“Callie’s young, right?”

“Not quite twenty-one. She dropped out of college last year and took a job as a server in a café called the Hummingbird, down in the LoDo district, but she quit that, too. I guess she met this minister in the café, and he convinced her to visit for a few days to check out the compound where he preaches. A few days turned into a few weeks and now nearly two months.”

“I think her mom has a right to be worried.”

“Maybe. Callie’s always been irresponsible. She and her mother don’t get along very well, and ever since my dad died, she’s been acting out.”

“So what’s your plan?” Edge asked.

“I want to talk to Margaret, see what information I can get, then I’m driving out to Blancha Springs. The compound is a few miles out of town.”

“That’s a helluva drive. At least three hours from the city, out in the middle of nowhere. If there’s a problem, you might need backup. How about I go with you?”

Skye opened her mouth to say no. Clearly, she didn’t want him going along. Edge had a hunch she felt the same attraction he did but was determined to ignore it.

“We’re friends, Skye. Be smart. Let me go with you—at least until you know what you’re facing.”

Skye released a slow breath. “You could be right. If you’re sure you have time, I’ll meet you here at eight tomorrow morning, and we’ll drive over to my stepmother’s house. I’ll know more after I talk to her.”

“I’ll be here. In the meantime, you want to go with Trace and me over to the Goat for a beer?”

Skye shook her head. A few stands of dark silky hair had managed to escape and slide tantalizingly across her cheek. Edge wanted to pull off the elastic band and run his fingers through the heavy mass, spread it out around that pretty face. His blood headed south. Damn.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Skye said. “I’ve still got some work to do. Thanks anyway.”

“Next time.” Edge ignored a sliver of disappointment. Catching up with Trace, he grabbed his black leather jacket off the back of his chair, shrugged it on, and walked out of the office.

Today’s late September weather was windy, the temperature cool, but the sky was clear, the high mountain peaks surrounding Denver tipped with the first light flutters of snow. Edge and Trace headed over to the Fainting Goat, which was already packed, and had a burger and a couple of beers; then Edge headed home.

His newly acquired tenth-floor apartment on Acoma Street gave him a view of the city and was only a little over a block from the office. A lady friend had helped him pick out furniture, a comfortable burgundy leather sofa and chairs, dark wood tables, dark red and black Indian-print barstools for the counter in front of the open galley kitchen, and a Pendleton wool blanket and pillows for his king-size bed. He liked that everything he needed was in walking distance.