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  Hopefully by then he’d hear back from Shooter about the photo. “She say anything else or have any ideas how our lowlife friend found you?”

  Gina shook her head. “I’m wondering if someone recognized me at the kitchen store. Maybe the cashier wasn’t as oblivious as she seemed.”

  “Could be.” He took a right on Gold Trail, an old mining road. When they were kids, he, Jace, and Cash used to ride their horses out here and shoot beer cans with their BB guns. “Someone had to have recognized you when you were out with me and put two and two together. Otherwise, how would they have found you on the ranch?”

  “You don’t think it was Laney or Jimmy Ray, do you?”

  “No way. They and my grandfather go back to when dinosaurs roamed the earth. They can keep a secret. You think Tiffany might’ve recognized you?” Jace’s former campaign manager wasn’t a malicious person, but she did have a big mouth. Pretty much everyone in Dry Creek did.

  “I don’t know. She seemed too wrapped up in you to even notice me.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it. Tiffany may seem oblivious, even like one of those vapid ladies who lunch. But she’s sharp as a steak knife. I learned that during Jace’s campaign.”

  “If it is her, do you think someone—maybe even Jace—could ask her to zip it? I’d like to not have to move again.”

  He glanced over at her. “Thought you hated it here and were dying to get back to civilization.” He mimicked the way she’d said it when she was trying to provoke him.

  “I do and I am,” she said. “But who’s to say that the next place your mother finds for me to hide isn’t Siberia. At least Dry Creek Ranch has Wi-Fi.”

  Hell yeah, it did. He’d emptied his bank account to get high-speed internet on the ranch. If Jace and Cash had had their druthers they would still have dial-up.

  “Besides,” she added, “I’d miss Charlie and Aubrey.”

  He slid her another glance, this time hitching his brows above the rim of his sunglasses. “Charlie and Aubrey, huh?” He was flirting when what he should’ve been doing was putting the skids on whatever this was that they were doing. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. Just like he couldn’t help himself from tearing off her PJs this morning after watching her bounce around the kitchen, making him crazy with those long legs of hers.

  “I might miss the sex.” She flashed him a cheeky grin.

  He started to say that she was going to miss it all right because they weren’t having any more. But he knew the words for what they were: Lies. As long as she lived here, they were having sex. Lots of it. The sooner he came to terms with that the better off he’d be.

  “I’ll ask Jace to feel out Tiffany,” he said. “If he thinks she knows something, he’ll tell her to keep it on the down low.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now put on your disguise, we’re almost there.”

  * * * *

  That evening he took the situation up with Jace and Cash. Both agreed that it could’ve easily been Tiffany. Sawyer thought Jill was also a possibility and kicked himself for exposing Gina that way.

  “Nah,” Jace shook his head. “Even if Jill had recognized Gina, it wouldn’t have occurred to her to call the National Enquirer or any of those other rags. I’ve known her all my life. What she did to Brett…but this thing with Gina doesn’t have her mark. Take my word for it.

  “Tiffany is the more likely culprit. If it was her she didn’t do it to be spiteful.” Jace had a soft spot for his old campaign manager. “There’s not a mean bone in her body. She just likes to talk, like everyone else in this town. She also likes to one-up everybody with the quality of her gossip. I suspect finding out that Gina DeRose is hiding at Dry Creek Ranch was quite a nugget. More than likely she told a friend, who told another friend, who knew someone who works for one of the tabloids. She wouldn’t have intentionally sent a stranger with a camera to our back door.”

  Sawyer hung his arms over the top rail of the fence as they watched the horses graze in the pasture. It was a pastime they’d adopted when he and Cash had moved to the ranch. The women did their wine and cheese; he and his cousins watched the livestock and pretended to be masters of their domain.

  “Could you talk to her, express how important it is that she not tell anybody else?”

  “Yup.”

  “What did you do with the camera guy?”

  “Cited him for trespassing, gave him a stern lecture about how lucky he was that he didn’t get his ass shot off, and sent him on his way. He whined about getting his memory card back. I ignored him.”

