After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

The muscles in Trent’s shoulders tightened as he drove over the final rise to the heart of his ranch and spied Shane Carter’s Jeep parked near the garage. The ex-lawman was out of his truck and leaning over the top rail of the fence, staring at a field where broodmares were grazing. He was obviously waiting. For Trent. To deliver bad news?

Cassie! Oh, Jesus.

He should have called her again or flown down to LA after her! His heart was thudding. Whatever had propelled Carter here, it couldn’t be good. As far as Trent could remember, Shane Carter had never stepped foot on his property except in times of trouble.

Mind-numbing images rolled through his head—Cassie in a plane crash, Cassie in an automobile accident, Cassie in a mental hospital being restrained, Cassie in the clutches of a madman or . . . damn it all to hell, Cassie on a slab in the morgue.

When Trent had been a wild-ass teenager, Carter had come onto this ranch to arrest him. Later Trent had shown interest in Cassie. Carter had again come knocking, this time to warn him to be careful with his frail stepdaughter, and when he and Cassie had announced they’d eloped, Carter had driven to this place and glared at Trent as if he’d like to shoot him where he stood while his wife, Jenna, had tried not to crumble at her husband’s side. That time Cassie had squared off with her family, reminding them that marrying Trent had been her decision and they could butt out of her life.

But there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Trent and Carter.

Now he threw the pickup into park, yanked the keys from the ignition, and was out of the truck practically before the engine stopped running.

“Hey!” he called, Hud bounding ahead of him.

Carter wore a black Stetson and a long coat. He’d turned at the sound of Trent’s truck’s engine and was already waiting for him.

“What’s going on?” Trent asked, his jaw so tight it ached. “Is it Cassie? Is she okay?”

“Far as I know.”

Trent felt instant relief.

Hud, wiggling his butt, sidled up to Carter, a virtual stranger. Some guard dog.

Shane bent down to scratch the shepherd who was wriggling at his feet, as if they were long-lost friends.

“Allie?”

A shake of Carter’s head. “Heard nothing.”

“What the hell, then?”

“It’s killing Jenna.” Carter straightened as the dog trotted toward the porch and his water bowl.

A few more lines than Trent remembered were etched across the older man’s forehead and the crow’s-feet fanning from his eyes were deeper. Unspoken accusations lingered in his eyes, questions concerning Trent and his involvement with Jenna’s youngest daughter, but he didn’t voice them. Trent didn’t offer up any apologies or explanations about Allie.

“Good to see ya,” Carter said a bit grimly, extending a hand.

Trent shook it. “You too.” Courtesy. But a lie. He dropped Carter’s hand.

“Just wonderin’ if you’d heard from Cass, but obviously you haven’t.”

“I phoned her. Left a message.”

“She hasn’t called you back?”

Trent shook his head and studied his stepfather-in-law for a second. Then he, too, looked at the broodmares. A small herd of seven, three bays, two chestnuts, a paint, and a Kiger mustang. All were heavy-bellied, due to foal soon.

“She didn’t get hold of Jenna?” Trent asked, his insides tensing as he considered the possibilities. Was Cassie in some kind of trouble? But Carter had just said she was “fine” as far as he knew.

“She did. Called last night.”

Trent relaxed a little, but didn’t understand why Carter was here.

“Jenna wanted you to know, didn’t want you to worry. In case you hadn’t heard from her.” A sidelong glance.

“Thanks.” But there was more. Trent sensed it as surely as he knew that rain would pour from the heavens before nightfall.