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A shley’s cell phone started buzzing again as she pushed through the double glass front doors. She tried to ignore the sound, knowing it was probably her ex. Again. Instead, she focused on her surroundings. One of the biggest parts of her job was to pay attention to what was happening around her.

She glanced back at the brown brick building she’d just exited. Word on the street was that the two-story that housed Lonestar Security’s headquarters had once been a post office. That would certainly explain its old-time charm. The checkered tiled floors, richly carved crown molding, and white stone accents were downright breathtaking. Johnny was fortunate to work in such a beautiful building. The elegant wall panels in his office alone looked like something that belonged in a magazine.

In comparison, her office was a mobile one, the four-wheeled kind. While teasing him about what the Heart Lake rumor mill was busy churning out about him, she’d failed to enlighten him on the juiciest secret the town was harboring — that an out-of-town PI was attempting to solve a murder case while living in her car.

Sort of.

She preferred to think of it as her longest stakeout yet, one that currently had no end in sight.

The truth was, she’d done more than break up with her fiancé and quit her job at the Dallas Police Department. She’d also terminated the lease on her apartment and donated most of her belongings to charity. Not only had it put her biggest troubles in her rearview mirror, it was also allowing her to follow the clues from her first case wherever they led — all the way to Heart Lake.

Her cell phone buzzed again, but she continued to ignore it. Though she didn’t enjoy her ex’s constant badgering, it was easier to stomach somehow in the wide-open space of the country. Easier to breathe through as she began the cold walk to the far end of the parking lot. Her breath left swirls of white mist in the air in front of her that quickly dissipated. From now on, Martin Hobbs would have to communicate with her on her terms. Even if her terms were never, he’d have to respect that, too.

Because I’m living the dream now, baby. It was something she reminded herself every morning when she awoke and every night before she went to bed, because it was true. The entire time she’d served in the Dallas PD, it had been her biggest goal to someday open her own business like this.

Well, maybe not quite like this. She’d pictured it happening later in her career, after she’d had the time to save more money. She’d pictured owning her own office space and sitting behind an antique desk surrounded by frames of her exploits and accomplishments. Instead, a bullet at a drug bust gone south had sent her careening prematurely into this fork in the road — something she was working night and day to make the best of. It wasn’t easy, though, mentally and physically working her way through her injuries and the other tremendous loss she’d suffered that night. Sadly, her partner hadn’t lived to tell the tale.

Just thinking about the family he’d left behind made her snatch her phone out of her pocket. What if it was his widow trying to reach her? She hastily scanned the text message and grimaced to discover her first guess had been correct. The flurry of incoming text messages were from her ex. Go figure. She bit her lower lip in agitation. After a boring three-year engagement that hadn’t resulted in so much as setting a wedding date, it was weird how much the guy was pestering her now that things were over between them. Martin’s texts were one word apiece, short and to the point.

We.

Need.

To.

Talk.

She shoved her phone back in her pocket, furious that he’d been text-spamming her one word at a time for the maximum disruption of her peace. No. Actually, they didn’t need to talk. She had nothing to say to him. It was the whole point of breaking up. Maybe if she ignored him long enough, he would eventually give up and leave her alone.

Unfortunately, he didn’t show any signs of taking her silence as a hint. He continued to text her after she reached her car and fumbled with her key fob to unlock it. By the time she slammed the door shut behind her, she was shivering so violently from the frigid wind that it was difficult to turn the key in the ignition.

Her 1967 Chevy Camaro boasted a custom paint job in a no-nonsense shade of carbon steel. It had a red leather interior with black chrome accents and a V-8 engine with plenty of get-up-and-go left in her in spite of her age. After slapping her engagement ring down on Martin’s desk at the law office where he worked, the Camaro had become the last item of value she possessed. It was an expensive investment that she should’ve never purchased on a police detective’s salary. In her defense, she’d done it under the mistaken assumption she’d soon be married to a wealthy attorney.

She let the motor idle for a few minutes, rubbing her gloved hands together to create some much-needed friction and keep her blood moving. “Come on, come on, come on,” she pleaded to the heater vents blasting cold air. While she waited for the car to warm up, she scanned Martin’s latest text messages.

Running makes you look guilty.

Her insides grew even colder. How dare he rip open that particular wound again! An icy tear slid down her cheek. She’d been cleared of all wrongdoing from the night she’d nearly died. Unfortunately, her partner had not. It was so unfair! Someday, she was going to prove he was as innocent as she was — that his so-called guilt was the result of a setup by the cutthroat thugs they’d been pursuing. She didn’t know how or when she’d prove it, only that she would. She had to get back on her feet first and earn enough money to stay alive.

It was with a sick feeling in her gut that she finished scanning Martin’s texts.

I can help you. You know I can.