  “What do we do about the gate?” Cash held out a slice of apple to Ellie’s horse, Sunflower. “I figure these paparazzi guys are like cattle, they travel in herds. We can keep it closed but that won’t help Aubrey and Charlie’s business.”

  “I say we keep it open for now.” Sawyer didn’t think the gate would keep out a determined reporter or photographer anyway. A fence never kept him out.

  “What about Gina? Did the dude freak her out?” Jace toed a clod of dirt with his boot.

  “Nah, she took it pretty well. But if this becomes a bigger situation where there’s press camping outside her cabin she’ll have to relocate.”

  Jace patted Sawyer’s back. “That’ll suck for you.”

  Sawyer flipped his cousin off. The truth hurt.

  He didn’t know how it had happened, but he’d done a complete 180 where Gina was concerned.

  Cash, who pretended he wasn’t amused by Sawyer and Jace’s back-and-forth, said, “You have any luck with analyzing that picture?”

  “I haven’t heard back from my photographer friend yet. How about you? Have you gotten in touch with your FBI friend about the email?”

  “Yeah, I just made contact. He’s going to get to it when he can. I’ll give him at least a couple days before I harangue him again.”

  Sawyer nodded. He couldn’t ask for anything more than that, though he was anxious to get to the bottom of the strange, anonymous note.

  The sun had started setting, streaking the sky in a palate of reds, oranges, and blues. There was nothing like a sunset on Dry Creek Ranch. The three of them stared up at the sky for a while, each lost in its beauty. It was times like this when the ranch stole his breath away. He’d seen a lot of magnificent places—Amalfi Coast, Mt. Fuji, Big Sur, Lake Louise, Pamukkale, Monteverde. But nothing stirred him the way the land of his ancestors did. His feelings for the ranch were deep and visceral. The soil, the trees, the hills, the creek, it was in his blood.

  “Apparently your Gina”—Jace poked Sawyer in the shoulder—“has been brainstorming with Charlie and Aubrey on how to add to our side hustle here.” He gazed in the direction of the old barn and the construction project that would soon house the overflow of the women’s design business. “She thinks we should approach Jimmy Ray and Laney about opening a sarsaparilla stand on the ranch.”

  Cash nodded enthusiastically. “It’s not a bad idea. Their sarsaparilla is the thing of legends.”

  Sawyer let out a long breath. “Not enough foot traffic. I’d hate to ask Jimmy Ray and Laney to be part of a losing proposition. I agree with Cash, their sarsaparilla is fantastic. A true original. But people aren’t going to travel miles for a spectacular glass of root beer. At least I don’t think they will. And a design studio, furniture store, and flower shop won’t bring enough crowds to make it worth Jimmy Ray and Laney’s while. What we need is a big draw, something that will make the ranch a destination.”

  “You think Macy’s would be interested?”

  Cash laughed at Jace’s sarcasm.

  “No, dipshit, something like a general store,” Sawyer said. “And if we really wanted to be ambitious, a butcher shop that carried specialty cuts of our beef, just like Harris Ranch. Wasn’t Harris Ranch your brilliant idea, Jace?” He knocked Jace’s hat off his head.


  Cash cocked his hip against the fence. “Harris Ranch is a big name, a big brand. No one has ever heard of Dalton beef. We’ve never been that kind of operation.”

  Grandpa Dalton had always sold his calves to large meat distributors, like Harris Ranch, who then slapped their own brand on the package. It’s the way most cattlemen did business.

  “We’d need to reinvent ourselves,” Sawyer said. “In the long run, it could be more lucrative than the old way. And we could be our own destination draw for the Dry Creek Ranch roadside attraction.”

  Cash reached under his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Establishing ourselves like that would take a long time. We’d have to have some kind of marketing strategy, something that sets us apart from other meat companies. We’re not organic. We’re not grass-fed. So what’s our claim to fame? I don’t know, I just don’t see it.”

  “We don’t suck. That’s our marketing strategy right there,” Jace said.

