Page 36 of September’s Cowboy Travis

“Stares at people until they answer a question she hasn’t actually asked.”

Her smile widened. “Does it work?”

“Unfortunately.” I slid the papers into my folder.

“Are you going to tell him?” she asked.

“Of course.” I answered before I'd figured out whether she meant the report or something else.

Thankfully, Morgan didn't push.

The committee meeting took less than half an hour. Once I laid out the bank records and the connection between the current lease and the 1912 Cedar Draw Stock and Land Account, there wasn't much room for disagreement. The five-thousand-dollar payment had come through a legitimate successor entity, tied to the historical Parcel 17-B acreage and not to the questionable livestock suppliers. Travis hadn't known the old account existed, and nothing in his lease had triggered the transfer on purpose.

The committee accepted my findings. A week of suspicion ended with a few signatures and a request for the final written report.

One of the committee members gathered his papers. “Does this mean you're headed back to Bozeman?”

“Tomorrow, probably.”

The answer made perfect sense. I had work waiting and an apartment I hadn’t seen in more than a week. I could finish the report just as easily from my own desk. Staying one more night would give me time to organize the remaining files and close out the job without rushing. After that, I’d be out of professional reasons to stay in Mustang Mountain.

I carried my laptop bag outside and stopped on the steps of City Hall to check the time. It was almost four. Travis would be at the ranch.

I told myself I needed to give him the final results in person because he'd been the subject of the audit. It seemed like the reasonable thing to do. Eager to see him again, I walked straight past my hotel instead of stopping for my things.

Travis was repairing fence near the barn when I pulled into his yard. He had one boot braced against the bottom rail and a pair of pliers in his hand. His hat shaded his face from the late-afternoon sun, and a coil of wire sat in the grass next to him.

He looked up and smiled when my car stopped. I smiled back as I reached for the folder though a part of me knew this might be the last time we saw each other, at least for a while.

“You keep showing up with paperwork,” he said when I crossed the yard.

“It's how I lure men in.”

“Seems inefficient.”

“You're still here.”

He set the pliers on the fence post and wiped his palm against his jeans before reaching for me. The kiss was brief but familiar enough that I leaned into it without thinking.

His hand stayed at my waist when he stepped back. “How'd it go?”

“The committee accepted my findings.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. You're officially cleared.”

Travis nodded. He didn't ask if anyone had apologized for suspecting him. After everything he'd told me about Mustang Mountain remembering the worst version of him, I doubted an apology was something he'd expected.

“Morgan found the 1912 document too.”

His attention moved to the folder. “Is that good or bad?”

“I’m not sure yet. Finding it was useful.” I opened the folder and handed him the copy Morgan had given me.

“The acreage that later became Parcel 17-B was part of the old Cedar Draw Stock and Land Account. The land and some of the livestock proceeds connected to it were set aside for Margaret Whitaker.” Travis read the section I'd marked. “Who's Margaret Whitaker?”

“We still don't know exactly.”