Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120186 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Behind the wheel of my car, I chew the inside of my cheek to avoid the call I’ve been dreading. The phone feels as heavy as my heart when I hit Saint’s dad’s contact. I told him I planned to talk to Sheriff Tanner tonight. I want something new to share with her father, but my hope burned to ash the moment I stepped inside that police station.
“Hello?” The breathless hope in the pastor’s greeting only throws an echo back in the hollow of my ribs. I have to find Saint. Not only for me but for him too.
Stiffening my spine, I force a little brightness into my tone. “Hey, Pastor James. There are no updates, but they’re still looking.” I rush to add, “They know as much today as they did the day before. That’s okay, though. We’ll find her, with or without their help. I’m not giving up, and neither should you.”
“I can come down there and talk to them. Maybe I can get them to do something else.”
No way. If this is breaking my heart, what will facing the sheriff’s empty stare do to him? No, he wouldn’t survive that. “It would probably be better for you to stick close to home just in case Saint shows up. I’ll manage Tanner.” Lying to a pastor might be a serious sin, but I’m doing it with the best intentions. That must count for something, right?
“All right.” He releases a shaky breath that is like a blade straight into my chest. “All I can do is pray. I need to believe the Lord has a plan. That he will lead us to Saint, or lead her home.”
I press my lips together to stop myself from responding. He can pray all he wants. In my experience, the big guy doesn’t give a shit. If it’s going to keep his morale up, more power to him. I’m more realistic. Prayer isn’t going to bring Saint home. The only thing bringing her home is her father’s and my need for answers.
It’s time to dig deeper. I’ve been patient. I’ve asked around. I’ve waited for the fucking police to do their jobs. Nothing’s happened. And now, I’m tired of waiting.
“I’ll ask around town some more and see if I can stir anything up. If I hear something, I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay,” he whispers in response. “Talk soon.”
“Yup,” I say and hit the end button.
Fuck. I rest my head against the steering wheel. If I want real answers, I’ll need to go to the source, to the one person I’ve done everything in my power to avoid since I got back to town.
Kade fucking Bishop.
Chapter 2
Kade
The folder sits on the passenger seat like a dead thing. I’ve been staring at it for the better part of five minutes, parked in the lot of The Rusty Nail with the engine idling and the heater pushing stale air into my face.
It’s just paper. Research. Names, dates, financials, the kind of shit Roman collects on everybody who breathes in this county. I’ve done dozens of these drop-offs. Surveillance on a rival rancher, dirt on a county official, leverage on whoever needs leveraging. It’s what I do. What I’m good at, if I’m good at anything.
“You’re a delivery boy, Kade. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Thanks a fucking lot, Dad.
I kill the engine and grab the folder. The half-full parking lot contains mostly trucks caked in the same red mud that coats mine. An evening at the bar filled with regulars and ranch hands looking to wash the taste of work out of their mouths won’t draw attention. All they want is a cold drink. Nobody will give a shit about two Bishops sharing a booth in the back.
The cold hits me the second I step out. It’s the kind that crawls inside your coat and settles in your bones, the kind that makes you wonder why anybody chooses to live in this fucking state. I duck my chin and cross the lot, boots crunching on frozen gravel. I tug the door to the bar open and nearly sigh.
Inside, the warmth is thick with the smell of spilled beer. Not going to lie, I’ve smelled worse in my life. I scan the room, mostly out of habit. It’s best to know if you’ll be sharing space with an enemy. A couple of ranch hands from the McKinnon place are already three sheets to the wind. Old Dale is in his usual corner, nursing a whiskey like it owes him money. There ain’t nobody worth worryin’ about in here.
I spot Sawyer across the room, sitting in a booth. My brother has never been late for anything in his life, which is just one more way he makes the rest of us look like shit without even trying. He’s in the last booth, the one tucked against the back wall where the jukebox drowns out conversation.