  Sawyer exchanged a glance with Cash and shook his head. “Yeah, that’ll go over big. I can just see the billboards now. Big splashy letters: Buy us because we don’t suck. Stick to law enforcement, dude.”

  “What I’m saying is how many of these folks with organic or grass-fed, or non-GMO labels have superior beef? I’m betting not many. Whereas our beef is fucking grain-fed delicious. We could go organic. I’m perfectly good with that. But I think we’re overlooking our bestselling feature. Taste. Why not market that?”

  “We’re back to how again.” Cash threw his hands up in the air. “Everyone says their product tastes better than the rest. How do you say it loud and effective enough to turn a butcher shop in the middle of nowhere into a destination? Marketing something like that would cost a fortune. A fortune we don’t have.”

  “No, but we are related to one of the top PR agencies in the country.” Sawyer didn’t usually take advantage of his parents’ position, but this was something for all of them. Even though his father had never taken to ranching, keeping Grandpa Dalton’s legacy in the family was of paramount importance to him.

  “And we just so happen to know a celebrity chef, too,” Jace said.

  “A fallen celebrity chef?” Sawyer was pretty sure that right now her endorsement would be the kiss of death. “I wouldn’t count on Gina’s influence.”

  “A butcher shop is certainly something to think about,” Cash said. “But until we figure it out, I’m with Sawyer. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Jimmy Ray and Laney to make that kind of investment. I know they’d do it if we asked. But it would be taking advantage.”

  The couple was getting on in age and had enough work running the coffee shop. And it wasn’t as if they were desperate for money.

  “Okay,” Jace said. “But I like this idea of a butcher shop. If we can make more money going retail than selling our beef on the hoof we should go for it. There are all kinds of possibilities there, including mail order. I bet Kansas City Steak Company is making a killing.”

  Cash adjusted the brim of his hat. “Let’s take it one step at a time.”

  Sawyer didn’t blame Cash for being conservative, but he was on board with Jace. They were onto something, something that made sense. “I’ll talk to my parents about it. They’ll have some ideas. In the meantime, I like where this is going. It’s a hell of lot better than turning the ranch into some kind of Disneyland sideshow.”

  The three of them pushed off the fence, ready to call it an evening.

  “Hey, Jace, don’t forget to talk to Tiffany.”

  “Will do.”

  They walked their separate ways. Sawyer would’ve paid a visit to Gina, but because Cash was her neighbor…he could do without the ribbing. He and his cousins generally stayed out of each other’s social business. But now that Cash was married and Jace engaged, the two of them had relaxed that unspoken rule. And because he had no idea what he was doing with Gina— besides enjoying mind-blowing sex—he didn’t want to face an interrogation by two skilled cops. Clearly, they had an inkling that something was going on, but Sawyer didn’t feel the need to give them a front-row seat.

  When he got home, he checked his email to find a message from Shooter. Call me, it said.

  Sawyer found Shooter’s number and hit dial. “Hey, you got something?”

  “Maybe. It’s hard to say without the original photo. But, yeah, I think it’s been messed with. Whoever did it is good. There’s none of the telltale signs. No warpage in the background and no patterns left behind by an amateurish cut-and-paste job. It’s something about the way DeRose’s body is turned. It’s anatomically funky. I’m far from an anatomical scientist, but in my years of taking photos I’ve never seen a pose like this. There’s something off about it. Her head isn’t quite sitting right. And her skin’s a little too blended. It could be her makeup, but it’s usually a sign of fakery. Well-executed fakery, though. Usually I don’t have to look twice to tell. But this one took a while.”

  Sawyer’s pulse picked up. Now they were getting somewhere. “Is there a way to conclusively prove that the shot was photoshopped?”

  “Not without the original. At least nothing that would hold up in court.”

  Sawyer didn’t need it to hold up in the legal system, just in the court of public opinion. “It’s going to be pretty damned near-impossible to get the original.” Sawyer didn’t even know where it came from. Like all things on the internet, it started floating around with no credit line. “Is there anyone who’s an expert I can send the copy to? Someone who’ll write me out an affidavit that it’s bogus?”

