Lucky Shot. B.J. Daniels

      But she hadn’t expected him to come in the back way accusing her of stealing his camera and laptop with the photos of her mother. If she’d known how easy it would have been, she might have considered setting him up just for the fun of it, though.

      No, she had expected him to come through the front door and make a scene once the gallery opened. She’d been prepared to threaten to call the police on him.

      But he’d surprised her in more ways than one. Not many men did that. So she’d let him have his say, waiting to see what his game was. She’d even found the man somewhat amusing at first, but now he was starting to irritate her.

      “I’ll have you know I take care of myself.”

      “Is that right? You pay for that fancy SUV you drive?” He laughed. “I didn’t think so. Now about my camera—”

      “If you think I’m going to replace your camera— What are you doing?” she demanded as he pulled out his cell phone and keyed in three numbers. She’d planned to threaten to call the police, but she wouldn’t have done it because she didn’t want the hassle or the publicity.

      “Calling the cops.”

      “They’ll arrest you for breaking in to the gallery.” She heard the 911 operator answer. He was calling her bluff. He knew she didn’t want the police involved.

      “I’d like to report—”

      “Fine,” she snapped.

      He said, “Sorry, my mistake,” into the phone and pocketed it again. He eyed her, waiting.

      “But I don’t have your camera or your laptop.”

      He studied her for a long moment. “Okay, if you want to play it that way, then what do you have to offer me?” he asked as he leaned against the counter where she’d been working.

      She gritted her teeth. Hadn’t she suspected that he hadn’t really lost his camera or laptop and that he was playing her? She no longer found him amusing. It was time to call a halt to this.

      “Even though I had nothing to do with the loss of your camera or laptop, I’ll write you a check for new ones just to get rid of you.”

      He shook his head slowly, his gaze lingering on her long enough that she could feel heat color her cheeks. He made her feel naked, as if he could see her the way no one else could. “My camera, my laptop, my photos. That’s the only deal on the table, unless you have something more to offer.”

      “I just offered you money!”

      He shook his head, his gaze warm on her.

      She felt her cheeks flush as she realized what he was suggesting. “I have nothing more to offer you.”

      He raised a brow, shoved off the counter and closed the distance between them. “Either I get my camera back, or you’re going to have to make it up to me in another way.” He was close, too close, but it wasn’t fear he evoked. She could smell the scent of freshly showered soap on him. Her gaze went from his blue eyes to his lips and the slight smirk there. The man was so cocky, so arrogant, so sure of the effect he was having on her.

      As he brushed his fingertips over her cheek, she felt a tingle before she slapped his hand away. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you—”

      “I said something that I would like better,” he said.

      Better than sleeping with her? “You really are a bastard.”

      He shook his head. “Untrue. Both my parents were married and to each other.”

      “You’re enjoying this.”

      His smile belied his words. “It’s purely business, I assure you. But I appreciate you considering sleeping with me.”

      She fought the urge to slap his handsome face. “I never—”

      “I’m sure you have never,” he said. “But we can deal with that later. Right now, I suggest we discuss this over breakfast. I’m starved.” He moved away, finally giving her breathing room. “You’re buying.”

      “I don’t think so.” She was trembling inside, her stomach doing slow somersaults. The man threw her off balance, and he knew it. That made it even worse. She took a couple of deep breaths, shocked that some reporter could get this kind of primitive response from her.

      Finally she turned to face him. He was going through her photos with an apparent critical eye. She wanted to grab them from him. The last thing she needed was a critique from him about her art.

      “Call the police.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you think you can blackmail me—”

      “These are good, really,” he said, turning to look at her as if surprised. “You have a good eye.”

      She hated how pleased she was but quickly mentally shook herself. What did he know about photography anyway? Just because he carried around a camera and took underhanded snapshots of people who didn’t want their photos taken...

      “I’d hoped we could discuss this over pancakes,” he said as he stepped away from her photos. “I know something about your mother that you’re going to want to hear before you see it in the media.”

      “There is nothing you can tell me that I would—”

      “Your mother isn’t just lying about the past twenty-two years. She’s been lying since the get-go, and I can prove it.” He smiled. “But first I want breakfast. I’m starved.”

      * * *

      LYNETTE “NETTIE” CURRY found her husband out by the barn, talking to his crows. The crows, a long line of them, teetered on the phone line, cawing down occasionally as if conversing.

      “Am I interrupting, Frank?” she asked.

      Her husband, the long-time sheriff in Sweet Grass County, Montana, laughed. He was a big man with graying blond hair, a drooping, old-timey gunfighter mustache and bright blue eyes. She’d been in love with him for more than fifty years and often still couldn’t believe that they’d finally found their way back to each other.

      The crows cawed down at her as if in greeting. Ask Frank and he’d report that’s exactly what they were saying. He’d always been fascinated with the birds and clearly loved them. But even as skeptical as she’d been when she’d first moved in, Nettie now believed that they were equally as fond of him.

      “I found something I thought might interest you,” she said, flapping the papers she’d printed off the computer. “It’s about that tattoo. The one on Sarah Hamilton’s behind. I might know what it means.”

      She saw that she had his attention. Frank had been trying to solve the mystery of not only Sarah’s miraculous and oddly timed return from the dead, but also her missing twenty-two years. The fifty-eight-year-old woman hadn’t just secretly parachuted back into the county, she’d come with no memory of where she’d been, what she’d been or why she was back now. At least that was her story.

      All of it, according to Frank, added up to trouble. And that was before he’d found out about the strange tattoo Sarah Hamilton had gotten on her butt cheek during those missing years.

      Frank walked her back to the porch and waited until they’d both sat down before he asked what she’d found.

      “We agreed that the tattoo appears to be a pendulum that left a circular pattern beneath its point,” she said and picked up papers she’d printed out from the computer. She began to read what she’d discovered. “‘There is nothing new about pendulums since they date back eight thousand years. While often associated with predicting the future, they were used by the Egyptians four thousand years ago for spiritual healing with the energy of that particular pendulum. Not all pendulums have the same energy.’”

      When she looked up from her papers, Frank looked about to roll his eyes.

      “Bear