CHAPTER NINE

C AIN RETURNED TO THE HOTEL, CHANGED INTO CLEAN JEANS AND A fresh blue-denim shirt, then gave Nell and Emma a tour, winding up in Nell's nearly completed suite and Emma's adjoining quarters, not as large, but extremely nice.

Afterward, he loaded Nell's wheelchair into the back of the Acura RDX he had bought for her, one of the easiest vehicles for the handicapped to get in and out of. Taller than Nell and thirty pounds heavier, Emma helped Nell into the passenger seat. His grandmother could walk with the use of a cane, just not well and not for long.

They stopped for lunch at the Clinkscale, once a brothel owned by a madam named Belgian Jennie Bauters—at one time, the richest woman in Arizona. In a strange twist, Jennie was murdered by her opium-addicted boyfriend, who was hanged a few months later for the crime.

More ghosts? Cain thought with amusement, then remembered an old saying, Whoever dies in Jerome, stays in Jerome. Though Belgian Jennie had been murdered in another town, the brothel in Jerome had belonged to her, so if you believed in spirits . . .

He smiled as Emma held the door and Cain wheeled Nell inside. Today, the building was a lovely boutique hotel with a restaurant downstairs that served the best food in town.

They ate a leisurely lunch, and then Cain helped Nell back into the car and loaded the wheelchair, and Emma settled herself in the driver's seat.

"I'll let you know when your rooms are ready," Cain said.

"It better be soon," Nell warned. "'Cause we're about to be movin' in."

Cain grinned. "One way or another, they'll be ready for you by the end of the week."

Nell grinned back. "That's my boy."

Cain watched Emma drive the SUV down the hill toward Cottonwood, heading for Interstate l7, the road back to Scottsdale, then turned and made the steep walk up the hill from the Clinkscale to the Grandview, enjoying the brisk fall weather and the exercise.

Back in his suite, he thought of what had happened last night, thought of Jenny and tried not to imagine her sleeping in his bed.

By herself, unfortunately.

He would be glad to be back at the ranch, where he could concentrate on other problems and push images of Jenny to the back of his mind.

Before leaving the hotel, Cain double-checked with Jake, then spoke to Millicent about Nell's suite. Satisfied he'd done what he could, he headed out to his Jag for the drive back down the mountain. On Monday, he had a meeting with the private detective he had hired to help him find his champion cutting horse and the men responsible for stealing him. On Tuesday, he would be back in Jerome to get Jenny situated in her new job.

Jenny. Arousal slipped though him, tightening his groin. Damn.

When he'd returned to Jerome, he'd had no idea he would run into Jenny Spencer—hell, he barely remembered her—or that if he did, he would feel an attraction he hadn't felt for a woman in years.

He wondered what Jenny thought of him and hoped the attraction was mutual. He had a feeling his money and success wouldn't make a bit of difference to her. Sort of good news/bad news, depending on how you looked at it.

Money usually bought him just about anything. Not this time. Cain wanted Jenny. He just had to figure out how to make her want him.

The weekend slipped past with only the usual problems of running a ranch. Monday morning, he drove his pickup the thirty miles to Prescott, arriving on time for his ten o'clock appointment with Nick Faraday.

Nick was former military. He'd gone into law enforcement for a couple of years after leaving the service, found out he had a knack for digging up information, and eventually gone private.

Cain crossed the lot to the office of Faraday Investigations on Gurley Street, a small, unassuming beige structure with parking spaces out front. He rapped a few times and opened the door. Nick was kicked back in the chair behind his desk, his cowboy boots crossed at the ankle on top, his cell phone pressed against his ear. He was about six feet, lean-muscled, black-haired, and good-looking.

He waved Cain forward as he swung his feet to the floor and sat up in his chair.

"I'll be in touch," Nick said into the phone and ended the call. He looked at Cain. They'd been friends for years, even before Nick had gone into the army. They had reconnected when Cain bought the Cross Bar Ranch and wanted background information on the men who worked there.

"You're early," Nick said. "Lucky for you, I've already got some intel for you." He pointed to a wooden captain's chair on the opposite side of the desk. "Have a seat."

The office had the bare essentials, a desk with a computer on top, a couple of metal file cabinets, a pair of wooden chairs in front of the desk, and a small, barely functional kitchen in a tiny room next to the bathroom. The space was painted a dull off-white, and there were a couple of posters, photos of the Arizona desert, on the walls.

Nick believed that, aside from the time he spent on the computer, being in the office meant he wasn't getting his work done.

"You want some coffee?" Nick asked.

Cain flicked a glance toward the tiny kitchen. "You call that day-old sludge you drink coffee?"