  “There’s a forensic guy who’s well-known, testifies in copyright cases. I can’t begin to tell you how many people think a photo on social media or on Pinterest is free for the taking so some moron can mangle or photoshop it for a meme. This guy has impeccable qualifications. But again, he’ll want the original photo. And I don’t even know if he takes on individual cases or just works with lawyers.”

  “What’s his name?” Gina’s lawyer could contact him. Sawyer was sure she had legions of them.

  Shooter gave Sawyer his name. “Do a clip search on him. He testified for the Times when those two society chicks stole Lance’s shot of Beyoncé and superimposed it on cheap T-shirts they then sold for a few hundred bucks apiece. Talk about nerve.”

  Sawyer vaguely remembered the case. “I’ll do that. Thanks for looking at it for me, Shooter. Seriously, I owe you one hell of a solid.”

  “Buy me a drink next time we’re in some shithole war zone, taking fire.”

  “You got it.”

  “I think your chef friend has a good case there. Something is definitely up with that photo. I’d be willing to put money on it.”

  “I’ll contact this guy. At least now I’ve got more to go on.”

  As soon as he got off the phone he did a quick Google search and found an email address for the forensic photo expert. The guy worked for an image-analysis consulting firm in Boston. After taking a few notes, he called his mother.

  “Well, if it isn’t my long-lost son.”

  “I’ve been busy, Mom.”

  “Too busy for your mother?”

  “Never too busy for you.” He rolled his eyes.

  “I heard you had a little excitement this morning.”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle. We’re taking precautions.” If you counted precautions as telling Tiffany to keep her trap shut. “Mom, do you know where that photo of Gina and Danny Clay originated?”

  There was a long pause, then, “Sawyer, you know I can’t talk about this with you. Why is it that you want to know?”

  “I had a friend, a photographer buddy from the Times, take a look at a copy of the photo I found on the internet. He’s certain it’s a fake. But it would help to have the original. If we had it we could send it to this forensic expert who is well-known for authenticating pictures. Maybe he could write a declarat
ion or at least go on the record that the picture is bogus.”

  His mother didn’t say anything, but he could hear her thinking on the other end of the line.

  “Mom?”

  “I really shouldn’t be talking about this without Gina’s permission. Do you have Gina’s permission, Sawyer?”

  “Yep. Gina’s on board.” Gina hadn’t explicitly given him permission to discuss her case with his mother, but close enough. He was helping her, after all.

  “We don’t know where the photo originated. It was, of course, the first thing I looked for. We’ve hired someone to trace not only where the photo came from, but the timing of it. Unfortunately, so far no luck.”

  Sawyer found that peculiar. Typically, these types of pictures were sold to tabloid editors who wanted nothing more than to take credit for scooping their competition. It’s how they sold newspapers.

  “Well, do you want to contact this expert and see what he can do with a copy?” he asked. “It seems to me that if you can prove the photo is a fake you can clear Gina’s name.”

  “I wish it was that simple. And since when have you taken a personal interest in one of my clients?”

  Sawyer could hear the smile in his mother’s voice. Wendy Dalton knew her son all too well. He didn’t ever get involved with his parents’ clients. Most of the time, they were insipid celebrities or unscrupulous corporations that no self-respecting journalist would have anything to do with.

  “She’s my neighbor, thanks to you, and we’ve become friends.” Friends with benefits.

  “Well, as I’ve explained to Gina, it is going to take more than proving a photograph is fake to resurrect her once-thriving career. Reporters are like sharks, dear. They circle when they taste blood in the water. You of all people should know that.”

  “What about Gina’s ChefAid job? Wouldn’t it go a long way to persuading them to keep her on as their brand ambassador?”

  “These are all things your father and I are working on.”

  Sawyer pressed, “At least the expert opinion that the photo is a fake might convince Candace Clay that her husband didn’t cheat on her.”