“I don’t see a problem with that. We’ll be done gathering evidence today,” Vaughn said as his phone rang. It was Stratis. “What’d you find?”

“Henigin stayed overnight at the property two months ago, March 15th through the 17th, under an alias, paid cash. Jenna Sorentino recognized him in the photograph. Looks like the girlfriend used an alias too. No DMV records. Jenna had a picture of the two of them for the inn’s photo album, so I put out an APB on the girl, then dusted the room they’d stayed in for prints. Got a few. The biggest surprise came when I searched the rest of the house. The lock to the storage under the house’s raised foundation had been jimmied open. The storage had been tossed up pretty good, like someone was in a big hurry to find something. The ground’s dug up in a half-dozen places. I’m down there now, dusting for prints. I’ll upload the photos to your phone.”

Times like these, Vaughn wished he could clone himself. “Good work.”

“I’m checking the rest of the property now, with an eye for broken locks or hasty searches.”

“Keep me posted.” He replaced the phone on his utility belt. “Rachel, what do you and your sisters keep in storage under the house?”

She blinked, surprised. “Nothing but old, broken farm equipment and Christmas decorations. Why?”

“Stratis found proof that Henigin was on your land, and it looks like he searched your storage area. When was the last time any one of you were down there?”

Covering her mouth, she stumbled back and braced her hand on the squad truck. “He was going through our stuff?”

His arms twitched with the need to hold her. He hitched his thumbs on his belt, fighting the feeling. “I can imagine how violated you must feel right now, but you and your sisters were lucky. Obviously he wasn’t there to harm you, and we can all be thankful for that.”

Hugging herself, she looked into the distance as if gathering strength from the land. “January. Me and Jenna were down there in January putting away the holiday decorations. What was he looking for?”

“We don’t know yet. But we’re going to keep looking until we have the answers.” He directed his attention to Binderman. “On that note, we need to get on down to that second site. Do you need anything else from either Rachel or me?”

“I’ve got this, boss. Go ahead.”

“Check in with me when you’re done. We’ll leave markers at the canal so you can find the graffiti locations easily. I’ll process the boulder, then work my way back to you.”

* * *

Scared the shit out of Rachel that a man had been in her home, digging through their things. Scared her so bad that she felt herself shutting down, which wouldn’t do at all, not with her family’s safety at stake. Vaughn and his men were working to capture the criminals who were terrorizing them, so she didn’t have the luxury to fall apart.

She dissolved an antacid on her tongue, working to dig out from the panic and fear by looking on the land she loved, visualizing neatly plowed rows and fields full of green. Soon, she vowed. Every day she was taking small steps toward a brighter future. For her farm, and—she glanced Vaughn’s way—for herself.

They rode south from the derricks. Vaughn set small yellow flags at the two spots in the dry canals where the graffiti had been written, before they crossed through a canyon en route to the west side of Sidewinder Mesa, where the final graffiti incident had taken place.

Once they reached the bottom of the canyon, the trail opened up into one of the dry tributaries of Catcher Creek, dipping deep into a canyon that was one of Rachel’s favorite spots on her farm to photograph. The canyon walls, smoothed by wind, rippled to the sky in a series of rust red and brown ribbons, each a marker of the passing of time—the history of Earth captured in the ground like a layer cake, reminding her of how temporary her efforts as a farmer were. She nudged Growly close to the wall and ran her finger along a dry layer of sand that crumbled at her touch.

The ground on the canyon floor was wide and even, not requiring a great deal of horse-handling skill, so Rachel decided it was time to broach the topic with Vaughn she’d been wondering about for a few days. “Amy told me you don’t eat any fruits or vegetables. What’s up with that?”

“What?” She could see his brain doing a one-eighty to catch up with the direction of the conversation. “Oh, no. I don’t. Plants are disgusting.”

“That’s really unhealthy of you.”

He shrugged. “I take a multivitamin.”

“How did that get started? I mean, most kids aren’t into vegetables—Tommy’s sure not—but fruit? What’s wrong with fruit?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like it. The texture, the taste—bleh.”

“What about fruit pies? Everybody loves apple pie.”

He shook his head. “Not me.”

“Not even Catcher Creek Cafe’s triple berry cream pie? I dream about that pie.”

