He patted his pockets, had the keys, his cell phone, a flashlight and his pistol, a Roger LCP, a lightweight automatic that was forever with him. All set. “Let’s go,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder to his boat where the dog he’d inherited sat at attention, ears cocked, waiting for a command. Fender had been a gift from Darla, a pure bred blue tick heeler if the previous owner were to be believed. But that was before Darla had left suddenly, slamming the door behind her while screaming, “Don’t you ever call me again, you fuckin’ loser! And you can keep the damned dog.”

He had. Kept the dog, that was. And yeah, he’d never phoned or texted again. Nor had she tried to contact him. Which was just fine.

Today, bringing the heeler along may have been a mistake. Sleek coat glistening in the sun, Fender leapt over the edge of the boat to land in the shallows and followed as Bronco took off, running, his boots sinking into the thick mud. Fleet-ingly Bronco remembered playing on the grounds as a child, fishing, catching snakes and bullfrogs, skipping stones across the pond, watching dragonflies skim the surface, their wings crackling, sunlight catching on their iridescent bodies. He’d run this path often as a kid, but it had been years since he’d taken out his father’s fishing boat or stole some of his Camel straights, or hid a six pack in the old culvert. Back then, those had been the worst of his sins.

Now, of course, there were others.

More than he wanted to count.

Now the stakes were a damned sight higher than pissing off his old man and risking Jasper Craven’s considerable wrath. But he wouldn’t dwell on that now, couldn’t dare thinking about his run-ins with the law. Just the thought of prison, of being hauled back to a cement walled cell made his skin crawl. He couldn’t go back there. Wouldn’t.

And yet, here he was. Trespassing. Tempting fate. Intending to break into the Beaumont mansion where his grandfather had once been caretaker and had sworn the old lady who had lived there had secreted a fortune. His blood ran hotter at the thought of it. Wynn Cravens had admitted he’d seen the rare gold and silver coins, some dating back to the Civil War along with a cache of jewels and silver certificates and thousands of dollars that old Beulah Beaumont had secreted in the basement of the once-grand home. Beulah had been mad as a hatter, Gramps had claimed, but he’d sworn the valuables were there–viewed with his own eyes.

Bronco was about to find out.

And change his life.

He grinned at the thought.

No time to lose.

Sunlight was already beginning to fade.