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I straighten. “Gonna pretend that I’m here to finish the job.”

“Will he believe you?”

I crack out a jagged laugh. “Yeah, he’ll believe me. I have a reputation for getting things done. He doesn’t like it that I threatened him, but he also thinks I like money more than I like Taya.”

“Men like him don’t know how men like you function.”

I give him a sad smile. “The thing is, Hugh, I was a man like him.”

He shakes his head. “Kaz had you looked into, Brooks, and you ain’t like Jessup. You never took a job that put national security at risk, and you don’t do wet work. You got lines. Man like Jessup, he got no lines. And you’re here to take care of your woman. Jessup whores his out.”

I wince at that.

Hugh arches an eyebrow.

I wave a hand. “It was a long time ago…I didn’t know she was his wife and…it was in D.C. and a weekend.”

Fuck, the way your past comes back and bites you in the ass.

“Be fun when Taya finds that out.”

I glare at him.

“You should know that by morning, everyone in Wildflower Canyon is going to know you’re back. Eunice tells Moxy, Moxy tells The Rusty Spur crowd, Gary tells the breakfast regulars at the inn.” He gestures at the diner around us. “It’s already in motion. Three people have walked past that window in the last twenty minutes and looked in. And then there’s Jay and Joy and…well, you know, this is a small town.”

I rub a hand over my face. The time zone change. The early morning. All of it is catching up with me.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Good.” He finishes his coffee. “Then you know you don’t have the option of being quiet about your intentions. People are going to be watching what you do.”

“I know that, too.”

He nods, satisfied, and stands. “I’ll expect a call from your investigator within twenty-four hours.”

“You’ll have it.”

He puts on his hat. “Tip Eunice well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Brooks, for what it’s worth, Kaz may be a pain in my backside, but he’s got integrity. He vouched for you. He doesn’t do that lightly.”

I pay for dinner, leave a hundred percent tip, and don’t even get a smile for my efforts.

I go back to the Ridgeline, and I work.

I open my encrypted laptop and pull up everything I have on Trafton—the Salt Lake City file from two years ago, the background documentation I compiled when he appeared at The Rusty Spur, the financial records I accumulated as a side thread while building the Jessup package. I pull it all into a clean file. Then, I call my investigator in Denver.

He answers on the second ring.

“I need someone found.”

“Tell me.”

I tell him everything I have. Trafton’s real name, his operational history, his known vehicles, his tendencies, and the geographical parameters. The Grand Junction airport lead. The cash pattern means he’s not using cards but is buying supplies somewhere.

“I need this in twenty-four hours.”