“Not in the dark I’m not. Remember Devil’s Pass? Roy will expect me to grab some chow and bunk in the staff area tonight as usual. I’ll head out in the morning.”

“‘As usual’? Do you come here often?”

Bram climbed up onto the seat before answering. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“And you didn’t answer my question.”

Chapter 3

The resort was cradled in an emerald-green alpine meadow surrounded by rugged mountains. The road from the outside world split the resort down the middle, ending in the distance at the barn, with attached corrals and a field of grazing horses. I crossed the road as I walked the short distance between my cabin and the lodge. Left of the sprawling building, a dense forest of fragrant cedars bordered a stream. Widely spaced trees with pine needle–covered paths gave the area a park-like feel.

I expected the dogs would settle down at the cabin and stay with their food dishes, but apparently they preferred staying with the source of the kibble. Both dogs trailed me.

Bram drove the wagon to the barn, disappearing inside. I would have rather gone to the barn and stayed with the horses. I was still far more comfortable around critters than people. Instead, I stuffed my hands into my pockets and continued to the lodge. When I told the dogs to stay outside, Holly lay down by the door and Maverick paced. Entering, I found myself in a generous room with the guests from Sam’s Mercantile talking and sipping drinks. Most had changed into what they considered casual attire, though Gucci polo shirts in the eight-hundred-dollar range seemed hardly typical of Idaho ranchers. Pools of golden light from oil lamps scattered around the room created an intimate feel in spite of the soaring ceiling. The river-stone fireplace on my left held a crackling fire ringed by a set of cowhide sofas. On one side of the room, french doors opened to a registration desk and gift shop. On the opposite side was a matching set of doors leading to a dining hall. A large map of the area hung on the wall.

The wrangler who’d picked up the guests—William? Waylon? No, Wyatt—held a tray of glasses and moved among the guests. Though looking as if he stepped out of a roughstock rodeo event—bronc or bull riding—he seemed equally at home serving drinks. He spotted me and immediately approached.

“See you made it, Miz Graham. Something to drink?” He held out his tray. On his right hand, tattooed between thumb and forefinger, was a series of five dots.

I knew that pattern. The four dots forming a square represented prison walls. The dot in the middle was the prisoner.

I had one myself, albeit tattooed on my heart.

When I looked up, Wyatt was staring at me. A vein throbbed in his temple.