rel="nofollow" href="#uffd48180-23b2-53bc-adb8-03ffe1876804">Chapter 21
Prologue
Ten years ago
If he were the kidnapper, how would he have made his getaway? How could someone have gotten off the ranch with a baby, unseen?
Officer Roland Kent of the Dead River, Wyoming, police department moved the beam of his flashlight across the grass and along the fence line at the employee entrance to Dead River Ranch. He mulled over the questions that had stumped the local police for the past twenty years. Intrigued by puzzles and determined to solve the cold case of Cole Colton’s twenty-year-old kidnapping, Roland Kent had volunteered to work on the mystery, even if it had to be on his personal time. His boss, Chief Drucker, was not pleased with Roland’s overtime investigations but couldn’t give him a valid reason why he shouldn’t work on the cold case. Roland had taken that as grudging consent and had begun his after-hours detective work three weeks ago. So far, he’d met nothing but resistance, silence and stone walls from the family and staff at Dead River Ranch, a mystery in its own right. Didn’t the Coltons want their heir found?
Walking closer to the driveway gate, Roland examined the locking mechanism. Had the gate or locks been changed in the past twenty years? This one seemed rather old and rusty. Perhaps if—
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot!” a voice shouted. A bright flashlight swung up to shine directly in Roland’s eyes, blinding him. “What are you doing?”
Roland made out a dark figure, and his attention zeroed in on the weapon aimed at him. He reached for his own weapon. “Don’t shoot! I’m—”
But before he could identify himself, the muzzle of the gun aimed at him flashed. A bullet punched his chest, knocking him backward. Pain exploded in his torso and he struggled to draw a breath. He tried to raise his weapon to defend himself, but his arm hung limply at his side. His legs buckled, and he sank to the grass at the foot of the entry gate.
The dark figure moved closer, and the flashlight beam stayed on his face.
“Officer Kent?” his shooter rasped, clearly frightened by the notion of having shot a cop. “I didn’t realize... I didn’t mean to—”
Roland clutched his chest, felt the warm seep of blood through his shirt. “Can’t...breathe.”
The shooter moved closer, but Roland’s vision was dimming.
Dying...I’m dying. Roland struggled to suck in oxygen. The bullet must have hit his lung.
His thoughts turned to Slade, his only son... I love you, cowboy. I’m proud of you.
Above him, his shooter was frantic. The flashlight beam swung about wildly until it landed on the fence. The shooter stepped over Roland, offering him no comfort, no assistance. Instead, Roland watched with fading sight as the shooter scrabbled in the dirt for a loose nail and dug something out of the fence post and slipped it in a jacket pocket. The bullet. Evidence. Covering up the murder of a cop.
Roland’s hand slipped weakly from his chest. Gasped for breath. Closed his eyes. Murdered...
I’m sorry, Slade.
* * *
Early the next morning, Agnes Barlow, the head cook at Dead River Ranch, drove out toward the sunrise farmers’ market for fresh fruit to serve the Colton family at breakfast. When she reached the employee entrance, she climbed out of the ranch truck and lumbered up the driveway to open the gate. In the predawn darkness, the truck’s headlamps shone on a dark lump by the fence.
She slowed her steps, narrowing a wary gaze on the object. A trash bag? A dead animal? Moving cautiously, she edged closer. A tingle of apprehension crawled through her. It looked like a body. Was some riffraff sleeping there, waiting to waylay an employee?
“Hello?” she called.
No response.
Shuffling closer, she approached the figure, nudged the man with her toe. “Hey, you can’t sleep he—”
The body rolled onto its back. Officer Roland Kent of the local police. Why would—
Then Agnes noticed the dark bloodstain on his chest, the dead, fixed stare of the man’s eyes.
And she screamed.
Chapter 1
Present day
The trill of a ringing phone woke Amanda Colton from a deep sleep, but her maternal instincts had her fully awake in seconds. She grabbed the phone before the next ring, praying the noise hadn’t woken eight-month-old Cheyenne. Her daughter had been fussy last night at bedtime because of a stuffy nose, and Amanda had worked for two hours to get her to sleep.
She glanced at the alarm clock as she dragged the phone to her ear. 3:23 a.m.
Her gut tightened. Nothing good ever came of a call at three in the morning, and her family had had enough bad news and tragedy in the past several months to last a lifetime.
“Hello?” she said warily.
“Amanda, thank God! I need your help!”
Hearing the fear in her youngest sister’s voice, Amanda sat up and shoved her hair from her face. “Gabby? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Peanut. I think he has colic, and he keeps trying to lie down!”
Dread speared her chest. “Oh, no.”
Equine colic could be deadly, especially if the horse tried to roll on the ground, which could cause the intestine to become wrapped around itself.
Amanda tossed back the covers, disturbing the fuzzy orange cat sleeping beside her, and swung her feet to the floor. “Is Trevor there with you?”
Trevor Garth was head of security for the ranch. But more important, in this case, he was Gabriella’s fiancé.
“Not yet.” Gabby’s voice cracked, and she sniffed hard, clearly trying not to cry. “He’s on his way. He said to call you.”
Peanut, Gabby’s horse, had been a birthday present when her sister was seven and Peanut was still a foal. Gabriella and Peanut had grown up together and her soft-hearted sister loved the horse dearly. Amanda hated the idea of Gabriella losing Peanut.
“Who’s going to stay with Avery?” Amanda asked, her mothering instincts again surging to the forefront when she thought of Trevor’s infant daughter.
“Mathilda, I think. She— No, Peanut! Stop. Please, stop!”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Until I get there, do not let him lie down.”
“I know he’s supposed to stay up,” Gabby said, her voice tense with frustration and panic, “but you try keeping a fourteen-hundred-pound animal on his feet when he wants to roll on the ground.”
“Gabby, it’s critical! Do whatever you have to.” With one hand Amanda stepped into a pair of jeans while she held the phone with her other hand. “Are any of the hands there? Do you have any help at all?”
“No. The place was deserted when I got here a little while ago.”
Amanda groaned, lamenting the shortage of ranch help, thanks to the National Finals Rodeo competition taking place in Las Vegas that week. She shoved her feet in her boots without bothering with socks. “I’ll make