Riding High

by Stacy Finz

  Rhys looked at Flynn, who replied, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Are you going to arrest him if you find him?” Gia asked, because no amount of gates and security cameras would keep the tabloid reporters out. As soon as he got his camera he’d be back—with friends.

  “Damned right I’m gonna arrest him. Ordinarily criminal trespassing is a misdemeanor, but I know California has some kind of antipa-parazzi statute that jams it up these guys’ asses if they’re caught trespassing to take pictures. I’ll have to look into it. We had a similar problem when Emily first moved here, but that got taken care of pretty quickly.”

  A wave of relief washed over Gia. At least the chief sounded like he was taking her problem with the press seriously. “I appreciate you coming. I’m sorry if I got you out of bed.”

  “Nope. I’m working the graveyard shift this weekend, plus it’s my job. You gonna be okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You got Flynn,” Rhys said and grinned, leaving with the camera.

  When she heard his police SUV drive away she said, “He thinks we’re sleeping together, doesn’t he?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re not bothered by that?”

  “Why would I be? I can’t imagine any guy who would be.”

  “Because A: we’re not. And B: the whole me-being-a-thief thing . . . I might kill you in your sleep to steal your wallet.”

  “I always sleep with one eye open. Old habit. And Gia, I would’ve thought by now you’d figured out that you can’t control what people think. Good night.” He strolled out, leaving her to wonder whether he was interested . . . in sleeping with her.

  Chapter 8

  When Flynn arrived at Rosser Ranch the following week, a man with a ponytail and a Toyota Tundra was there. He stood with Gia in the middle of a field, not far from the barn.

  Flynn loitered by the split-rail fence, watching and eavesdropping as the ponytailed guy filled a box full of dirt. The samples would be tested to determine the soil’s nutrient content, though Flynn thought the ground was too wet from last night’s showers for an accurate reading. But he was a rancher, not a farmer.

  Gia hung on the man’s every word, which annoyed the crap out of Flynn.

  “You the farming consultant?” Flynn asked and stuck out his hand. The guy shook it with the grasp of a limp noodle.

  “Flynn owns the cattle,” Gia said.

  “Ah, I prefer to call them methane machines,” ponytail responded.

  “Yeah, I prefer to call them food.” Flynn was well aware that raising livestock contributed to greenhouse gases. It also provided protein to the world. He was willing to let the scientists hash out the dilemma and set the priorities. But not some skinny turd in Birkenstock boots with a hipster beard.

  The consultant ignored Flynn, walked a few feet away with the sampling probe, and, for Gia’s sake, said, “We’ll take one more and that should be good.”

  Flynn checked his gear. He only had five full sample boxes. He should have twenty per every ten acres. Even Flynn knew that.

  “How long you been farming?” Flynn asked, trying to sound friendly, not judgmental. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Ponytail puffed up like the Pillsbury Doughboy. “Reynolds Cooper. About five years. I’m with Urban Farms Unlimited. I’m sure you’ve heard of us.”

  Nope. But the name spoke for itself. And while Flynn was all for planting gardens in vacant lots in inner cities, Rosser Ranch was a thousand-acre parcel in the rural Sierra Nevada. “Five years, huh?”

  Reynolds finished getting his slices of soil, closed the box, and stowed it with the rest of his stuff. “I’ll send it to the lab and you’ll have results soon.”

  “Thanks for coming all the way out here,” Gia said and walked Reynolds to his Toyota.

  Flynn hung back, climbed up on the fence, and waited for her to see Reynolds off. Apparently she was serious about planting crops. He watched her stick her hands in the back pockets of her jeans as Reynolds pulled away. Since the photographer incident it had been a real battle staying away from her. The fact was, Flynn had it bad and that wasn’t good.

  “Hey.” Gia walked toward him as he enjoyed the sway of her hips. “You hated him, didn’t you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It was the methane comment, wasn’t it?”

  “Nope. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, Gia.”

  “What are you talking about? He comes with amazing recommendations.”

  “Maybe as a master gardener. If you’re serious about this, you need an expert in agriculture. The guy should’ve taken three times as many soil samples and not right after it rained. How much you paying him?”

  Gia refused to answer.

  “Ah jeez.” Flynn brushed his hand under his cowboy hat. “Cut your losses, honey. You want someone good, I’ll get you Annie Sparks. She’s got a bachelor’s in plant science and a master’s in ag managerial economics from UC Davis, is a third-generation rice farmer, and drives a Ford. She’s the real deal, Gia. Reynolds is a poseur.”

  “How do you know this Annie?”

