Page 114 of The Billion Heirs Boxed Set

“This is a pain in my ass,” Chance grumbles, dirt kicking up beneath the heels of his worn work boots. “Why the hell do we need to be questioned again? He was here last night.”

We make our way along the narrow dirt road between the main house and one of the many outbuildings on the vast Bridger property. The one we came from houses the ATVs and other mechanical equipment—tractors, snowmobiles, and even a snowplow. The space is big, well-kept, and more importantly, heated. My dream mechanic’s shop. If I’m staying here for a year, I figure I can use the space for my custom jobs.

I might have to follow the constraints of our dead father’s will and take up ranching in the middle of Bumfuck, Montana, but it doesn’t mean I can’t keep my business going in my downtime. MB Custom Builds can continue from anywhere, as long as I have room to work—which I do—and my clients ship their bikes or cars here instead of to my shop in New York. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy working on the older bike I just bought.

“The body might have been on our land, but the police have nothing to tie us to the murder,” Austin says. “If what Peterson says is true.”

The way Austin says our land doesn’t go unnoticed. A shit ton has happened in the short time we’ve been here, and I agree with Austin. This place, even the stupid cows, feels more and more like…ours.

“Easy for you to say,” Chance counters. “You just got here. I have no alibi unless the police can pinpoint exactly when the man was killed. Even then, I might not have one.”

Chance’s face is shaded from the bright sun by his Stetson, which he pretty much always wears unless he’s driving. I assume he takes it off for the shower and to sleep, but we aren’t close enough for me to know for sure.

He has a point.

“Louisa didn’t say anything about the police bringing a warrant this time,” I say, hoping that will ease his mind. “They’re not going to be poking around.”

The housekeeper called Chance’s cell to notify us of the unexpected visitors.

The local police. Again.

We come up around the back side of the house.

“It’s got to be because of Jonathan,” I say. “Who else was that big of an asshole? I never even met the guy, but I wouldn’t put murder past him.”

We turn the corner and proceed along the paved walkway, flanked by gardener-maintained flower beds, until we reach the steps leading to the front porch.

Two people hop up from the rocking chairs and I halt in my tracks.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter, eyeing one of them.

The one I know. Very well.

Intimately, in fact.

Out of all the bars in all of Montana, I stopped at the one where she was for a bachelorette party. Fuck. Fuck!

“Peterson, what now?” Chance demands.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chance cross his arms over his chest. I don’t look away from…her.

From Sadie.

“Brought my partner today,” Peterson says. “Sadie Hopkins.”

Unlike the night before, when she was in an easily-liftable skirt, Sadie is now in jeans and a white blouse with a few modest buttons undone exposing the cotton of a tank top—no cleavage in sight. Her hair, which was silky soft between my fingers, is pulled back in a low ponytail. She has a gun in a holster at her hip along with a shiny badge clipped to her leather belt. I sure as hell find it sexy, comparing the woman from the night before to the one standing in front of me.

I don’t see any handcuffs on her belt, but I wouldn’t mind her pulling them out for a little fun.

Although… She might be more motivated to put them on me or one of my brothers for a less pleasant reason.

Murder.

Her dark eyes are wide and her full lips—which I wish I had sampled—are in a thin line.

She doesn’t say a word.

At least her name really is Sadie. At the bar, I shared mine with her but nothing else. Not because I wanted it to be a secret. We didn’t talk about our jobs. We didn’t talk about anything except how her party friends were expected to do something daring—in her case, to give a man her panties.