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AUbrEY

T he guest cottage sits at the edge of the ranch property, a small craftsman that mirrors the main house’s style but feels newer. Inside, it’s all knotty pine and leather furniture, decorated with old flannel blankets, a steer skull above the stone fireplace, old-timey paintings of cattle and cowboys on the walls.

I drop my duffel bag by the bedroom door and check my phone. No service, which I expected. The cottage has wi-fi though, and when I connect, I have an email from Diana asking where I am. I ignore that for now.

The bedroom is small but comfortable, with a queen bed covered in a patchwork quilt. The bathroom is surprisingly modern, with a glass-walled shower and heated floors. Someone’s stocked it with high-end toiletries—not what I expected from a working ranch. Then again, a lot about Lost Trail Ranch doesn’t fit my expectations.

I unpack, my fingers trailing over my gun that I quickly stuck into a zipped compartment at the bottom of the bag. I brought practical things—jeans, boots, flannel shirts—but now I wonder if any of it is truly suitable for horseback riding in the mountains. I know the temperatures can swing wildly up there, especially in October, but from the way Jensen was acting you’d think the mountains were covered in deep snow already. Thank god I had the foresight to grab my knit cap and puffer jacket before I left my apartment this morning.

The sun is getting low, painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple. I step out onto the cottage’s small porch, breathing in the fresh pine scent and rub my arms at the rapidly chilling air. From here I can see most of the ranch spread out below—the barn where horses are being led in for the night, the main house with its lights starting to come on, another low house beyond that, the paddocks where that red stallion is still running circles. Occasionally I hear a drawn-out moo of cattle, which indicates the ranch’s herd is beyond the trees somewhere.

Jensen is nowhere in sight.

The breeze picks up, carrying the smell of wood smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote calls. Despite the peaceful scene, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Maybe it’s the way the shadows are lengthening across the yard, or how the mountain peaks loom against the darkening sky, but something about this place sets my teeth on edge.

I’m about to head inside when Eli appears on the path. He tips his hat to me.

“Evening, Aubrey. Thought you might be hungry,” he says, climbing the porch steps. “Jensen’s cooking tonight. He doesn’t do it often, but when he does…” He trails off with a smile that seems genuine enough. “I don’t think you should miss out.”

“Thanks, but I don’t want to impose,” I tell him.

“No imposition. It’s an invitation. Besides, you should get to know the crew if we’re heading into the mountains together. Unless you’d rather eat alone? I could bring you a basket.”

The invitation seems innocent enough, but there’s something in his expression, concern maybe, or wariness, that makes me curious. “That won’t be necessary. I would love to join you. Lead the way.”

The main house is warmer than I expected, filled with the smell of garlic and rosemary. Eli leads me through a mudroom where boots are lined up with military precision, past a formal dining room that looks unused, and into a large open-plan kitchen.

Jensen stands at a commercial-grade range, sleeves rolled up to show forearms corded with muscle. With his hat off, his dark hair flops across his forehead and there’s a dish towel thrown over one shoulder. The domesticity of the scene catches me off guard.

“Hope you like lamb,” Jensen says without looking up.

Red lounges at the kitchen island, drinking beer and watching Jensen cook with obvious amusement. “City girl probably prefers tofu,” he says under his breath.

“I eat whatever’s put in front of me,” I say, which makes Cole snort from his position by the window. He’s cleaning his nails with a pocketknife, the blade catching the light. Hank doesn’t seem to be here, which is a blessing. That man made me more uneasy than the rest.

“Pull up a chair,” Eli says, grabbing plates from a cabinet. The kitchen feels lived-in, everything well-used but organized. Copper pots hang from a rack, and there’s a row of cast iron skillets on the wall, seasoned to a perfect black shine.

I take a seat at the island, deliberately leaving an empty stool between me and Red. Jensen slides a bottle of beer my way, but I shake my head. “No thanks. Could I trouble you for some water?”

His eyebrow ticks up slightly, but he doesn’t comment as he fills a glass with water from the tap and places it in front of me.

“So, what brought you to Truckee?” Red asks, his drawl somehow sharper than before. “You come here just for Jensen?”

I nod slowly. “Read about him online this morning. Drove straight here.”