“Disgusting.”

Rachel gasped at his blasphemous remark. “If I were dying, I’d eat that pie for my last meal, no question about it.”

He scratched his chin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Didn’t your mom make you peanut butter and jelly sandwiches when you were a kid?”

With his index finger, he pushed the brim of his hat higher and gave her a lopsided grin that made her heart tighten. “Peanut butter and honey.”

“Well, damn.”

“It’s not such a big deal. Isn’t there a food you hate?”

Rachel didn’t give much thought to food in general, so long as it was hot and she didn’t have to make it. There was one food she couldn’t stand, but she’d never breathed a word of her distaste to anyone. “All right, I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to keep my secret. You can’t let it slip to Amy because it would break her heart.”

“Your secret is my secret.”

“Okay.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I don’t like pasta. The texture makes me want to barf.”

He slapped a hand on his thigh. “What? No way. How can you not like pasta?”

“Shhh! Don’t say it so loud.”

He rewarded her confession with a belly laugh. “That’s criminal.”

She scoffed. “No more than your warped opinion of triple berry cream pie.”

“Amy doesn’t know? When she fixes pasta, you eat it anyway?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said with a cringe. “I don’t have the heart to tell her. She’s so proud that she makes it from scratch.”

He laughed again and this time she joined in. “You’re a better person than me because there ain’t no way, no how, I’m letting a plant cross my lips.” He twisted his fingers in front of his lips like he was locking them closed with a key.

“I didn’t know that about you until Amy told me the raisins in her scones were the only fruit you’ll eat.”

“Yeah, I guess raisins are okay in sweets.” He scratched his neck. “You don’t like pasta. I would’ve never guessed. Tell me something else I don’t know about you.”

Fiddling with the rein, she considered the request. “I think you know everything about me, actually.”

“That’s a cop-out answer. Put your mind to it and you’ll think of something.”

They ascended from the canyon floor onto the western slope of Sidewinder Mesa, within a mile of the graffiti boulder. She wracked her brain for something to tell Vaughn about herself. Her life was so simple, so straightforward. She got up every morning, worked the farm until sundown, sometimes later, and got ready to do it again the next day. Her only hobby was photography. She didn’t watch much television, or keep up with the latest in music, but . . . “I like to whistle.”

“Really?” He seemed genuinely charmed by the discovery. “What do you whistle?”

“When I’m out riding by myself, sometimes I whistle old Glen Campbell songs, the ones my dad played when I was a kid. Back then, we had a tractor with a tape deck—we thought we were living like kings with accessories like that—and he’d play Glen Campbell while we worked.”

“Let me hear you whistle some Glen Campbell right now,” he said. “How about ‘Southern Nights’?”

She should’ve guessed he’d lobby for a performance. “I can’t do it with someone else around. It’s embarrassing.”

“Okay, I’ll start. You join in.”

He puckered his lips, but stopped short of whistling, a stumped look on his face. “I can’t remember how it goes.”

She gave him a chastising look. “You’re trying to bait me into whistling first. It’s not going to work.”

“No, really, I can’t remember.”

Rachel hummed the opening bars.

He nodded. “Okay, I got it now.” Even though she’d hummed the melody for him, it took him a few tries to get the first note right, but then he dove straight into a decent rendering.

Rachel was smiling so big, it was tough to pucker her lips enough to whistle, but she managed it halfway through the first line of the chorus.

They hit most of the notes correctly, and even managed a bit of accidental harmony during some of the verses. The horses plodded up the trail toward the top of the mesa, side by side, undisturbed by their riders’ music. Rachel couldn’t take her eyes offVaughn, who was staring right back at her. What a crazy thing to do—whistling an old country tune on the trail like two fool cowpokes without a care in the world.

It felt sublime.

Not even a photograph could bottle lightning as powerful as the way she felt, making music with the man she loved. Two years. Yeah, she could handle waiting to be together, as long as she kept this memory of whistling with him fresh in her mind. A carrot to look forward to again when they reunited. In two years, she’d be on the cusp of thirty-five, still young enough to have a couple kids if they were quick about it. Then again, she didn’t know how he felt about kids. But she certainly wasn’t going to break the mood by asking him about it.