His offer had been obscene, but at the end of the day, the guy had wasted his own time. Generous figures or not, even in the midst of a nasty rough patch, the Churches would never sell. Three C had faced the Depression and the recent recession, a thousand fluctuations of the market, the encroaching threat of foreign-raised beef, dry season upon record dry season, and come out on top through it all. Granted, the last year had been brutal, and the books hadn’t looked this grim in a decade or more. But that was the nature of the beast, and it’d take a real blow to ruin them. A multiyear drought, a sustained drop in the market. They might currently be one of the biggest businesses in Brush County, but they were still modest compared to the industrial operations. They weren’t invincible, but they also weren’t going anyplace, thanks very much. He and his dad had shared a good eye roll at the rep’s expense after he’d been seen to the door.

Though his dad had seemed to shrug it off as bluster and brass, Miah didn’t shake his own feelings so readily. He felt upended, if he was honest, and unsettled by the guy’s pitch. There’d been something edgy behind the slick sales-speak, something jagged and a touch threatening. Then again, that could be fatigue making him paranoid. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately, between the business worries and the Ware situation.

That little interruption had turned Miah’s sit-down lunch plans into a hasty scarfing of leftovers at the kitchen sink. He’d meant to grab something between finishing up the day’s work and going out on a patrol, but then one of the hands had hurt herself and been driven to the clinic by yet another worker, so he’d filled in, helping the others get the horses bedded down for the night. He still smelled like the stables now, in fact, and a hot shower was next on his priority list, after food.

He pocketed his keys and headed for the front steps. The porch light came on when he triggered the sensor, and he froze at the sound of scuffing, just around the edge of the house.

That was no animal. That noise was shoes on gravel, no mistaking it.

He slid his rifle around, perched it on his shoulder. No need to cock the thing just yet—could be a ranch hand or just his dad puttering. “Who’s there?” he called, edging back down the steps.

No words answered him, but instead the thumping of feet on dirt.

He bellowed “King!” and took off running himself.

It was a man—already half-lost to the dark, but definitely a man—tallish, dressed in black, face obscured by a ski mask. He all but hurdled the low wooden fence that enclosed the front lot, boots pounding down the highway shoulder.

“Stop!”

If anything, the guy ran faster. He had a fifty-pace lead or more, and Miah wasn’t gaining any ground, rifle banging him in the ribs.

“Stop or I sic my goddamn dog on you!”

The guy kept on running, and Miah couldn’t risk slowing down long enough to fire a warning shot.

In the distance, taillights broke the darkness. Shit. There were no streetlights out here, but the glow from the lot was just strong enough to reach the bumper. Though son of a bitch—the license plate was nothing but flat gray. Fucking duct tape.

The truck peeled away and screamed off westward, back toward town. Miah scrabbled to a halt, shouldered the .22 again, but his dog shot out from behind him. He couldn’t risk it. His entire body was heaving from the sprint, anyhow. He slung the rifle back around his body and swore, then whistled.

King came trotting over. “That’ll do, girl. Bit too slow, sadly.” They walked back toward the house.

“Miah?” It was his mother, calling from the porch.

“Yeah. Hang on.” The winter air burned his rushing lungs, and the adrenaline was pulsing through his head, bringing an ache to his temples.

“What was all that yelling?” she asked as he hopped the fence.

“There was somebody skulking around the side of the house.”

“What?”

“A man. I chased him, but he got away. Had a truck parked down the road.”

Her eyes widened. “A truck? A black one?”

“Maybe. Tough to tell, but dark, in any case. Why?”

“Shit.” She wasn’t usually one to curse. “Abilene’s ex—he drives a black truck. Casey had a run-in with him this evening. He just said.”

Shit indeed.

“Guess he found out where she’s staying.” Miah mounted the front steps. His mom turned for the door, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She turned back around.

“You think we should tell her?” he asked.

She glanced down the road, worry creasing her brow. “Better she be scared than left in the dark.”

He nodded. “Goddamn shame, though—she barely gets any sleep as it is.”

“Tell your dad to turn the security cameras back on.” Three C had about two dozen of them positioned around the house and stables and barns, as well as out on the range, for catching burglars and poachers alike. They rarely kept the ones near the buildings on. Waste of electricity and computer space; their threats usually came from four-legged predators, and more recently from those suspected drug dealers, two demographics who preferred the vast anonymity of the badlands.

“Good idea.”

“Shall I talk to her?” his mom asked.

He shook his head. “Nah, I can. Ought to describe what I saw, anyhow. Ask Case if the truck sounds like Ware’s.”

She propped the door wide and he passed by, stepping inside. First things first, he stowed his rifle and got his dad up to speed, then went to the kitchen, where his mom was finishing loading the washer.

“You know where Abilene is?” he asked, shutting the fridge and twisting open a longneck. Christ knew he could stand a drink just now. He’d been hoping to cap off a long-ass day in front of the fire, put his feet up, nurse this beer with nothing on his mind except how good his bed would feel under his achy back. It was one drama after another today.

“Den,” she said.

“Thanks.”

He’d expected to find Casey there with her and to find the both of them on high alert from the shouting, but instead it was just Abilene, sitting cross-legged on the couch. The baby was nestled on a blanket between her thighs, nursing a bottle of its own. She looked up and smiled. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” He sat on the coffee table, facing her. “You hear all that commotion just now?”

Her brow furrowed. “No. What happened?”

“Where’s Case?”

“Upstairs bathroom.”

The man appeared just then, on the landing above.

“We have a little situation,” Miah told the both of them.

Casey’s expression darkened and he jogged down the steps. “What do you mean?”

“Ware was just here.”

His blue eyes widened, hands curling into fists at his sides. “What?”

“I didn’t talk to him—didn’t even see his face. But somebody was creeping around the side of the house when I pulled up. I chased the guy but couldn’t catch him. He was white—I saw his hands when he jumped the fence. And he was driving a truck with the plate taped over.”

“Black truck?” Casey asked. “A Ram, maybe? I ran into him this afternoon, but I was too busy memorizing his plate number to catch the make. Sounds like I shouldn’t have bothered.”

“It was dark, for sure. Older. Not a Ford—that’s all I could tell you.”

“I can’t remember what brand it was,” Abilene said. “But it wasn’t new. And it wasn’t big, not like your truck,” she said to Miah.

“This was midsized. Probably mid-nineties.”

“Who the fuck else is it going to be?” Casey asked grimly, then paused, glancing at the baby. “Sorry.”

“He’d parked a hundred or more yards down the highway,” Miah went on. “By the time I ran back to my truck and got it on the road, he’d have gotten far enough to disappear down the residential streets. I just wish I could’ve taken a shot at his tires, but my dog was in the way.” He sighed, pissed and tired and frustrated, and took a drink deep enough to drain half his bottle.