“Just like that?” Cole says roughly. “No research? No checking references?”

I meet his stare. “There wasn’t much to be found. Anyway, when you’ve been looking for someone as long as I have, you learn to trust your instincts.”

“And what do your instincts tell you about us?” Red’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Before I can answer, Jensen sets a steaming dish on the island. The lamb is perfectly seared, nestled on a bed of roasted vegetables. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud. I’d barely eaten today and suddenly my hunger feels borderline insatiable.

“Whooo boy,” Cole says, coming over and taking a seat at the end as he rubs his hands at the sight. “You’ve outdone yourself McGraw.”

“Hopefully it’s good enough for your liking,” Jensen says to me, a hint of derision in his low voice.

“Well, they tell me that any man who can cook like this can’t be all bad,” I comment, my stomach gurgling again.

That gets a genuine laugh from Eli, and even Jensen’s mouth quirks up at the corner. He starts plating the food with the kind of precision I associate with high-end restaurants.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask as he slides a plate in front of me.

“Here and there.” He finally sits, taking the empty stool between me and Red and I catch a whiff of sage and something resinous, like copal. I close my eyes briefly as I breathe it in, conscious of his body so close to mine. “Spent some time in Reno kitchens before coming back to the ranch.”

Something passes between him and Cole—a look I can’t quite interpret—but then everyone’s focused on eating, and the kitchen fills with the sounds of cutlery and appreciation.

The lamb is perfect, medium rare and seasoned with herbs with a bit of heat and heap of freshly ground mint and tomato jelly. I try to eat slowly so I don’t wolf it all down at once, but it’s the best meal I’ve had in months. When I was first put on leave, I started using my free time to cook better for myself, but that didn’t last long. Once I entered my downward spiral, I was popping in microwave meals and ordering delivery every chance I got. My body has been begging for a well-rounded home-cooked meal ever since.

“Careful there,” Red says, watching me clean my plate. “Mountain food’s heavier than what you’re used to. Wouldn’t want you getting sick during your lesson tomorrow.”

I set my fork down. “I’m sure I’ll manage. Though I must admit, this is exceptional.” I glance beside me at Jensen but his face remains impassive at my words.

“Jensen’s got hidden depths,” Eli says, which makes Cole snort.

“So, what made you leave the kitchen for ranching?” I ask Jensen, wondering if it will line up with what the twins at the bar had told me.

Jensen takes a slow drink of his beer. “Family business,” he says finally. “My father died and someone had to run it.”

“How’d you find us anyway?” Red asks, leaning back in his chair. “Ranch isn’t exactly on the tourist maps.”

I notice Jensen watching me carefully as I answer. “Started at Three Fingered Jack’s. Figured a local bar was my best bet for information.”

Something passes between the men that I can’t quite read. Jensen’s jaw tightens. “Candace tell you where to find me?”

“The bartender with the eyepatch? No, actually she seemed pretty determined not to help. But I met some friendly locals. A pair of twins that looked like they might have been in ZZ Top at some point.”

“You’ve got quite the network of informants,” Jensen says. “First the news article, then the locals. You sure you’re not a reporter?”

“Not a reporter. Just desperate,” I say, putting my fork down. “When you’ve been looking for someone as long as I have, you learn to follow every lead.”

His expression softens for just a moment before he stands, gathering plates. “Dawn still comes early here. Eli, you’re on breakfast duty tomorrow. The rest of you know what needs doing.”

The dismissal is clear. Red and Cole abruptly get to their feet and head out through the mudroom, their boots echoing on the wooden floors. Eli starts putting away leftovers, humming a melancholy tune under his breath.

“I’ll walk you back,” Jensen says, staring down at me. It’s not a request.

Dinner is over.

He’s already by the door, slipping on his boots, by the time I reach him. He opens the door for me, a gentlemanly gesture, and the cool night air hits me after the warmth of the kitchen. Jensen walks slightly ahead, his stride long enough that I have to quicken my pace to keep up. The path is lit only by the stars and a sliver of moon beneath fast moving clouds.

“You should have called ahead,” he says suddenly.

“Even if I had found your number somehow, would you have answered?”

He doesn’t say anything, which means no.

