Colton Cowboy Jeopardy (Coltons of Mustang Valley)

His brother and sister, Spencer and Isabella, still scolded him about this decision and he wished he could find the words to make them understand. If they ever joined him for moments like this, they might get it. As triplets, they were close, and when life had thrown them one challenge after another, Spencer and Bella were the only people he really trusted.

His siblings labeled his professional detour an emotional crisis and blamed his choice to store his belongings and walk away from a great condo and a lucrative career on bitterness and fantasy. They weren’t entirely wrong. He could almost imagine that Spencer, a sergeant with the Mustang Valley Police Department, was expecting him to sabotage the ranch owned by Payne Colton, a man who had practically refused to claim any blood ties to the triplets. The next generation of Coltons—Payne’s children—was closer to Jarvis and his siblings.

Jarvis couldn’t deny the temptation. Payne, in addition to building the Triple R into one of the most prosperous cattle ranches in Arizona, also served as chairman of the board for Colton Oil. The family patriarch was charismatic and tough, and had ensured that his children would prosper for generations to come, while Jarvis and his siblings had been effectively cut out of the Colton family tree.

But when Jarvis traded his suits and office for barns and fields and long, hard-labor days, he’d done it with the sole intention of finding proof that the Triple R rightfully belonged to the triplets. At least the section of acreage he was crossing now.

Granted, the ranch foreman, Payne’s son Asher Colton, didn’t know Jarvis’s motives, but he’d hired him, anyway. Jarvis had been pleasantly surprised to find his cousin was a fair boss and didn’t treat him with any of Payne’s dismissiveness or negligent animosity.

Working out here, Jarvis had soon discovered what his life had been missing. Cause and effect. Effort and reward. In business, his decisions didn’t always yield an immediate result. While he knew the value of patience, he enjoyed the relatively quick confirmation of making decisions out here. There were short-term goals and long-range plans, but the day-to-day work made a clear and obvious impact.

And once the daily work was complete, Jarvis used his personal time to search for confirmation of the story their grandfather, Isaiah Colton, had told him when it had been just the two of them out fishing. Jarvis had never forgotten how special and important he’d felt when his granddad made him promise not to tell a soul, not even his siblings. According to Isaiah, back in the 1800s, the Triple R had been stolen from their branch of the Colton family tree, forever changing the family fortunes. Five years ago, just before he died, Isaiah had brought it up again, claiming the proof of that treachery was buried out here on the ranch.

Jarvis couldn’t let the idea go. Especially not after the recent uproar within the Colton Oil side of the family. If there was any truth that Payne’s oldest son, Ace, had been switched at birth, maybe Isaiah’s story wasn’t so far-fetched. So Jarvis gladly rode fences, not just for the protection of the cattle and preservation of the operation, but for himself, scoping out likely places to prove his grandfather had it right after all.

Based on everything he’d heard and his research into the history of Mustang Valley, he’d mentally earmarked this particular area. Now, finished with the official task of repairing any weak or broken fencing, he rode toward the place he wanted to dig. As he followed an overgrown trail, anticipation zipped through his bloodstream. Assuming Payne woke from his coma, Jarvis imagined the expression on Payne’s face in court, hearing his precious land belonged to Jarvis, Spencer and Bella, and that he wasn’t the wealthiest landowner in Mustang Valley anymore. How many times had Payne ignored their existence, claiming they shared a last name by accident rather than any true family connection?

If Isaiah was right, the change might shake up things in Mustang Valley more than the earthquake had a few months back. Of course, it was a long shot and a crazy notion, and it was unlikely such a scene would ever happen. But it was fun to think about. What if he actually found a deed or some other evidence his grandfather was sure had been buried out here generations ago?

Dropping out of the saddle, he gathered the reins in one hand and walked closer to where he wanted to dig today. Since setting himself on this path, he’d spent hours researching newspaper articles and photographs from four generations ago up through present day. With a landscape as picturesque as the Triple R and all the publicity surrounding Payne and his family lately, photographers were out here all the time.

