He stood in the shadows for a few minutes, scanning the area. Nothing moved. The pastures were empty. The barn doors were rolled halfway open, probably for ventilation in the summer heat. He could hear the steady patter of rain and the occasional snort of a horse from inside the barn.

Lance crept to the first building, a large shed. He cracked the door a few inches. The dusty smell of hay and straw hit his nose. He slipped inside, his boots scraping on the concrete slab. A few high windows provided scant light. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Bales of hay and straw were stacked in neat rows. Wooden pallets kept the stacks off the floor. Something scurried in the darkness. Rats? Cats? Probably both. The bales were well organized, leaving no real spaces to hide. He used his penlight sparingly, taking care that its beam was always pointed toward the ground, and hoping it wasn’t visible to the cop on the road.

He slipped back outside into the rain. A four-bay garage stood to his right. Crouching, Lance jogged across the muddy ground to the side entrance. A heavy-duty padlock secured the door. He tried one of the four overhead rolling doors, but it didn’t budge. High windows were placed eight feet off the ground. They would provide light without compromising security. Lance walked under one, jumped, and caught the sill with his fingertips. Chinning himself, he looked inside. The space was dark, but he could make out the shape of a tractor, some other outdoor equipment, and a lot of empty concrete. What appeared to be large tools were hung on a wall, but this space was also ruthlessly organized. He saw nowhere to hide.

Lowering himself, he dropped to the ground. He picked his way across the mud to a long, rectangular building. The sliding door stood open. Lance glanced inside. Rain echoed on the metal roof. The space was open and the ceiling high. From the circular patterns of hoofprints in the soft soil, he assumed it was a small riding arena for inclement-weather training.

Which left the barn to be searched.

Lance peered around the doorframe. Horses snorted and shuffled in straw. He entered quietly. A cat wound around his ankles, purring. He walked down the aisle, pointing his penlight through the bars of each stall. The last space was an open wash stall, with a concrete floor, hoses with hot and cold taps, and a large drain. Lance went up the ladder and checked the loft, but all he saw were more bales of hay and straw. He came down and checked the stalls on the opposite side of the aisle. He saw two more cats and eleven horses but no teenage boy. He ducked into a feed room, using his penlight to look behind the bins. Empty. Then he went into a tack room. Saddles and bridles hung on racks. Two large chests stood against the opposite wall. Lance risked his penlight to check beneath the saddle racks. He turned, nearly bumping into a sink. Dark streaks in the bottom caught his eye. Was that blood?

He clicked on his penlight and was almost disappointed to see the stain was rust, not blood.

Something scuffed on the floor behind him. Lance pivoted. His hand went to his holster, his thumb sliding the safety straps out of the way. A dark shape whipped at his head. He turned and tried to block the blow. It struck him across the back of the head and shoulders. Pain ricocheted through his skull, his vision dimmed, and he pitched face-first toward the floor. The penlight flew from his hand. He landed on the wooden floor with a jaw-rattling impact that shook his gun free of the holster and sent it skittering across the floor. It disappeared under a large chest.

Lance blinked his vision clear. His attacker was standing next to him. He wore black athletic shoes and dark clothes. The darkness—and the NVGs strapped to his head so he could better see in the dark—concealed his face. Lance knew only two things. He needed to get his own night vision goggles, and his attacker wasn’t a cop. Anyone with legal authority would have arrested him. He wasn’t Steve either. The property owner would have called the police, not wrestled with him. Plus, even in the dark, Lance could see that this man wasn’t big enough to be Steve Duncan. Lance looked for a weapon, but it was too dark to see if the man was carrying a gun. He held some sort of tool in one hand. The other hand appeared empty. If he were armed, Lance hoped he wouldn’t want the sound of a gunshot to attract attention.

“Who are you?” the man asked in a low, harsh voice.

“Who are you?” Lance kicked the man’s feet out from under his body. He went down hard and landed on the floor with a grunt. Lance rolled toward him, grabbing a pant leg and pulling the man toward him. The man kicked Lance’s hand. Pain forced his fingers to release their grip.

The attacker rolled onto his hands and knees, then got to his feet. Lance levered a foot under his body. He stayed low, bending his knees, readying himself for his opponent’s next attack. The man adjusted the NVGs on his face and circled to the left. Lance moved as well, toward the saddles. He spotted his penlight on the floor under the saddle rack.

Is this the man who killed Paul?

Is he now after Evan?

The man reached into his pocket and withdrew something. Lance squinted in the darkness. A knife? A soft click confirmed a switchblade, and an extra jolt of adrenaline shot into Lance’s veins.

