“Touché, brother dear,” she said with a sigh. “Want something to drink?”

“Got a beer?”

“Nope. Bottled water, tomato juice and grapefruit juice.”

“Thanks anyway. Too healthy for me. I think I’ll pass.” He grabbed a handful of peanuts and tossed them one by one into the air, catching them in his mouth—a trick he’d perfected before Katie had even entered grade school.

“Thanks for helping out,” she said over her shoulder.

“Any time.” He was out the door and it slapped shut behind him. Katie rinsed her hands and dried them quickly. Since Josh was at soccer practice, there was just enough time for her to do some research for a story she was investigating—the biggest news story in Bittersweet in years. She found her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder as she breezed out the back door. Someone had to solve the mystery surrounding Isaac Wells’s disappearance and she was determined to get the ball rolling. One way or another, her byline was going to be on the story when it broke.

* * *

Astride a tired sorrel mare, Luke squinted against an ever-lowering sun. His bones ached from over six hours in the saddle, and sweat had collected on his back. Dust covered his hands and face and all he wanted was a cool shower and a cold bottle of beer. As the horse eased down a steep cattle trail, Luke eyed the rough terrain of rocky cliffs, narrow ridges and scraggly stands of oak and madrona. The place wasn’t exactly Eden. Not by a long shot.

He’d spent the afternoon following deer and cattle trails that fanned across the hilly, sun-dried terrain. Thickets of scrawny trees offered some shade, but for the most part the earth was covered with brittle, bleached grass, rocks and a sprinkling of weeds. There wasn’t more than five acres of level land, and not much more of rolling hills. Most of the spread was mountain-goat country, with craggy hillsides, narrow ravines and a slash of a creek that zigzagged its way through the canyon floor.

But it was perfect for trail rides and the small cattle drives he planned to organize as part of the working dude ranch he envisioned. Better yet, the eastern flank of the spread abutted a huge parcel of national forest service land that was open for the type of backpacking, hunting or camping he was going to offer to his clients.

He frowned and wondered if, for the first time in his thirty-six years, he would finally find some peace of mind. “Not a prayer,” he said to the mare, a game little quarter horse who, he’d been told by Max Renfro, the onetime foreman of the place, was named Lizzy.