We pass the barn, now quiet except for the occasional shuffle of horses. The mountains loom larger in the darkness, and I swear I can feel them watching us. A coyote calls in the distance, another answers closer. They sound so sorrowful that a chill runs down my spine.

“Those twins at the bar,” Jensen says, breaking the silence. “They talk too much.”

“They seemed fond of your father.”

He stops so abruptly I almost run into him. When he turns, his eyes reflect the starlight, narrowed like a predator. “My father’s not relevant to this.”

I refuse to be intimidated. I stand my ground. “Everything’s relevant when you’re trying to learn more about a person.”

“Is that so? You know I’m a tracker and that’s what you hired me to do. No reason to know me beyond that. Got it?”

Sheesh. And I thought I was a grump. I press my lips together, saying nothing. A cloud passes over the moon and the temperature seems to drop. Jensen looks up at the mountains again, a strange expression crossing his face.

“In the morning we’ll start with the basics,” he says, turning back to the path. “Horse handling, tacking up, proper form. No point heading up there if you can’t stay in the saddle.”

We reach the cottage steps. I expect him to leave, but he waits as I open the door.

“One more thing,” he says, his voice low. “Stay inside after dark. Mountains get cold at night. The ranch is full of warm bodies. Attracts all kinds of predators.”

“Is that a warning or a threat?” I say, half-joking.

The corner of his mouth ticks up, but his eyes remain serious. “Just good advice. Lock your doors, Miss Wells.”

He disappears into the darkness before I can reply, leaving me with more questions than answers and the unsettling feeling that I’ve stepped into something much bigger than a simple search and rescue.

Inside the cottage, I double-check the lock, though I feel foolish for doing so, like I’m getting paranoid for no reason. That said, I got the impression that the rest of Jensen’s posse lives on property, and the last thing I want is for someone like Hank to waltz in the cottage in the middle of the night.

With the door locked, I peer through the window. I can see lights still on in the main house, shadows moving behind curtains. The urge for a drink hits hard—just one whiskey to take the edge off—but I force myself to make tea instead.

While the kettle boils, I plug in my laptop. I pull up the article about Jensen finding that lost hiker, scanning it again for any details I might have missed. The story is frustratingly vague about his methods, and it certainly doesn’t mention his crew of cowboys being involved. Did Jensen do that whole rescue alone? What makes mine so different that he needs four other men along for the ride?

My tea grows cold as I fall down an internet rabbit hole. Lost Trail Ranch doesn’t have a website. The only mentions I can find are in property records and a few sparse social media posts on forums from people who’ve passed through the area, wondering if they offer trail rides and the like. For a working ranch, they leave surprisingly little footprint. I can’t even find any cattle sales at auctions or buy-and-sell forums.

A sound outside makes me jump. Just the wind in the pines, but it sends me to the window. The mountains are black shapes against a star-filled sky, and for a moment I swear I see movement at the tree line. A shadow darker than the others, there and gone.

My phone buzzes. Another email from Diana coming through the wi-fi: Aubrey, where are you? You’re not answering calls. Let me know you’re okay.

I email her back, saying as little as possible. Diana means well, but she’s probably reporting all of this back to Carlos. The last thing I need is the bureau tracking me down here. The whole point of my leave was to deal with my mental health and my drinking and come to terms with Lainey’s disappearance, not keep chasing ghosts, as Jensen would say. If I told her the truth, I’m sure my leave would be extended indefinitely. They’d probably make me turn in my badge, car, and gun.

So I tell her that I’ve gone to Vegas for a few days to take my mind off things. I’d tell her Reno, but she knows I’d never be caught dead in that shithole.

When the email is sent off, I shut the laptop and get ready for bed. The mattress is comfortable enough, the quilts thick against the autumn chill, and I lie there, running through the evening’s events. Jensen’s sharp reaction to the mention of his father. The way the crew watched each other, like they were having silent conversations I couldn’t follow. Eli’s forced cheerfulness. Red’s probing questions.

And the bartender who didn’t want me finding this place at all.

Sleep feels impossible, but I need to be sharp tomorrow. I set my alarm for seven-thirty and try to quiet my mind. Just as I’m drifting off, a howl echoes from the mountains. Not a coyote, but something larger, hungrier.

I tell myself it’s just a wolf.

I almost believe it.