My Father Brought a Locksmith to Sell the Ranch I Bought
What did Linda mean by warning me to stay away from the Craig bank branch?
I deleted the text message from Linda but could not stop my hands from shaking.
The diesel exhaust of the morning bus from Denver smelled like the motor pool at Fort Carson, heavy and sour in the frozen morning air. I stood by the metal bench at the Craig bus station, watching the passenger door hiss open. A few elderly travelers stepped down onto the icy pavement, clutching their collars against the sub-zero wind.
Rachel Monroe was the last to descend, her fingers wrapped tight around the handle of a stiff leather briefcase. She wore a dark wool coat that looked too thin for Northwest Colorado, but she did not shrug against the wind. Her black hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun that did not have a single strand out of place.
“You look like you have been sleeping in your boots, Carter,” Rachel said, her voice carrying the same flat military snap I remembered from our deployment.
