Nate. Delores Fossen

for her usual power-attorney facade.

      “Wesley Dent,” Nate verified, making her client’s name sound like profanity. “He’s a gold digger, and I believe he murdered his wife.”

      Darcy shook her head and continued to keep watch in case she spotted another black van. She also glanced at the odometer, remembering to keep her hair away from Nate’s arm. Twenty-five miles to go.

      “I won’t deny the gold-digging part,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure he killed his wife.”

      Though it did look bad for Dent.

      A starving artist, Dent had married Sandra Frasier, who wasn’t just a multimillionaire heiress but was twenty-five years his senior. And apparently she often resorted to public humiliation when it came to her boy-toy husband, who was still two years shy of his thirtieth birthday. Just days before what would have been their first wedding anniversary, Sandra had humiliated Dent in public at Dent’s art show.

      A day after that, she had received a lethal dose of insulin.

      “Sandra was diabetic,” Darcy continued, though she really didn’t want to have this conversation. Twenty-four miles to go. “So, it’s possible this was a suicide. Her husband even said she wrote about suicide in her diary.” But her death certainly hadn’t been accidental because the amount of insulin was quadruple what she would have normally taken.

      “There was no suicide note,” Nate challenged. “No sign of this so-called diary, either.”

      But that didn’t mean the diary didn’t exist. Dent had told her that his wife kept it under lock and key, so maybe she’d moved it so that no one would be able to read her intimate thoughts.

      “The husband is often guilty in situations like this,” Nate went on. He had such a hard grip on the steering wheel that his knuckles were white. “And I think Dent could have orchestrated this kidnapping to force me to stop the investigation. I’m within days of arresting his sorry butt for murder.”

      Darcy wished the pain in her head would ease up a little so she could think straighter. “There are other suspects,” she reminded him.

      “Yeah, the dead woman’s ex-husband and her son, but neither has as strong a motive as Dent.”

      “Maybe,” Darcy conceded. Another glance at the odometer. Twenty-three miles between the ranch and them. “But if Dent masterminded this kidnapping to stop the investigation, then why take Noah? I’m his lawyer, the one person who could possibly prevent him from being arrested.”

      Nate shook his head, cursed again. “Maybe he thinks if he has your son that you’ll put pressure on me to cooperate.”

      She opened her mouth to argue, but that kind of fight just wasn’t in her. Besides, there was a chance that Nate could be right.

      In some ways it would be better if he was.

      After all, if Dent took the children, then he would keep them safe because he would use them to make a deal. Darcy was good at deals. And she would bargain with the devil himself if it meant getting her son back.

      Nate didn’t tack anything else on to his speculations about Dent, and the silence closed in around them. Except it wasn’t just an ordinary silence. It was the calm before the storm because Darcy knew what was coming next.

      “Charles Brennan,” she tossed out there since she knew Nate had already thought of the man. Over a year ago Brennan had hired the triggerman who’d murdered Nate’s wife.

      “Yeah,” Nate mumbled. “Any chance he’s behind this?”

      Well, Brennan was dead, but she didn’t have to remind Nate of that. Because Nate had been the one to kill Brennan in a shoot-out after the man had taken a deputy hostage.

      “Brennan made me executor of his estate,” Darcy volunteered. “I’ve gone through his files and financials, and there is no proof he left any postmortem instructions that had anything to do with you. Or me, for that matter.”

      “You’re sure?” Nate pressed.

      “Yes.” As sure as she could be, anyway, when it came to a monster like Brennan.

      Nate made a sharp sound that clipped from his throat. It was the sound of pure disapproval. “Brennan was a cold-blooded killer, and you defended him.”

      She had. And two months ago she would have argued that it was her duty to provide representation, but that was before her client had nearly killed a deputy sheriff, Nate and heaven knows how many others.

      Darcy kept watch out the window. She didn’t want to look at Nate because she didn’t want him to see the hurt that was in her eyes. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me feel worse than I already do,” she let him know.

      Silence again from Nate, and Darcy risked touching him so she could lean in and see the mileage. Just under twenty miles to go. Still an eternity.

      Nate’s cell buzzed. “It’s Kade,” he said and flipped open the phone.

      Just like that, both the dread and the hope grabbed her by the throat. She moved closer, until she was shoulder to shoulder with Nate. Darcy no longer cared about the touching risk. She had to know what Kade was saying.

      “I’m on the side of the hill with a good binocular view of the Lost Appaloosa,” Kade explained. “And I have good news and bad.”

      Oh, mercy. She wasn’t sure she could handle it if something had happened to the children. Nate’s deep breath let her know he felt the same.

      “The good news—there’s a black van parked on the side of the main house,” Kade continued. “Something tells me this one isn’t a decoy.”

      “How do you know?” Darcy asked before Nate could. She wanted to believe that was good news, but she wasn’t sure. “Do you see the children?”

      “No sign of the children,” Kade told them. His voice was practically a whisper, but even the low volume couldn’t conceal his concern.

      Kade paused. “Nate, call Grayson and the others and tell them to get out here right away. Because the bad news is—there are at least a half-dozen armed guards surrounding the place.”