Eli was thankful that she’d returned to the Creek, for sure. Never mind that she barely gave him the proverbial time of day, probably still carried a torch for the man she’d left behind in Boston. But she was here now, in Painted Pony Creek, Montana, running her parents’ popular restaurant and bar, Bailey’s.

And speaking of Bailey’s...

He’d agreed—a little reluctantly—to meet his friends there for coffee and a few rounds of good old-fashioned bullshit.

Eli checked his watch. It was one of those jazzy Dick Tracy gizmos, a Christmas gift from Sara and her kids, Eric and Hayley.

A text bounced off some satellite and came in for a landing with a ping, startling him a little. He wasn’t all that big on modern technology; sometimes wished he’d been born in the days of swinging saloon doors, dance-hall girls, dusty streets and buckboards.

He shook his head, amused.

He was a seasoned officer—he’d stood toe to toe with armed criminals, not just that once, but half a dozen times over the course of his career, but this damn watch made him jumpy. God only knew what it was up to, behind that chunky square face...communicating with aliens, maybe. Or tracking his every move and reporting to—whom? Men in black? The Illuminati? Walmart?

Amos Edwards, one of his deputies, was big on conspiracy theories, and he’d taken a dim view of the device, claiming that “they”—whoever “they” might be—were using all forms of technology to spy on law-abiding citizens as they went about their daily lives. Intimate moments included.

Eli chuckled ruefully. Videos of his moments, intimate or otherwise, would be boring as hell.

He swiped the tiny screen to bring up the text.

It was from Cord. J.P. and I are here. Are you on your way, or out somewhere making Wild Horse County safe for Democracy?

He grinned. Managed to access the tiny virtual keyboard and bumble-fingered out, Be there in five minutes. At least, that was what he’d intended to say. The actual message read as if it had been punched in by a chimpanzee.

Cord and J.P. would just have to decode it for themselves.

BRYNNE BAILEY LIKED SNOW. Didn’t mind driving in the stuff, or shoveling the sidewalk in front of the café. In fact, it was romantic, especially around this time of year.

By February, of course, she’d probably be whistling a different tune. Longing for spring and mooning over seed catalogs and websites pitching tropical vacations.

At a signal from Cord Hollister sitting at a corner table, across from J.P. McCall, Brynne grabbed the coffeepot and headed over. Filled their cups.

The place was quiet, since the midafternoon lull was on. Things would pick up around four, when the early diners would rally for the supper special—tonight, it was meatloaf, spiked with Brynne’s own famous onion jam.