  “I’m her family’s estate lawyer.” He got down from the fence. “Talk to her. If you still prefer Reynolds, he’s all yours.”

  “All right,” she said begrudgingly and Flynn wondered why he was even trying to help. “When do you think she can come?”

  “I’ll try to fast track it for you. But Annie is in high demand.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded. “You been having any more trouble?”

  “Not since I’ve been keeping the gate closed. Hey, let me ask you something: What did Rhys mean about having a similar problem with reporters and Emily? Is she that famous a cookbook author?”

  Flynn kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Nothing like that. It’s a sad story. Before coming to Nugget, Emily had a little girl who was abducted from her backyard. That was seven years ago and they still don’t know where she is.”

  “My God, that’s horrible. Do they know who took her?”

  Flynn shook his head. “Nope. It’s a cold case. But a couple of years ago a death-row inmate at San Quentin bragged about killing her and throwing her body down a well. It turned out he was trying to get leniency. The press swarmed Nugget. From what I understand, most of the reporters were pretty respectful, but there were a few bad apples.”

  “I had no idea,” Gia said. “I think I might’ve read something about it because it sounds sort of familiar. I probably didn’t pay as much attention because it was on the West Coast. What a nightmare. What about Clay?”

  “Hope’s father was Emily’s first husband. I get the feeling the marriage couldn’t survive the tragedy. I used to see a lot of that when I was in law enforcement.”

  “Why did you leave?” she asked.

  “I needed a change and more time to help with my family’s cattle operation. I’m thirty-nine years old and I figured if I was ever going to start my own practice it was now or never.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yep. It’s good work.” Damn, she looked so pretty standing in the late-morning sun. “Have people started gossiping about us yet?”

  A blush went up the side of her neck. “I haven’t been out much. Dana came over for dinner and she didn’t say anything. You having second thoughts about sleeping with a criminal?” She smiled.

  He was having second thoughts about not sleeping with her. But where would that lead?

  “Rhys ever catch that photographer?” Flynn asked.

  “No. The car was a rental and the guy never went in to get his camera. I’m heading to the farmers’ market so I’ll check in at the police department . . . just in case.”

  Flynn looked at his watch. “It’s a little late; all the good stuff’s gone.”

  “I just wanted to check it out. I went to one last summer, when I first came to Nugget to shop for property, and loved it. All the food and crafts, plus I want to buy some rocking chairs f
rom Harlee’s husband.”

  “Colin Burke?”

  “I think that’s his name. You know him?”

  “Only by reputation. His furniture is a big deal from what I hear.”

  “You want to come?”

  He was sorely tempted. “I’ve got too much work around here.”

  “All right. I’ll see you around, then.”

  He watched her walk back to the house in her designer jeans, expensive leather boots, and ridiculous floppy hat. Gia Treadwell was a financial wizard, a television celebrity, and maybe a criminal, though he was starting to doubt it. But she definitely wasn’t a farmer.

  * * *

  Gia strolled the rows of booths, hoping to find Colin. With it getting warm, she wanted to put his rocking chairs on her porch to sit outside in the evenings with a glass of wine. It was still too cool to swim. Even though the pool was heated, she was trying to save money on gas and electricity, which was exorbitant given the square footage of the house.

  The day trading was going well, but she’d need plenty of capital to carry out her plan for the farm and residential program . . . and something else she had in mind.

  As she wandered through the aisles of the farmers’ market, checking out the produce, canned goods, and an assortment of colorful wares, including baskets and birdhouses, she got the distinct impression someone was tailing her. After looking over her shoulder a few times she convinced herself she was being paranoid. The square swarmed with locals, nothing sinister.

  A middle-aged woman with gorgeous silver hair and big brown eyes handed out samples of honey. Gia stopped to take a taste.

  “Wow, this is good. How much is a jar?” She propped her sunglasses on her head to see if there was a price tag.

  “It’s twelve ninety-five,” the woman said and proceeded to stare until recognition shone on her face. “You’re Gia Treadwell, aren’t you?”

  Oh boy; Gia braced herself for a scene. Evan’s victims were far and wide. Even if this woman hadn’t lost money in his scam, she was bound to know someone who did. Someone who’d had to file bankruptcy or was forced into foreclosure. She thought about slinking away, but it seemed rather cowardly. This was her town now; she may as well face the music.

  “Yes,” she said softly, feeling the gaze of Owen the barber and his cronies on her. They sat a few feet away on benches in front of the barbershop, watching. Dana had told her that the clique of elderly men was known as the Nugget Mafia and thought of themselves as the town’s powerbrokers. One of the men was Nugget’s mayor.

