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“But you don’t think that’s the reason?” Dean asked, coolly avoiding her penetrating gaze. How close to the truth was she? He was unnerved, but he tried his best not to let it show. Becca was becoming suspicious—all because of Brig Chambers!

“I just wondered if it had anything to do with Brig’s phone calls,” Becca replied. The tension in the room made it seem stuffy.

“I doubt it, Becca. Martha’s kid was sick.”

“The eighteen-year-old girl?”

“Right. Uh, Martha went to live with her and that’s the end of the story. Maybe she’s just too busy to write.”

“I don’t even know where they moved, do you?”

“No.” Dean’s voice was brittle. “Look, I’ve got to run—see you later.” Dean pushed open the door and hurried down the stairs. He seemed to be relieved to get out of the office and away from Becca.

An uneasy feeling of suspicion weighed heavily on Becca’s mind. She worked long into the evening, but couldn’t shake the annoying doubts that plagued her. Why did she have the feeling that Dean wasn’t telling her everything? What could he possibly be hiding? Was it, as he so emphatically asserted, that he was interested only in protecting her? Or was there more . . .

* * *

Brig sat at his desk and eyed the latest stack of correspondence from the estate attorneys with disgust. It seemed that every day they came up with more questions for him and his staff. The accident that had taken his father’s life had happened more than a month ago, and yet Brig had the disquieting feeling that the Last Will and Testament of Jason Chambers was as far from being settled as it had ever been. He tossed the papers aside and rose from the desk.

Behind him, through the large plate-glass window the city of Denver spread until it reached the rugged backdrop of the bold Colorado Rockies. Brig hazarded a glance out the window and into the dusk, but neither the bustling city nor the cathedral peaks held any interest for him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to take his mind off Rebecca Peters and that last weekend they had spent together.

The smoked-glass door to the office opened and Mona, Brig’s secretary, entered. “I’m going down to the cafeteria—can I get you anything?” Brig shook his head and managed a tired smile. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t think so.”

Mona raised her perfect eyebrows. “It could be a long night. Emery called. He seems to think that the wildcat strike in Wyoming won’t be settled for at least a week.”

“Arbitration isn’t working?”

“Apparently not.”

“Great,” Brig muttered. “Just what we need.” Mona closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it. She ran nervous fingers over her neatly styled silver hair. She was only thirty-five; the color of her hair was by choice. “Is something bothering you?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re overworked.”

Brig laughed despite himself. Mona had a way of cutting to the core of a problem. “I can’t disagree with that.”

“Then why don’t you take some time off?” she suggested. “Or at least take a working vacation and spend some time in your father’s cabin.” She watched him carefully; he seemed to tense.

“I can’t do that. It’s impossible.”

“I could route all the important calls to you.”

“Out of the question,” he snapped.

Mona pursed her lips, stung by his hot retort. It wasn’t like him. But then, he wasn’t himself lately. Not since that weekend he spent alone. Maybe the strain of his father’s death affected him more deeply than he admitted. “It was just a suggestion.”

“I know it was, Mona,” he admitted, and his shoulders slumped. “I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“Still, I do think you should consider taking some time off.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible—before you really chop somebody’s head off.”

“Do you think you can handle this office without me?”