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“My cell.” Westin tugged the phone out of the pocket he’d returned it to just moments ago. He pulled up his call log and handed it to Clint. “She talked to someone—I could only hear one side of the conversation, so I don’t know if it was a man or a woman—and told them, ‘Fang found me.’ I asked her who Fang was, and she said it was her ex’s nickname.”

“Fang?” Clint frowned even as he took a picture of Westin’s call log with his own phone before handing him the iPhone back. “That’s an odd name.”

“I get a weird feeling about this, boss,” Westin told him. “I think we might have walked into something bigger than just a dispute between a man and his former girl.”

“Did she say anything else? Anything that might tell us more about her?”

Westin shook his head. “No.”

“Okay.” He sighed, glancing himself at the door. “Miss Dulcie wants to meet her. I’ll come for her about six to take her up to the house.”

“Until then?”

“Stay with her.”

Westin grunted. “We have one issue, though. The woman refused to put back on the clothes she’d been wearing.”

“So, what does she have on?”

“A towel.”

Clint frowned, his eyes jumping to the closed door again. “I’ll see what I can do. Melanie might have something that’ll fit her. They look to be close in size.”

Mention of Clint’s wife brought to mind the things Westin had discussed with the others over breakfast that morning. Tension burned through Clint’s expression, stiffening his shoulders at the thought of going home to his wife. Westin patted his shoulder lightly, offering what little comfort he could. A man didn’t get involved in another’s marital issues unless asked. Westin had no intention of stepping over that particular line.

Clint walked off, the sound of his boots against the hardwood floor a final note to the conversation. When he was gone, Westin stepped quietly back into the room, settling in that same chair, his feet up on the edge of the bed. He pulled out his phone and started a game of poker on one of the electronic apps, losing himself quickly in the simple game. It kept his mind busy, but not quite busy enough that he didn’t begin to think about the date he had with Rena tonight. He sincerely hoped that this mess Remington had pulled them into didn’t screw that up, too.

Almost as an answer to his unasked question, a text interrupted his game.

Meet me at Stubbins’s at seven?

He smiled, relieved to see those words. Perfect, he responded.

It was all coming together. In a matter of time, he would have what he’d come to this frozen ranch to get. Very soon. All the planning, all the waiting… it was finally coming to fruition.

“What are you playing?”

Westin glanced at the figure on the bed, watching as she tugged the light blanket higher up against her shoulders. She snuggled down against the pillow, the sigh that escaped her lips giving her entire face a gentle, almost erotic countenance. A part of him wanted to crawl onto that bed and join her, to lose himself in the comfort her whole presence seemed to emanate in that moment.

“Poker.”

“I was never very good at that. I prefer solitaire.”

“Solitaire is boring. Everyone can play solitaire.”

“But poker takes skill?”

“Some. And guts. Mostly guts.”

“I’ll give you that.” She sighed again, tugging at the blanket one more time. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours.”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You won’t get much tonight if you sleep any longer.”

She let her eyes slowly slide closed. “It’s nice of you to be so concerned.”