The attacker lunged, sweeping the blade toward Lance’s belly. Lance jumped back, twisting his body just in time to avoid the flick of the knife. The man lunged again, the switchblade stabbing at Lance’s face. Lance blocked, forearm to forearm. Pain zinged through his arm as their bones connected. His attacker fell back, then rallied.

Lance dove for the ground, and his fingers closed on the penlight. He rolled back to his feet just as the knife came at his belly. But Lance clicked the penlight on and shone it directly into his attacker’s NVGs. The amplified light would be blinding. The man’s lunge faltered, and he raised one hand to block the light.

Lance went for the knife hand with an outward sweep of his forearm. He continued to circle his hand, hooking it around and over the attacker’s arm and trapping it against his own shoulder. Then he shoved the man’s upper body backward and kicked his feet in the opposite direction. The assailant went down on his ass and lost his grip on the knife. It fell to the floor.

Lance moved toward him. The son of a bitch was his.

The man reached behind him and pulled a handgun from the small of his back. He pointed it at Lance’s head. Lance froze, his hands rising in front of his body, palms facing his opponent. His attacker backed toward the exit, glancing behind him, then disappeared through the doorway. Lance stumbled into the aisle. But the man was gone. He heard the retreating slap of shoes in mud as the man ran away.

Lance’s vision had begun to clear, but he was in no shape to give chase, especially not unarmed. He returned to the tack room. Kneeling on the floor, he swept a hand under the chest and retrieved his handgun. Sliding it into its holster, he contemplated his next move. If he called the sheriff, would he get arrested?

Possibly.

Would the sheriff even believe him?

Not likely.

The sheriff might be able to talk Steve Duncan into filing trespassing charges or Colgate would stick Lance in a holding cell for interfering with his case. Morgan could get Lance out, but all that would take time away from finding Evan.

Lance couldn’t take the chance. He wouldn’t be able to find Evan from a jail cell.

The sheriff had his own agenda, and he’d made it clear that it was the opposite of Lance’s. Colgate wasn’t a dirty cop, but his mind was made up. This time, Lance couldn’t trust the sheriff to have his back.

Also, Lance did not want Jake to know he’d searched the farm. If the boy were helping Evan, Lance wanted him to feel safe doing so. Lance could follow him another day. Plus, he didn’t want Jake to abandon helping Evan.

Lance made sure the tack room showed no sign of their struggle. Then he slipped out into the darkness. The trip back through the woods to his car seemed much longer than his initial approach. The rain had increased to a downpour. He slogged through the mud back to his Jeep.

It was four thirty when he climbed into his vehicle. Morgan would be up within the hour. He turned the Jeep toward home. Originally, he’d intended to slip back into the house so she wouldn’t know he’d left. He doubted that could happen now. He touched the throbbing knot at the back of his head and felt a lump rising.

She was going to be pissed and rightfully so. He’d gone alone, nearly been stabbed, and possibly let the man who had killed Paul escape.

Chapter Sixteen

Morgan chugged her first cup of coffee standing in front of the pot and immediately poured another. At four forty-five in the morning, anger and worry had already cleared the sleep from her head.

Where was Lance?

When she’d woken in an empty bed a half hour before, she’d checked the house, then thought maybe he’d gone for a run. But his running shoes were in the bedroom closet. She’d texted him. When he didn’t answer, she’d tried calling, but the call had immediately been sent to voice mail.

She turned and lowered herself into a dining room chair.

Where could he have gone in the middle of the night?

Dog tags jingled as Rocket and Snoozer lifted their heads from the carpet near her feet. Both dogs stood and trotted toward the front door. She heard the quiet chirp of the alarm as it was deactivated. She followed the dogs to the foyer. She exhaled as Lance came through the front door, tension rolling off her skin. He carried muddy boots in one hand. He was covered in mud and bits of organic debris.

But he was all right.

He set his boots in the rubber tray by the front door.

She wanted to kiss him, but she also wanted to shake him. Did he have any idea how worried she’d been for the last thirty minutes? She took two deep breaths, then walked closer and chose the kiss, because in the end, all that really mattered was that he was back, safe and sound. He looked surprised when her mouth left his.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Jake O’Reilly’s farm. Let me shower and change. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

“You can tell me while you shower and change.” Morgan hooked a hand around the back of his neck to hold him in place.

Lance winced. She released him. Blood streaked her fingers. She took him by the hand and led him back to the bedroom. Steering him to take a seat on the closed toilet lid, she pushed his head down and examined the back of his skull. He didn’t object. Parting his hair, she revealed a goose egg and a cut.