“I don’t know. Callie’s over eighteen. She’s an adult. She can do whatever she wishes. On the other hand, I don’t like this idea that Henson is keeping her isolated from her family.”

“Neither do I.” Edge pulled away from the curb and headed for the interstate. “It’s a three-hour drive out to Blancha Springs. If we stop for lunch, it’ll be afternoon by the time we get there. I’ve got my go-bag in the trunk.”

Skye’s glance went to his across the console. “You think we’ll need to stay overnight?”

“No idea. But I’d rather stay than have to drive back and forth.”

“You’re right. Stop at my place, and I’ll grab my bag. We can head out from there.”

He signaled to change lanes and hit the gas to pass a slow-moving vehicle. “Remember to bring your Glock.”

“Seriously? The guy’s a preacher.”

Edge made no comment, just cast her a sideways glance.

“I get it. Always better to be prepared.” It was Edge Logan’s motto. She had learned that in Mexico. Until they knew what was going on, those were words to remember.

CHAPTER THREE

HAVING SKIPPED BREAKFAST, EDGE SUGGESTED THEY HIT A DRIVE-THROUGH in Denver for a quick snack, then eat a late lunch in Blancha Springs, where they might be able to find out a little about the group who called themselves the Children of the Sun.

Driving southwest out of Denver on US 285, they traveled along a road winding through grassy valleys dotted with ranches and farms and small rural communities. Rolling forested hills rose up along the sides of the valley and became distant peaks.

The sky was a clear cerulean blue, and there was only a light breeze moving over the land. It was drier and flatter as Edge drove closer to Blancha Springs, but there were plenty of pine-covered mountains surrounding the valley floor.

The San Isabel National Forest reached heights over 14,000 feet, and the route was scenic enough to hold Skye’s attention, though she managed to keep an eye on his driving—the reason he chose not to go more than a few miles over the speed limit.

Edge smiled to think he still made the hundred-fifty-mile journey in a little over two hours.

“There isn’t much here,” Skye said, glancing around as they pulled into the tiny town at the intersection of 285 and Highway 50, the road leading up to the Monarch Mountain ski area.

“Salida is less than ten miles away. It’s a popular tourist destination. Got restaurants, motels, whatever you can’t find in Blancha Springs.” Edge slowed the sports car as he spotted a sign above a small café.

“I’m ready for lunch,” he said. “That biscuit-and-egg wasn’t much more than a placeholder. How about we stop over there at the Hungry Bear? Maybe someone will know something about Daniel Henson or the Children of the Sun.”

“Good idea. Looks like a locals’ eatery.”

There were a couple of pickups and a big Dodge dually hitched to a horse trailer in the lot. Edge pulled in and parked beside the rig. He climbed out, and so did Skye, their shoes crunching on gravel as they crossed to the café.