"Just brewed a fresh pot."

"That's a relief. Thanks, I could use some."

Nick brought him a pottery mug with a cactus on the side and returned to his seat behind the desk, carrying a mug for himself.

Cain took a sip. It was hot and black, just the way he liked it. He hadn't slept well last night, worrying about the Steel Cobras and Jenny. Maybe the coffee would help him focus. "So what have you got for me?"

"Let's just say you aren't the only one who's been losing livestock. The Branch Creek Ranch out in Dewey had a couple of prize quarter horses stolen, rodeo stock that earned them a pretty penny in competition earnings. They were taken two days after your cutting horse went missing."

"Dewey isn't that far from the Cross Bar."

"No, and two top-ranked Morgan show horses were stolen from the Four Winds Ranch near Cordes Lakes the week before the incident at your place. The ranch is a horse-boarding facility. Losing expensive livestock is not good for business."

"So we've got a horse-thieving ring."

"Looks like."

"Interesting that all three thefts happened in Yavapai County. What's the sheriff doing about it?"

"Deputy Landry says he's working on it."

"That's what he told me. I prefer action over words. You got any ideas who might be responsible?"

"Good chance somebody local is feeding the thieves information. No way the thefts are random. There are a lot of horses out there, but somehow they managed to pick the most valuable."

"Who would have that kind of information?" Cain asked.

"Could be as simple as digging around on the internet. It might take some time, but the info is probably out there."

Cain pondered the notion, though it didn't sit quite right in his head. "I guess you could find info on my stud. Sun King is an all-American cutting-horse champion. His offspring have won total earnings of over a million dollars. Plenty of articles written about him."

"Same goes for the show horses. There's info out there on them."

"So somebody steals them. How are they getting rid of them?"

"Good question."

"I've got some people who are good with computers," Cain said. "They can find out just about anything."

"Like who might have been searching ranch websites looking for valuable animals?"

"Exactly." Cain rose from his chair. "Keep digging. I'm not convinced the internet is the answer."

Nick stood up behind his desk. "Neither am I."

"One more thing. I need a little info on a woman named Jenny Spencer. She's working part-time for me at the Grandview. Born in Cottonwood. Owns the Copper Star Saloon and Hotel. See what else you can find out."

"Will do."

The men shook hands, and Cain left the office. On his way back to the ranch, he drove through an Arby's on Iron Springs Road and grabbed a roast-beef sandwich, then at the last minute, made a turn onto Gail Gardner Way, which led to Highway 89, the road up to Jerome.

It was Monday. Odds of the bikers showing up again were minimal. Except that he'd called the jail in Camp Verde that morning, and, as expected, Ryder Vance had made bail. The police believed he'd left the area. Cain wasn't so sure.

Jenny Spencer, with her sweet curves, pretty face, and golden-brown curls, was a temptation to any man—Cain included. But the guy who might want to punish her was the son of a bitch she had helped send to jail.

* * *

Jenny spent Sunday afternoon and Monday in the small house in Cottonwood that she and Dylan had been raised in: three tiny bedrooms and one small bath, an older track house with a single-car garage, one of a dozen that all looked the same.

Dylan had no interest in the house or living in Cottonwood, so after her divorce, Jenny had moved back in. She had managed to furnish the place, but done little in the way of decorating and felt no attachment to it.

Lately, she had been thinking of the money she could save if she rented the house furnished and moved into one of the suites in the hotel. She would lose the nightly rental fee, but the bigger rooms were harder to fill, and the mortgage payment on the Cottonwood house, plus the utilities and upkeep, weren't cheap. The money she could earn from the house would give her some wiggle room, and she spent most of her time in Jerome anyway.

She would lose the privacy the little house afforded, but once she got the construction loan on the new wing paid off and the business started earning enough profit, she could move back in.

Plus, she reminded herself, she now had a second job, which meant extra money, but also more time in Jerome.

Before leaving on Sunday, she had made a decision. Jenny told Troy and Heather Donahue, the girl behind the desk in the lobby, not to rent room 11, a small suite that overlooked Main Street.

Then she put an ad in the digital version of the Verde Independent , left the saloon in the hands of Barb McCauley, the other bartender, and headed down to Cottonwood. By that afternoon, she had a tenant.

Now that the decision had been made and the ball had started rolling, Jenny began packing the personal items in the house that she was taking with her, her clothes and toiletries, a set of china that had been special to her mother. By Monday, everything was boxed up and ready to go. She was committed to making the Copper Star a success. She would do whatever it took to make that happen.

Jenny refused to think of pigs like Ryder Vance and what had almost occurred.

And she firmly refused to think about ghosts.