“Sure you do. This is not how you spend your mornings or your evenings.” She reached for his hand, turning it over to expose the thick callouses. “This time of the morning you’d be working if it wasn’t for me. So why aren’t you? I saw the look on your face. You were upset to see the way I was dressed this morning. If this is about keeping me away from that house—”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, frowning as he pulled his hand back. “I don’t like the idea of you going back there by yourself.”

“That’s sweet, but what does your boss say about you missing work to babysit me?”

He hesitated just a little too long.

“What?”

“I wasn’t completely honest with you about my job. Trails West Ranch is a family-owned operation.”

“And you’re one of the family.” She couldn’t be angry with him, given that she hadn’t originally been completely honest about the businesses she’d started with Renada.

“We’re interested in buying your property if you decide to sell it.”

“So that’s it.” What had she thought? That he might be interested in her?

“Not entirely,” he said, but she was already on her feet.

“You’re more than welcome to make an offer when I sell the land. I’ll let you know. Thanks for breakfast. No, please, stay and enjoy your coffee. I’d prefer to walk.”

“Dulcie—”

The door slammed behind her. “Handled that well,” she muttered under her breath, angry with herself for making it so obvious how much that had hurt.

Jolene collected the short-story assignments herself, counting them as she went. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. Her thoughts kept circling around her conspiracy theory about Laura Beaumont’s murder.

Nor did it help to find Titus waiting for her this morning after someone had been in the schoolhouse and gone through the drawer with the stories in it.

When Jolene had gotten back to Old Town Whitehorse last night, she’d been spooked remembering the note she’d found earlier that night on her windshield. She’d gone through her small house, checking all the windows and doors to make sure they were locked and the closets were free of any intruders.

It had felt silly and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that all this was about more than some aspiring author using her for a free critique of his or her work.

This morning she’d finally admitted her worse fear—that Laura Beaumont’s killer had resurfaced, if he’d ever left to begin with, and now he was writing his story just for her.

Suddenly she stopped in the middle of her classroom and counted the short-story assignments she’d collected. There were only five.

She counted them again. Just as she’d feared, the murder story wasn’t among them.