was all it took in his line of work. His cover had been blown, and he barely made it out of there alive. “Come on, Dylan. Did we or didn’t we agree not to wallow in the past?”
“We agreed. But as I recall, it was after you ate an entire pint of Ben & Jerry’s as you rehashed some memories I’m too much of a gentleman to bring up.”
“Subtle. Like a sledgehammer.”
“All I’m saying is the things we went through are a part of us. I don’t think we can forget about them.”
“But we don’t have to beat ourselves up over and over, do we? Frankly, I don’t want to live like that.”
He leaned back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck. “So why don’t you find someone new? Someone who isn’t married?”
“Date? Me? No. No way.”
“Why not? You planning on becoming a nun?”
“Knock it off. Of course not. But I’m certainly not going to get myself involved this soon after— I mean, anything I would do now would be a rebound thing, right? I don’t trust rebound things.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean you can’t go out. There’s such a thing as dating for fun.”
“Which you would know about how?”
“Point taken.”
“I think, for us, for now, we need to focus on the agency. In a year or so, we can rethink things, but now? Let’s just be detectives.”
“Right. Good answer.”
She sighed. “So quit bugging me. I have work to do.”
He didn’t say anything, but about two minutes later, a rubber band hit her in the shoulder. Being so much older and more mature than Dylan, she let it pass.
WHEN LILY LEFT the office, it was almost eight. Dylan was hungry—he hadn’t eaten since noon—but the idea of joining the family for dinner didn’t sit well. He didn’t want to make small talk, and he certainly didn’t want to discuss his progress on the case.
Progress. As if he’d made any. The police were cooperating, to a degree, but that was only because he’d been part of the brotherhood. The evidence was sketchy as hell. Would car-jackers be sophisticated enough to wear gloves? Why else would there be no fingerprints in the car? Did they simply hold a gun to her head and force her out? Then why was there blood on the back seat?
It didn’t make sense, and Dylan’s instinct told him it wasn’t a car-jacking. And yet, there was no ransom note. No demands. There had to be something else, some third possibility he couldn’t see yet. She could have taken off, of course, but that wasn’t Julie’s style. He’d just keep digging until he figured it out.
His gaze shifted to a framed photograph on the wall behind the credenza. In it, he was with Julie and Sebastian, all smiles. Sebastian’s arm was around Julie’s waist and Julie’s head rested on his shoulder. They were the picture of connubial bliss. Although they’d spent the day on the ranch, they’d been AWOL for about an hour after lunch, and Dylan knew exactly what they’d been doing.
He’d tried like hell not to let his imagination run wild, but he should have known better. With Julie, he had no willpower, no control. She came to him in dreams, while he was out riding, during business meetings. He’d thought by now he would have accepted that she’d chosen Sebastian. He’d been wrong.
He opened his bottom drawer and took out the bottle of aged scotch he kept there. But he didn’t pour any. Instead, his gaze moved back to the photograph. To the necklace Julie wore with such pride. It was a silver heart that opened to reveal a small picture of the happy couple. It had been her mother’s locket and Sebastian had scored major points for fixing it up like he had.
Dylan had given her earrings. But she wasn’t wearing those in the photo. Just the necklace. Which was appropriate, of course. But he’d wished…
Screw that. It was over. Over and done, and Julie was with Sebastian. If Julie was alive, that is. If he could find her.
Although he wasn’t a man who ordinarily prayed, he closed his eyes and repeated the desperate bargain that had become almost a mantra in the last six months. “God, please keep her safe. Bring her home. If you do that, I swear I’ll stop loving her.”
CHAPTER THREE
LILY TURNED UP the music as she merged onto U.S. 87. Another few hours and she’d reach Abilene. She’d found Cole Bishop easily enough. Now came the hard part. Getting him to come back with her.
Thanks to the Internet, she’d actually learned a good deal about his work. He had a successful midsize ranch—the Circle B—just outside the small city of Jessup where he raised prize-winning Black Angus cattle. He had an excellent breeding program, but what he was most noted for was the way he managed the ranch. His techniques had been written up in The Cattlemen and the High Plains Journal, two big trade magazines. His approach to ranching was modern and cost-effective. Clearly, he was a smart cookie.
What she didn’t find was anything about the man himself. No personal information at all. She couldn’t find any pictures, either.
It occurred to her that perhaps Mr. Bishop wanted to connect with Eve again, but that he didn’t know how. Men, especially ranchers, could be stubborn as mules. So maybe her appearance would be just the excuse he needed to mend his fences and go back into the fold.
But somehow she doubted it. Why? She couldn’t say. Like her brother, she trusted her gut instincts. They’d always been alike that way. Most of her insights had been about Dylan; it was a twin thing, which she’d discovered wasn’t uncommon at all. But when she’d moved out of the house, other events seemed to trigger that sixth sense of hers. It wasn’t as if she had ESP or anything. Just that from time to time her radar would go off.
It had gone off with Jason Gill, but she’d ignored it. There had been that small worried voice in the back of her head when he’d asked her to leave New York and transfer to the Dallas office. But had she listened? Oh, no. She’d moved, lock, stock and barrel. Once she’d turned off her receiver, it had stayed off. She’d believed every honeyed lie, and she’d fallen hard. She still got monthly issues of Bride magazine at the house. Instead of canceling the damn subscription, she preferred to stack the magazines in a pile by her bed. A towering reminder to heed her intuition.
Of course, sometimes listening to the quiet voice inside led to things that were hard to deal with. As a forensics specialist working for the FBI, she’d learned how to go by the book. Except that one time. The small voice had led her to discover that the death of a pregnant teenager and the child inside her had not occurred in a drive-by shooting, as the police believed, but at the hands of her own father.
She’d realized then that forensics wasn’t where she belonged. It wasn’t all bad. But the case of the teenager, and of course the whole Jason mess, convinced her to leave Dallas and come home. That, at least, had been a positive thing.
The memories had shattered her good mood, and that wasn’t acceptable. She turned up the radio until the car vibrated with Reba singing “Fancy.” Lily sang along, not caring that her voice was terrible, and that she only hit some of the notes some of the time. She loved singing
