Kade ran a hand over the palomino’s golden neck. “You just keep doing what you’re doing, and I’m sure she will be.”

While the hands washed up for supper, Kade walked Ellie back to the house. The aroma of baked ham and biscuits filled the kitchen. Maria and her new assistant, her cousin Dolores, were bustling around, their movements not quite in sync. Learning each other’s routines took time. As Dolores hurried over to set the table, she bumped into Kade, and her cheeks reddened.

“Please excuse me, Señor Kade.” She was a year younger than Maria, round-faced and a little plump, with a sweet disposition. Kade liked her.

“It’s just Kade, Dolores, and we’ll get out of your way till supper’s ready.”

“All right . . . Kade.”

Kade felt the pull of a smile as he urged Ellie out the door toward the living room. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I could use a drink.”

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of white wine,” Ellie said as they walked into the high-ceilinged room that didn’t get used nearly enough.

Kade went over to the cedar-slab bar, pulled a chilled bottle out of the under-counter fridge, and poured a glass, then took down a heavy, crystal rocks glass, added ice, and poured himself a whiskey, Stranahan’s Rocky Mountain single malt.

The first sip spread the burn out through his limbs, relieving some of the tension. They carried their drinks over to the sofa and sat down on the burgundy leather. As Ellie took a sip of wine, Kade noticed the faint worry lines across her forehead.

“Something’s going on in that head of yours.” He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “What is it?”

Ellie sighed. “I’m afraid to say it out loud. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

She set her wineglass down on the coffee table. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Kade just waited.

“Coffee Springs is a rural community, right? Aside from what happened to Heather, murder doesn’t commonly occur around here.”

“Couple of rustlers were hanged back in the Wild West days, but that was over a hundred years ago.”

“And yet we have two dead men in Routt County—Frank Keller and Earl Dunstan, murdered about thirty miles from here, just across the county line. Eight years ago, Heather was murdered, and now Barbara Meeks, who may have been killed by the same guy who killed Heather. Four people dead, Kade. I keep asking myself why they all have some connection—no matter how remote—to you.”

Kade frowned. “Wait a minute. You think Keller, Dunstan, and the dead women are connected? Tell me how it fits together.”