doing it again.”
Ignoring the soft admonishment, Sara leaned forward to gaze out the car’s front window at the row of brightly colored Victorian stores lining Main Street. “Look at that. Warner Bros. couldn’t have created a better Western set.”
“This is the West.”
Right.
Crimson, Colorado. Population 3,500 if the sign coming over the pass into town was accurate. Altitude 8,900 feet. Sara blamed the lack of air for her inability to catch her breath.
April rummaged in the sack at her feet. “Aren’t you curious?” She offered Sara an apple. Sara held up a half-eaten Snickers in response.
“I gave up curious a long time ago.” She stuffed the candy bar into her mouth. “Along with cigarettes, savage tans, men and chocolate.” She swallowed. “Okay, scratch chocolate.”
That resolution had fallen by the interstate about four hours into the thirteen-hour drive from Los Angeles. While Crimson was only thirty minutes down the road from the ritzy ski town of Aspen, it held as much appeal to Sara as a blistered big toe.
Sure, it was beautiful if you were one of those back-to-nature types who appreciated towering pines, glittering blue skies and breathtaking views. Sara was a city girl. A blanket of smog comforted her; horns blaring on the I-5 made her smile. In her world, ski boots were a fashion statement, not a cold-weather necessity.
She was out of her element.
Big-time.
“Go on.” April leaned over and opened the driver’s-side door. “The sooner you talk to the attorney, the quicker we’ll be back on the road to la-la land.”
Sara’s need to put Rocky Mountain Mayberry in her rearview mirror propelled her out of the car. She couldn’t do that until she met with Jason Crenshaw, attorney-at-law, whose cryptic phone call two days earlier had started this unplanned road trip.
If nothing else, she hoped the money Crenshaw had for her would buy gas on the way back. And groceries. Sara could live on ramen noodles and snack cakes for weeks, but April was on a strict organic, vegan diet. Sara didn’t understand eating food that looked like cat puke and tasted like sawdust, but she had no right to question April’s choices. If it weren’t for Sara, April would have plenty of money to spend on whatever she wanted. And rabbit food cost plenty of money.
She pulled her well-worn jeans jacket tight and squinted through a mini dust tornado as a gust of wind whipped along the town’s main drag. Mid-May in Southern California and the temperature hovered at a balmy seventy degrees, but Crimson still had a bit of winter’s chill to the air. The mountain peaks surrounding the town were covered in snow.
Sara didn’t do snow.
She opened the pale turquoise door to the office of Crenshaw and Associates and stepped in, lifting her knock-off Prada sunglasses to the top of her head.
The desk in the reception area sat vacant, large piles of paper stacked precariously high. “Hello?” she called in the general direction of the office door at the back of the lobby.
A chair creaked and through the door came a younger man who looked like he could have been Andy Griffith’s rumpled but very handsome son. He peered at her over a pair of crooked reading glasses, wiping his hands on the paper napkin stuffed into his collared shirt.
Sara caught the whiff of barbecue and her stomach grumbled. No food envy, she reminded herself. Noodles were enough for her.
“Sorry, miss,” the man said as he looked her over. “No soliciting. Try a couple doors down at the diner. Carol might have something left over from the lunch rush.”
Sara felt her eyes widen a fraction. The guy thought she was a bum. Fantastic. She pulled at her spiky bangs. “I’m looking for Jester Crunchless,” she said with a well-timed lip curl.
“I’m Jason Crenshaw.” The man bristled. “And who might you be?”
“Sara Wells.”
Immediately his posture relaxed. “Ms. Wells, of course.” He pulled out the napkin as he studied her, revealing a tie decorated with rows of small snowboards. “You know, we watched Just the Two of Us religiously around here. You’re different than I expected.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Right.” He chuckled self-consciously. “You’re a heck of a lady to track down.”
“I’m here now.”
“Of course,” he repeated. “Why don’t you step into my office?”
“Why don’t you hand over the check?”
His brows drew together. “Excuse me?”
“On the phone you said inheritance.” She reached into her purse. “I have ID right here. Let’s get this over with.”
“Were you close to your grandmother, Ms. Wells?”
“No.” She could barely remember her grandmother. Sara’s mother had burned a trail out of Crimson as soon as she could and had kept Sara far away from her estranged family.
“The heart attack was a shock. We’re told she didn’t suffer.” He paused. “It’s a loss for the whole town. Miss Trudy was the backbone of Crimson.”
A sliver of something, a long-buried emotion, slipped across Sara’s heart and she clamped it down quickly. Shaking her head, she made her voice flip. “It’s tragic that she was your backbone and whatnot. I barely knew the woman. Can we talk about the money?”
Another pause. “There is no money.” Crenshaw’s tone took on a harsh edge. Harsh was Sara’s home turf.
Sara matched his emotion. “Then why in the hell did I just drive all the way from California?”
He cleared his throat. “We discussed an inheritance on the phone, Ms. Wells. Not money, specifically.” He turned to a rickety file cabinet and peered into the top drawer. “I have it right here.”
Great. She and April had driven almost a thousand miles for an old piece of costume jewelry or something. She mentally calculated if she could get to Denver on the fumes left in her gas tank.
He turned back to her and held out a set of keys. “There’s some paperwork, for sure. We should talk to Josh about how he fits into the mix. He and Trudy had big plans for the place. But you look like you could use a rest. Go check it out. We can meet again tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning she’d be halfway to the Pacific Ocean. “What place?”
“Crimson Ranch,” he told her. “Miss Trudy’s property.” He jingled the keys.
Sara’s stomach lurched. “She left me a property?”
Before Crenshaw could answer, cool air tickled Sara’s ponytail. She turned as her mother, Rosemarie Wells, glided in with bottle-blond hair piled high on top of her regal head. A man followed in her wake, indiscriminately middle-aged, slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, slight paunch
