Читать книгу Westin's Wyoming - Alice Sharpe - Страница 9

February

Cody Westin gripped the receiver in his left hand as he sat down at his desk.

“Tell me exactly where you found her,” he said, pausing to listen as the detective rattled off rapid-fire details.

“Yes, I’ll come,” Cody said at length, his dark gaze moving to the big window that overlooked the uncompromising Wyoming peaks. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ll leave within the hour. I’ll meet you there.” Brow furrowing, he added, “Smyth? Don’t lose her, okay?”

He clicked off the phone and stood for a moment. Then he walked to the sideboard and poured himself a finger of whiskey, tossing it back in one swallow, closing his eyes as the liquor burned its way down his throat.

His brother Adam, who worked the ranch with Cody and their father, was off on a backcountry hike in Hawaii, unreachable by phone. That meant Cody would need to contact his other brother, Pierce. The detective’s call couldn’t have come at a worse time—the ranch was gearing up for calving season, which was coming in a month or so.

“Family comes first,” he muttered. It was an uneasy point in ranching life. The herd came first, too. Made things a juggling act.

Pierce was half owner of a business currently operating overseas. He could take time off for an emergency if he wanted to. That was the rub. Would he want to?

He had to. Someone had to be in charge since their father was laid up. The place couldn’t run itself.

Clicking nails on the hardwood floor and a wet nose thrust against his arm announced Bonnie had come into the office. Cody ran a hand along the pale yellow Lab’s smooth head, then set the empty glass on the sideboard. Back at the desk he didn’t even bother to review his planner—whatever was on the books for the next few days would just have to happen without him. He had to go. This might be his last chance.

He moved aside the painting of the old hunting lodge that hung behind the desk and worked the combination on the safe hidden under it. Reaching inside, his fingers closed on a small box. He stared at it a moment, then slowly tucked it in his jeans pocket as the dog watched him with deep brown eyes, tail gently wagging.

“You can’t go with me, Bonnie,” he murmured. “Not this time.”

He would pack a bag, drive to Woodwind and catch a plane. Somehow, someway, he had to find the right words, say the right thing, end this nightmare.

But first he’d call Pierce home.