moment.