She had no idea what he was talking about. She didn’t need a lawyer, because she wasn’t being charged with anything. After the fateful 9-1-1 call about a break-in, she and Detective John Branch had walked into an ambush. That was the only way to describe it. She’d taken the first bullet and lost consciousness. John had taken the second and third bullets, which had cost him his life. She’d awakened in a hospital to the news that he’d perished from his wounds. But that wasn’t the worst of it. A bag of heroin had been found in his pocket, and another bag had been found beneath the seat of his patrol car. It was “evidence” she was convinced had been planted on him. The guy had served as a church deacon, for crying out loud! His life outside of work was as clean as a whistle. Unfortunately, he couldn’t defend himself from the grave.

She shivered as she recalled how easily it would’ve been for their assailants to plant evidence on her as well. Why hadn’t they?

She finally thawed out enough to start driving. It felt like an Arctic cold front was sweeping through town. Her wounded shoulder was aching unbearably, and the cheerful mood her visit with Johnny had put her in was quickly evaporating. As she pulled out of the parking lot and drove down Main Street, more tears slid down her cheeks. For a woman who rarely cried over anything, she’d been dripping tears for no reason lately. It was weird and unnerving.

I’m so messed up. Her dad had been right about that part of his criticism. Their bitter arguments before and after his wedding, however, hadn’t brought her one step closer to a full recovery from the wounds she’d suffered inside and out. It had been a relief to leave him and his replacement wife and daughter behind in Dallas. She didn’t miss their false smiles or thinly veiled contempt. Not even a little.

She was especially grateful to be driving behind such a slow-moving vehicle at the moment. She didn’t have the energy to weave in and out of metro city traffic. What few cars were on the two-lane road, however, were enough to make her hands shake — something else that had become an all-too-common occurrence. Probably low blood sugar. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening. Downing a cup of caffeine on an empty stomach was only making the shakes worse.

Though she had a case to solve, it was a reminder she needed food and sleep first, especially sleep. The kind that came from a real bed. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t touch her savings unless it was an emergency, but she found herself turning into the parking lot of the next motel that came into view. The single row of rooms didn’t look fancy, but the exterior of the building was painted a minty shade of green, and the Open sign was turned on.

Lakeview Motel, here I come . She hoped they had a vacancy, and they did. A few short minutes later, she dragged her pair of suitcases from the backseat of her car and rolled them through the door of room 107.

Whew! The room was even more humble on the inside than it looked on the outside. Lake view, my hide! As it turned out, there were zero windows facing the lake side of the motel.

Everything in the room was built into the wall, as if the owners were afraid someone might take off with the furnishings. The headboard of the bed was firmly bolted in place, and the “table for two” the receptionist had bragged about was a pull-down contraption with only one leg — like an ironing board, but smaller.

The heater was on, and Ashley’s eyes grew damp all over again, this time from sheer gratitude. It was crazy how simple things like heat and clean sheets could make all the difference in a person’s mental state. She was more than willing to put her surveillance on hold for one night.

She opened one of her suitcases and left it laying in the middle of the walkway while she carried her toiletry bag and a change of clean clothing to the bathroom. Seconds later, she was standing under a spray of toasty water, wondering if she’d died and gone to Heaven. After toweling off, she pulled on a fleece-lined sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. Then she brushed her teeth and climbed into bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

She awoke in the middle of the night, feeling a little better — still physically beat but mentally ready to continue tackling the new career she was working so hard to build for herself. Climbing out of bed, she opened her second suitcase and returned to the mattress with her laptop.

She booted it up and clicked to her website. It gave no indication it was owned by the 2.0 version of her, Private Investigator Ashley Perkins. Since a lot of what a PI did involved covert surveillance, she preferred to work incognito.

The homepage of her website was simply titled Texas Private Investigator. A paragraph in the middle of the page described her services, and an online form at the bottom of the page allowed a potential client to reach out to her for an appointment. Despite the simplicity of her site, it had been enough to attract her first paying customer. It felt good to be working on a case again —a real case for someone who really needed her help. She pulled up the case file and reviewed what she knew about it so far.

Mr. Edward Clark was dead.

His elderly wife was in a nursing home.

His only surviving daughter, Monica Poet, was the one who’d initiated the investigation.

She was a very angry woman who didn’t believe for a second that her father had committed suicide. She also wasn’t convinced that her father had taken a mistress like his suicide note had stated — a mistress who’d allegedly emptied out his bank account, then abruptly ended things between them. Unfortunately, the name of the woman hadn’t been included in Mr. Clark’s suicide note.

Ashley clicked on the button to play back the recording she’d taken during her interview with Mr. Clark’s daughter. The woman’s tearful voice shattered the silence in the motel room.

“My father would’ve never been unfaithful to my mother. He loved her so much. So, so, so much!”

She turned off the recording, inclined to believe Monica’s impassioned declaration. Mr. Clark had died from an overdose of sleeping pills, which wasn’t a typical way for a man to take his life. Statistically, men tended to end things more violently with guns or hanging. Death by sleeping pills held a distinctly feminine overtone.

Her gaze continued down the list of facts she’d typed up about their chief suspect:

Caroline Bennington Madison preferred to be called Caro.