He marked his position using a variation of a geocaching app on his cell phone and then started digging. Within minutes he was sweating through his shirt. Expecting anything less in Arizona this time of year would be foolish. Still, he didn’t miss the cool air of a climate-controlled office. This effort, for the ranch, for his grandfather’s pride, felt empowering and right, whether or not he found anything.

That was the piece no one else understood. Just looking for the truth filled him with a sense of purpose and honor. Isaiah, for all his faults, had been good to the three of them, and just about the only person in town who attempted to love them after their parents died. Due to Isaiah’s well-known drinking habit, family court shuffled them off to the care of their bitter old Aunt Amelia. He owed Isaiah for trying to give them a foundation, a sense of their roots in the midst of grief and upheaval.

He pushed his hat back and wiped his brow, then cut into the earth again. A metal detector would make the job easier, but a shovel didn’t need an explanation. As he used his foot for more pressure, the shovel squeaked. He thought he’d hit something. He paused, wiggling the shovel out and back in again. Silence this time. By touch, there was nothing but the hard-packed Arizona soil. He waited, listening again for the sound. When it came, he swore it sounded like a baby crying.

Raised in town, Jarvis hadn’t worked the land his entire life. Over the past year he’d learned a great deal about the various wild animals and habitats in the area. Seemed early in the day for a coyote, but he supposed a mockingbird might manage that sound. He looked to his horse as the next rising cry carried on the air. The gelding merely flicked his ears, either at the high-pitched sound or a fly buzzing too close.

The sound faded and Jarvis resumed his digging. Whatever was making that sound, he couldn’t waste this window of opportunity chasing it down. Unlike life in the office setting, he had to search when he had the chance. Work on a ranch could be calm one day and chaos the next. Personally, he enjoyed the unpredictability, the variety, even the long hours. As one of the hands, he might ride fence today and work on repairs around the property for the next month.

When it was clear the metal box his grandfather described wasn’t in this hole, Jarvis made a note and started filling it in. With the sun sinking toward the horizon, he’d about given up on this location when he heard the sound again.

This time he was certain that wasn’t a random animal. Not even mockingbirds could sustain that long, unhappy wail. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a baby, but what in the world would a baby be doing all the way out here? He tied the shovel to the pack behind his saddle and swung up onto his horse. Moving slowly, he followed the sound.

As he closed in on the sound, he couldn’t reconcile the crying with the remote and rugged terrain, and yet it was the only logical conclusion. The pitiful wails drew him farther along the old trail to one of the warming huts built generations ago so cowboys could take shelter from bitter, cold weather.

“Hello?” Jarvis called out. The crying sound came again. “Everyone okay?” The last thing he wanted was to walk into trouble. He hopped out of the saddle, looping the reins around the lower branch of a tree that crowded the small rustic cabin. He was close enough now to hear someone trying to hush the baby, to no avail. “Do you need—”

“Stay back!”

He heeded the warning, stopping short as a woman stepped out of the hut. She held a sturdy stick like she was a major-league batter ready to hit a home run, using his head as the baseball. In the shadows behind her, a tiny child with big lungs wailed miserably from a carrier of some sort.

Jarvis held up his hands. “Take it easy.” He used the tone he’d learned worked best with spooked horses. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.” She stepped forward, her grip tight on that stick. “Get out of here.”

“I’m no threat.” She was tall with gorgeous, light brown skin, generous curves and defensiveness oozing from every pore, with or without the threat of violence. “I’m only here because of the crying. It’s not a sound we hear out this way.”

“We?” Her dark eyes went wide and her gaze skittered across the area behind him. “Who is with you?”

“No one. No one,” he assured her. “Just me and my horse.” He held his hands out from his sides, palms open. Something worse than the fear of being caught squatting on Colton land had her wild-eyed. “I’m a hand here at the Triple R. Did you know you were on a working ranch? I was riding by, checking fences. How did you find this place?”

She shook her head, stick still held high, the baby still protesting.

“Show me some ID,” she demanded.

“Okay, sure. Should’ve thought of that.” He reached for his back pocket with slow, deliberate motions. “Just reaching for my wallet.” He held it out and inched forward.