Page 11 of Trigger Happy

The app covers everything from social security numbers to dates of recurring horseback riding lessons, but I make sure to do my own sleuthing because I’m not Lawton Montoya and don’t throw shit at the fan to see what sticks.

Bobbi’s parents died in a hit-and-run when she was a kid (I had to read an actual newspaper article to confirm that) and left her with a hefty inheritance, so in addition to managing the Little Red Barn, she also runs Cowboy Candle Co., her homemade soy candle business that barely breaks even. Every candle name starts with “Smells Like.”

Smells Like a Rainy Ride. Smells Like Fall in the Mountains. Smells Like an Abandoned Farmhouse.

That’s a strange scent, but it has notes of sage and lavender, so I order one off her Etsy shop.

Next up are her socials.

They’re full of her dimples popping, nose stud glinting, while pouring wax in “thrifted” fringe jackets that are reselling for $1,200 online. She’s also married to a man named Archibald, but he goes by Arch.

He’s a good-looking guy with his light brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck and black-framed, square glasses, but I checked his medical records, and he doesn’t need a lens prescription. Red flag. He’s also big into fishing and antiquing, and he carries around a battered Pride and Prejudice copy everywhere he goes.

They seem like a normal, albeit rich, couple, which makes me wonder: What dirty skeletons do they have locked up in their ridiculously oversized closets?

I LAND EARLY and step off the plane into the brisk fall air. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. The snow-draped mountains greet me in the distance, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Almost everyone at the airport is wearing a cowboy hat and shiny boots that look brand-new. I’m normally better about blending in, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in a cowboy hat—unless Lawton killed me. He’d probably add chaps to the mix and memorialize the picture.

Since I can’t check in to the Little Red Barn until four o’clock, I stash my luggage at the General Store and follow Bobbi into the Wicked Horse Saloon. It’s packed inside, but I’ve always liked a crowd.

The more people there are, the easier it is to fade away.

Everyone is two-stepping beneath a ceiling of two-dollar bills, and the room is hazy despite the No Smoking Unless You’re Smoking Hot sign. As I watch Bobbi dominate the pool tables, laughing and nudging shoulders, I’m convinced she’s the kind of woman everyone secretly wants to be friends with.

And I don’t trust it.

“Judging by the way you’re sitting sidesaddle on that barstool, I’m guessing you’re not from around here, are you, darlin’?” a low, familiar voice rumbles, his breath skimming my ear.

A shiver dashes down my spine at the same time a pit drops into my stomach.

No.

I look behind my shoulder and there is Lawton, looming over me in his black cowboy hat, leather jacket, and Wranglers. This dive bar is more of a novelty with its saddles for barstools and mechanical bulls, so most of the people dancing are tourists playing yee-haw dress-up, but he’s the real thing.

“Are you secretly obsessed with me or something?” I demand, sidestepping a spilled drink on the floor. “Because all this stalking is getting a little out of hand, Montoya.”

“What the—” he stumbles back, bumping into a rowdy couple in matching denim jackets. His eyes pop wide when they land on my natural hair, and cold realization strikes his face.

“You,” he says. “Your hair’s normal. Why?”

“Bronde, Montoya. Bronde. And that would be thanks to my amazing hair stylist, Annabelle. I love her.” I barrier my arms across my chest, irritated with his shock. I don’t look that different without the dark hair. “Who did you think you were talking to?”

Lawton assesses me, and I feel all the places his eyes touch—my legs, face, lips. He frowns. “I’ve never seen you wear jeans, so I thought you were some random gorgeous woman. Trust me, if I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have started with that line.”

Gorgeous.

Of course that’s the word my brain gets stuck on. “Then I’m glad I saved some poor woman from your atrocious flirting attempts.”

“Atrocious?” he barks, brows spiking.

His espresso eyes flick to the brunette who just slid onto the other saddle barstool, and a conniving grin slips onto his face.

He rests his elbows next to her. “Judging by the way you’re sitting sidesaddle on that barstool, I’m guessing you’re not from around here, are you?”

She looks him up and down. My eyes zone in on where their shoulders brush. There’s a spark of intrigue on the woman’s face, and I can’t fault her for being interested.

Lawton’s always been magnetic, unfortunately. He once talked his way out of a speeding ticket with a pile of firearms in the back seat. The back seat! But that was before his brother died. Sometimes I get glimpses of his old charisma, but now, he’s a full-on stomping, brooding raincloud.

Except, I can handle a storm.