“Not getting any ideas, are you?”
Travis snatched his hand back and pressed it against his thigh. “No. Not at al—”
“Relax.” Red laughed. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” He glanced at Travis. “Not much of a kidder, are you?”
“Guess not.” He couldn’t afford to be.
“That’s my niece, Hannah Newsome.” Red slowed the truck as he maneuvered a curve. “She came to live with me five years ago. Best stable manager I’ve ever come across—family or not.”
“Stable?” Travis studied the horses’ lithe muscles and shiny manes in the picture.
“Yep. I own Paradise Peak Ranch—the place we’re going to on the other side of the mountain.” Red grinned. “Well, I co-own it.”
Travis leaned closer and eyed the picture again. He took in the wide-open fields that led to high misty peaks. “How many horses do you have?”
Red’s smile fell. “Only a couple. But we’re hoping for more soon.” He gestured toward Travis’s right. “Downtown’s that way, but I don’t have time to show you around now. Gotta get these fish cleaned and stored before they spoil. That all right with you?”
Travis nodded. “Fair trade or not, thanks again for offering me a place for the night. Not many people would do that.”
Red shot him another glance as he slowed the truck down a steep incline. “Why? They got reason not to?”
Travis shifted in his seat. Clutched his bag closer. “I’m a stranger. Nowadays, it’s hard for anyone to trust a stranger.”
Red grunted. “Ain’t that the truth.” He took a left and the truck rocked over a deep rut as it traveled up a graveled track. “But this is my home, and I was raised to be good to people so . . .” He looked at Travis and shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to trust you till you give me a reason not to. You’re welcome to do the same with me.”
Travis tried to smile, tried to reassure him, but he couldn’t. He’d learned years ago that the bad in him could sometimes override the good.
Instead, he faced the view before him and watched the gravel track widen as they reached an open field. A wooden sign, this time bearing the words PARADISE PEAK RANCH, appeared. He looked out the window as the truck passed the sign, watched as one weather-beaten cabin passed, a second cabin, then a third. He squinted past the glint of sunlight hitting the windshield and studied the three-story rustic lodge ahead on the left side of the road. It was large and might have been impressive back in the day, but now, the structure looked as outdated as the neglected cabins they’d passed.
“This is the main lodge,” Red said, turning into a small dirt parking lot and stopping the truck in front of the lodge. “That’s where I stay. I’d offer you a room here, but my co-owner is renovating the place, so I don’t have any decent ones available.” He pointed past the lodge to a large—if run-down-looking—stable. “You’ll spend the night in the cabin up that trail past the stable and on the other side of the stream. Not much to it, but there’s a good view.”
Travis’s gaze followed the narrow dirt trail winding between the stable and a wide paddock with wooden fencing. “That’ll be fine, thanks.”
Red opened his door and hopped out. “Help me unload the coolers and I’ll get you set up to clean the fish.”
Travis exited the truck, put on his backpack, and joined Red at the lowered tailgate of the truck. He unloaded both coolers and all of Red’s tackle, propping the fishing pole against the truck.
“Here.” After retrieving a large knife from a bag tucked in the corner of the truck bed, Red held it out. “This needs a good cleaning before you start. I got sloppy on my last filleting and didn’t have time to clean up after myself. There’s a fish-cleaning table across the field near the stable. Take one cooler up there and clean the knife before you get started. There’s a water hose outside the stable you can use, and some soap’s inside the cabinet next to the hose. While you’re doing that, I’ll let my niece know I’m back, then grab some ice and plastic bags and bring the other cooler to you.”
Travis stared at the knife for a moment. Its blade, though dull and caked with grime in places, glinted beneath the bright morning sunlight. His fingers trembled at the thought of handling it, however benign the intent. He took it though and held it carefully at his side, the solid weight of it unwelcome in his grip.
Red headed for the lodge, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Travis watched as Red walked up a short path, climbed the front steps, and entered the lodge. Sighing, Travis adjusted his grip on the knife in his hand, picked up the cooler with the other, and started walking across the open field toward the stable.
Dormant grass, brown and brittle, crunched beneath his shoes, but the air at Paradise Peak Ranch was cool and clean save for the faint scent of smoke still hovering on the breeze. Gentle slopes and hills spread across the open landscape and, from this vantage point, there was an unimpeded view of the Smoky Mountain range. The plume of smoke he’d seen on the trail earlier still rose from a distant mountaintop, looking thicker from Paradise Peak Ranch.
On the other side of a narrow dirt path, to Travis’s right, lay a spacious fenced-in field that looked serene against the tree line behind it.
His footsteps slowed as he reached the bottom of a small slope. Situated above him was a small structure comprised of thin wood planks and a shoddy roof. Seemed the worn cabins and lodge weren’t the only blemishes on the property—the stable could be added to the list as well.
There were two entrances, the doors of each open and hanging at crooked angles, and what he assumed to be a loft was situated above the entrances, tufts of hay sticking out of its opening. A hose and small wooden cabinet were on the ground beside the right entrance of the stable, and, as Red had said, a small fish-cleaning table made of wood—looking as rickety as the stable—sat several feet to Travis’s left.
Travis walked to the table, set his bag and the cooler beside it, and started up the slope. Eyeing the hose on the ground, he rotated the knife between his fingertips and quickened his steps.
“Stay where you are!”
He jerked to a halt and looked up. A woman, around the same age as he—probably a few years younger, stood on the threshold of the right entrance of the stable, glaring at him, her fists balled at her sides. Her long, auburn hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail, and angry panic flashed in her blue eyes. Her features were familiar, as was the distrust in her direct gaze.
Hannah. Red’s niece.
She stared at the knife clutched in his hand; then her gaze drifted up his arm, over his chest, and fixed on his face. Her scrutiny pierced the blank expression he struggled to maintain and struck deep for dark secrets he wasn’t ready to share.
Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but full of steel. “Who are you?”
* * *
Hannah tightened her fists, tore her eyes from the long blade clenched in the stranger’s hand, and met his stare head-on. Her legs shook, but she held her ground. Looking away would peg her as weak—something she refused to be again.
“I said, who are you?”