Mason. Delores Fossen

she owned. “I have to leave,” she repeated.

      “Not a chance. If the fire was arson, there’ll be an investigation. Grayson will need to interview you. There will be paperwork. And I hate paperwork,” he added in a gruff mumble.

      Grayson, the sheriff. Another set of cop’s eyes. Just what she didn’t need right now. But she couldn’t very well break into a run and expect to get away.

      No.

      Her best bet was to pretend to cooperate so she could get out of there as fast as possible. Then she could regroup and figure out what to do.

      Abbie glanced down at her gown to make sure the pendant was still hidden. It was. “Could I maybe borrow some clothes?”

      Mason didn’t jump right on that with a resounding yes, but he finally grumbled one under his breath. What he didn’t do was stop the staring, and he sure as heck didn’t move.

      “For the record, I think you’re lying about something,” he informed her. “Don’t know what yet, but I will find out. And if you set that fire, so help me—”

      “I didn’t set it,” Abbie snarled back.

      “You’re willing to have your hands and clothes analyzed for traces of gasoline or some other accelerant?” he snapped.

      The question stopped her cold. Under normal circumstances, no, she wouldn’t mind. She would even volunteer. But these were far from normal circumstances. She obviously needed to get out of there.

      Still, Abbie nodded. “Of course.”

      Mason stared at her. And stared. Before he finally hitched his shoulder in the direction of the fire and the other ranch buildings. “Come on.”

      Not exactly a warm and fuzzy invitation, but Abbie was thankful they were walking. Not easily and not very quickly. After all, she was barefoot, and Mason seemed to be as uncomfortable as she was.

      “Tell me why you came here,” Mason tossed out. A demand that almost caused her heart to stop. Until he added, “Why did you want to work at the Ryland ranch?”

      “You asked that in the interview,” she reminded him, but Abbie paraphrased the lie to refresh his memory. “You have one of the best track records in the state for cutting horses. I wanted to be part of that.”

      Mercy, it sounded rehearsed.

      He made a gruff sound to indicate he was giving that some thought. Thought smothered with suspicion. “You knew a lot about the ranch before you applied for the job?”

      Abbie nodded—cautiously. The man had a way of completely unnerving her. “Sure. I did a lot of reading about it on the internet.”

      “Like what?” he fired back.

      She swallowed hard and hoped her voice didn’t crack. “Well, I read the ranch has a solid reputation. Your father, Boone Ryland, started it forty years ago when he was in his early twenties.”

      Mason stopped and whirled around so quickly that it startled her. He aimed his index finger at her as if he were about to use it to blast her into another county. Then, he turned and started walking again.

      “My father,” he spat out like profanity, “bought the place. That’s it. He didn’t even have it paid off before he hightailed it out of here, leaving his wife and six sons. A wife who committed suicide because he broke her spirit and cut her to the core. He was a sorry SOB and doesn’t deserve to have his name associated with my ranch that I’ve worked hard to build.”

      The venom stung, even though Abbie had known it was there. She just hadn’t known it would hurt this much to hear it said aloud and aimed at her.

      “You don’t look as much like your father as your brothers do,” she mumbled. And before the last word had left her mouth, Abbie knew it had been a Texas-sized mistake.

      Mason stopped again, so quickly that she ran right into him. It was like hitting a brick wall. An angry one.

      “How the hell would you know that?” Mason demanded.

      Oh, mercy.

      Think, Abbie, think.

      “I saw your father’s picture,” she settled for saying.

      The staring started again. Followed by his glare that even the darkness couldn’t conceal. “What picture?” he asked, enunciating each word.

      Abbie shook her head and started walking. Or rather, she tried to do that. But Mason caught onto her arm and slung her around to face him.

      “What picture?” he repeated.

      She searched for a lie he’d believe, one that could get her out of this nightmare that she’d created. But before she could say anything, Mason’s gaze snapped to the side.

      And he lifted his gun in that direction.

      For one horrifying moment, Abbie thought he was going to turn that gun on her, but his attention was focused on a cluster of trees in the distance. The trees were near the fence that Abbie had fought so hard to reach.

      Mason stepped in front of her so quickly, she hadn’t sensed it coming. He put himself between her and those trees.

      “What’s wrong?” she asked.

      “Shh,” he answered, and like the rest of this conversation, he sounded rough and angry.

      Mason was a lot taller than she was, at least six foot three, so Abbie came up on her toes to look over his shoulder. She saw nothing. Just the darkness and the trees. Still, that nothing got her heart racing.

      Because someone had set that fire.

      In her attempts to evade Mason, Abbie had failed to realize that if Mason wasn’t on to her, if he didn’t know why she’d really come to the ranch, then someone else had set that fire.

      Someone else had tried to scare her. Or worse.

      Hurt her.

      “You think someone’s out there?” she asked.

      But Mason only issued another shh and looked around as if he expected them to be ambushed at any moment.

      Abbie stayed on her toes, although the arches of her feet were cramping. She ignored the pain and watched.

      She didn’t have to watch long.

      There.

      In the center of that tree cluster. She saw the movement. So slight that at first she thought maybe it was a shadow created by the low-hanging branches swaying in the wind. But then, the shadow ducked out of sight.

      “I’m Deputy Mason Ryland,” Mason shouted. “Identify yourself.”

      Silence. Well, except for her own heartbeat drumming in her ears. Who was out there? The person who’d set the fire? Or was this something worse?

      “Get down on the ground,” Mason said to her. “I’m going closer.”

      Abbie wanted to shout no, that it could be too dangerous to do that, but Mason caught onto her arm and pushed her to the ground. “Stay put,” he warned. And he started in the direction of those trees.

      With each step he took, her heart pounded harder, so hard that Abbie thought it might crack her ribs. But she didn’t move, didn’t dare do anything that might distract Mason.

      He kept his gun aimed. Ready. Kept his focus on the trees. When he was about fifteen yards away, there was more movement. Abbie got a better look then—at the person dressed head to toe in black.

      Including the gun.

      The moonlight flickered off the silver barrel.

      “Watch out!” Abbie yelled to Mason.

      But it was already too late. The person in black pointed the gun right at Mason.