She owned Sunrise Solutions, a personal services company that offered everything from dog walking to meals on wheels.

She also offered light housekeeping and had been employed by Mr. Clark at the time of his death.

She’d provided housekeeping services to two other elderly men who’d committed suicide in the greater Dallas area during the past five years. Men whose bank accounts had also been cleaned out before their demise.

Because of Caro’s connection to all three of the deceased, Ashley had nicknamed her The Black Widow. It sure seemed to fit her modus operandi .

So far, the only commonalities between her alleged victims were old age and big life insurance payouts to undisclosed younger girlfriends. Not that having younger girlfriends was a crime, but it was quite a coincidence to have three nearly identical crimes committed so close together in time and proximity.

Ashley’s theory was that the three so-called “younger girlfriends” were one and the same woman — Caro Madison.

Caro had served dozens of other clients of all ages and backgrounds, from Dallas to Galveston, most of whom were very much still alive.

She moved around a lot, never staying in one town for long.

It wasn’t yet clear why Caro had stepped away from Sunrise Solutions to become an events manager in Heart Lake. Maybe she was still operating her personal services business on the side.

Her new employer was Monty Chester, a beloved local citizen that most folks called Farmer Monty. A man who fit the general description of Caro’s alleged three other victims in terms of age and vocation.

Was he the next unfortunate fellow who’d landed in Caro Madison’s crosshairs? If he was, why was she so blatantly pursuing Johnny Cuba as well? Was she spreading her web by targeting two men simultaneously this time around?

Ashley had so many questions tumbling around inside her head that it was making her temples ache. It might take a while to dig up the answers she was looking for — more time than the balance in her checking account would keep her in a motel room, unfortunately. Maybe she’d been a little hasty in discounting her retainer fee for Mr. Clark’s grieving daughter. Sympathy alone wouldn’t keep her afloat now that she was no longer drawing a government salary. She was going to have to sharpen her business skills if she was going to make it in the world of private investigating.

Ashley rubbed her temples and stretched, twisting from side to side to work out the kinks in her lower back. The movement caused her gaze to fall on the business card she’d tossed on the nightstand.

She smiled at the sight of Johnny Cuba’s phone number written in his careless scrawl on the back of it. Maybe she should take him up on his offer to give her a tour of his farm sooner rather than later. Not only would it give her the opportunity to delve further into Caro’s interest in him, it would also allow her to find out more about his job opening for a farm hand.

She’d run across his advertisement on a social media page for local classifieds. At the time, she hadn’t thought anything of it. But now…

But now she needed a cover story for what could easily turn into an extended stay in Heart Lake, and an extended stay would cost money. The way she saw it, snagging an interview as a farm hand would kill both birds with one stone. It sounded like Johnny was looking to hire someone right away. She didn’t know the first thing about dairy farming, but how hard could it be? Fortunately, she was a quick learner.

One way or the other, I’ll figure it out. She would do whatever it took to stop The Black Widow.

She waited until the glow of dawn was sweeping across the sky before pulling her phone off its charger and dialing Johnny Cuba.

He picked up right away. “Lemme guess. This is Ashley?”

His husky baritone sent a wave of delicious warmth through her. “I see you know your Dallas area codes, Wyoming Boy.” It was going to be fun matching wits with a fellow PI. She’d have to really be on her toes around him to keep him from discovering her real mission.

“I wasn’t sure you’d call me.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake.” It was Saturday, the day a lot of Monday-to-Friday workers slept in.

He snorted. “I’m a dairy farmer, remember?”

Right. She wanted to kick herself for sounding like such a city girl. “About that tour you offered me…”

“How does right now sound?”

Wow! Okay. Now is good. “I’m gonna need directions.”

Johnny rattled them off.

“Can you spot me about thirty minutes?” She glanced toward her suitcases, hoping to unearth one last clean change of clothing from one of them. Her next trip to the laundromat was long overdue.

“Yup.” He sounded eager to see her again, which was a point in her favor toward landing an interview.

I hope.

She sent up a quick prayer that he wouldn’t balk too loudly when she broached the topic of a wounded former police detective trying her hand at dairy farming. She’d wait until the end of the tour, of course, to provide the maximum amount of time to worm her way into his good graces.

If things went according to her latest brainstorm, Johnny Cuba would ultimately agree to hire her, placing her in a strategic position to continue her investigation. And once he became her employer, she would have all the more reason to keep things professional between them.

She hadn’t missed the vibe of awareness zinging between them. Not that it was entirely unwelcome. She’d been serious, though, about not being in the market for a rebound relationship. Friendship was all she had to offer right now. That, and an unlimited amount of elbow grease for helping out around the farm.

The more she thought about her plan, the better it sounded, especially the part about making Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dreamy Cowboy officially off limits to her. Her heart was nowhere near ready to absorb another disappointment so close on the heels of the last one.

Yep, it was a solid plan. She was proud of herself for coming up with it.