Mountain Heiress. Cassie Miles

When she’d wrapped her arms around Charlotte, a flicker of envy had gone through him. He’d been keeping an eye on sweet little Charlotte for the past month and had developed an interest in her, even though the girl was as plain as a female sage grouse.

      Having another person at the Roost would make his search more complicated, and time was running out. He needed a new tactic, needed to be smarter. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that Michelle had hidden what he was looking for. At this point, he didn’t care as much about the money as he did about the potential prison time. He wouldn’t let himself be locked away. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His knit cap was itchy on his ears. He wasn’t going to let anyone take away the expensive goodies he’d been buying for himself. He’d taken the risk and deserved those things.

      Had that old bitch Michelle told Charlotte where she’d hidden her secrets? Had she left instructions for the new girl?

      He shifted his scope and focused on Zach Sheffield. If the neighbor decided to get involved with these women, it was going to be trouble. Zach liked to pretend that he was upright and honest—a rodeo hero and a role model. But there was a time, not so very long ago, when he’d been desperate and angry, prone to lashing out first and asking questions later.

      As the man in black watched, his finger twitched on the trigger. Life would be easier if he eliminated these obstacles. Pop, pop, pop. Three shots. Three dead bodies. Sheriff Burton would never figure out who did it.

      Chapter Four

      The next morning when Gabby awoke, sunshine was pouring through the two bedroom windows, assaulting her with blinding force. With a groan, she curled into a fetal position and covered her face with one of the down pillows on her queen-size bed. What was the deal with the light in Colorado? Either it was pitch-dark or glaring like a laser.

      “Nature,” she grumbled into her pillow.

      These annoying variances in the weather were natural phenomena—something you had to live with when you were in the mountains. In the city, the temperature wasn’t consistent, but you didn’t have to deal with the ups and downs. Life could be arranged to minimize your time outdoors. You could stay inside for days and survive by ordering pizza and Chinese, two options that probably weren’t available at the Roost. No Chinese? It took a moment for that loss to sink into her early morning consciousness. No crispy egg rolls. No General Tso’s chicken.

      Another groan harmonized with a growl from her stomach. Eating nothing but her own cooking was a miserable thought. Could she live with that? Did she want to? Gabby needed to make a decision about whether she wanted to stay in Colorado or go back to the place she still considered home.

      Peeling back the corner of the pillow, she checked her wristwatch. Already after nine o’clock? No, wait, her watch was still set on Eastern Time. In Brooklyn, it was nine and the corner bakery would already be running low on her favorite almond muffins and the kids would be dashing down the sidewalks to school and the commuters would be waiting to catch the D train.

      Here, in the middle of nowhere, the time was fifteen minutes past seven, and it was unbelievably quiet. Nobody was rushing anywhere. Cell phones weren’t ringing. The only tweeting came from the birds outside the window.

      She’d heard somewhere that country people were early risers but hoped that Charlotte didn’t follow that code. They hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly midnight after dragging her suitcases and boxes into this upstairs bedroom at the top of the stairs. Charlotte had called this one of the guest rooms, but the space was large enough for a master suite. In addition to the queen-size brass bed, there was a dresser and a standing wardrobe, both of which were painted a deep coral and decorated with faux antiquing. The hand-stitched quilt on the bed used some of the coral mixed with greens and yellows in a zigzag pattern. The walls were a clean, crisp white with a stucco finish. It was a pleasant room, homey but not cluttered.

      Opposite her bed, above the dresser was a large canvas that she suspected had been done by her great-aunt. The painting showed a bedroom where a bare-legged girl with her hair falling forward to cover her face sat reading a book. She was reflected in a standing mirror that made her smaller and that mirror was reflected in another and another until the girl vanished.

      The style was fascinating, realistic but also surreal. Gabby knew quite a bit about fabric and textile, but she wasn’t an art expert. Her great-aunt’s work made her think of what might happen if Norman Rockwell hooked up with Salvador Dali. The subject matter of this picture was more interesting to her. It could be an allegory of going deeper and deeper inside yourself until you completely disappear. Or maybe the other way around, starting from nothing and getting bigger and bigger. Either way, the painting gave a sense of secrecy as though there was more than met the eye.

      In the somewhat sketchy history of the Rousseau family, Great-Aunt Michelle was a woman of mystery. There must have been an important reason why she left Brooklyn and moved West, but Gabby didn’t know what it was. When she had asked her other great-aunt—Michelle’s sister—the response was always evasive. If she stayed at the Roost, Gabby wanted to uncover those family secrets. If she stayed...

      She tossed the quilt aside, got out of bed and went to the window that looked down on the bumpy driveway leading to the house. A flash of sunlight glinted off the roof of her little car, and she offered up a quick prayer to the Universe that it would start up with no problem this morning. Last night, there had been a lot of sputtering and clunking, and she really needed to take the car in for servicing.

      Beyond the road that bisected Michelle’s property and Zach’s ranch, she saw the evil barbed wire fence that attacked her last night. His cozy house was in the distance, but he was already out and about, riding across the field on a black horse with a coat that glistened as though it had been polished with lacquer.

      Though Gabby had never been a big fan of Westerns, she was mesmerized by the vision of a broad-shouldered, long-legged, masculine cowboy in a black hat and denim jacket. Beyond gorgeous, he was iconic and, at the same time, utterly original. He dismounted near the place where she’d gotten tangled up last night and sauntered to the fence with a cool, loose-limbed stride. When he pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked toward the house, she stepped back behind the curtain so he wouldn’t see her staring.

      Their meeting last night hadn’t been under the best of circumstances, and he certainly hadn’t done anything since then to make her think he was glad to see her. But she’d sensed chemistry between them. Maybe she and Zach would never have a relationship, but she could easily imagine some kissing in their future. Peeking around the edge of the curtain, she watched him walk back toward his horse. At this distance, she couldn’t really judge the way he looked from behind, but she’d noticed last night and he was fine. She wouldn’t mind sticking around at the Roost long enough to see where things with Zach might go.

      There was a tap on her bedroom door. Charlotte poked her head inside. “Glad you’re up. I was thinking about breakfast.”

      “Usually I just have coffee.”

      She came all the way into the room. “That’s a real pretty nightgown.”

      “I love fancy lingerie.” Gabby ran her fingers along the flowing lines of her lavender satin chemise with the ivory yoke. “A woman should feel glamorous at least once a day, even if she’s alone in bed. And nightwear is one of the easiest things to make.”

      “You made that?”

      “I had some scraps left over from a prom dress I did for one of the girls in the neighborhood. I stitched it together and voila!” She came toward Charlotte whose long hair was fastened in two tight braids that made her look twelve years old. “I could make something for you.”

      “It’s not practical. That silky material isn’t warm.”

      “Which is why you have a robe.” From the rail at the end of the bed, she picked up a long black satin kimono that she’d embroidered with silver roses and slipped it over her chemise. “I saw your nightgown last night—very Little House on the Prairie. You might like to try something different,