  The woman jumped to her feet. “Can I have your autograph? I asked Flynn to get it for me . . . oh, you know how men are? Shoot, had I known you’d be here I would’ve brought one of your books.” She searched her booth for something for Gia to sign.

  “Will this work?” She held up an adhesive label. “I use it to tag the honey jars. But I could stick it in one of your books when I get home.”

  “Uh . . . sure.” Gia was surprised that someone still wanted her autograph. It used to happen all the time but never anymore. “What’s your name?”

  “Patty . . . Patty Barlow.”

  As in Flynn Barlow? Gia had caught the woman’s earlier reference to him, but how had she missed the family resemblance?

  “How are you related to Flynn?” She fumbled through her purse, looking for a pen.

  “I’m his mother.”

  Gia gulped. That’s right; Flynn had mentioned his mother was a fan. Yet he’d never said anything about her selling honey at the farmers’ market.

  She wrote on the tag: “You’ve got yourself a real sweet investment” and signed it “Gia Treadwell.”

  “Here you go,” Gia said. “And I’ll take ajar of honey.”

  “I’d give it to you,” Mrs. Barlow said and smiled. “But like you always say, ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’”

  “That’s absolutely right.”

  “I used to love your show.” Flynn’s mom lowered her voice. “I was so angry when they canceled it. You want me to write a letter to the network?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t think it would have much impact. But thank you.”

  “Those stupid, stupid people. How could they lump you in with that evil man?”

  Gia felt her throat clog. She didn’t know Patty Barlow, but she already adored her. Words escaped Gia so she responded by squeezing Mrs. Barlow’s arm.

  “Don’t look now, but you’ve got the fuzz at your six,” a man whispered in Gia’s ear, making her jump. “My guess, they’re fan-belt inspectors.”

  Gia whipped around. “You scared me.”

  “Owen, why are sneaking up on people?” Mrs. Barlow asked.

  “I wanted to give her time to escape.”

  Mrs. Barlow leaned over the table and scanned the market. “I don’t see anything.” She swatted Owen. “Don’t call the FBI fan-belt inspectors. Flynn used to be an agent. Now get on with you; go cut some hair and leave Gia alone.”

  “No, wait.” Gia stopped Owen. “Where are they now?” Owen wasn’t crazy; she’d felt eyes on her before and should’ve gone with her gut. She was being followed.

  Owen surreptitiously perused their aisle. “Over at the rhubarb and strawberry stand.”

  Gia snuck a peek and sure enough, it was the agent Flynn had called Jeff, and Jeff’s sidekick. This time they were dressed in jeans and polo shirts. Great. Most of Nugget was at the market and would have a front-row seat to them harassing her. Well, not if she could help it.

  “Mrs. Barlow, it was lovely meeting you and thanks for the honey.” She stuffed the jar in her oversize bag. “Owen, we haven’t really had a chance to meet, but I appreciate the heads-up.” She looked over at his crew, still loitering in front of the barbershop. A leathery guy in a polyester western suit gave her a thumbs-up. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  “You need us to get you out of here?” Owen asked. “Dink’s Lincoln Navigator is over at the curb.”

  “Uh . . . I’ll handle it,” she said, getting the feeling they didn’t care whether she was innocent or guilty; they were just hoping for some excitement in the slow-paced town.

  She slipped around the corner of Mrs. Barlow’s booth, doubled back, and found the agents at a flower stand on the other side of the market. They were either bad at surveillance or they weren’t too concerned about losing her. “You guys looking for me?”

  The two agents exchanged glances and Jeff said, “We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Could we go someplace quiet?”

  If she was going to do this without a lawyer present, she at least wanted witnesses. Reliable witnesses.

  “Sure. Follow me.” She led them across the grassy square, through the clusters of people, to the sidewalk, and straight into the police station.

  The agents grew tense and Jeff said, “I think the Ponderosa might be more relaxed. We can get a drink.”

  “Nope. I’d rather do it here.”

  A woman wearing a cordless headset, who looked like Velma from the old Scooby Doo cartoons, greeted them. “Can I help you?”

  “Is the chief here?”

  “You have an appointment?”

  Ah, give me a break. Gia stared at her imploringly.

  “I’ll get him.”

  A few minutes later she returned with Rhys.

  “Connie said you were looking for me.” He took note of the agents and bobbed his head in greeting.

  “These are special agents . . .”

  “Croce and Donovan,” Jeff said, pulling his wallet from his pocket to show Rhys his badge and identification. Donovan did the same.

  For a second Gia could’ve sworn she’d seen anger flash across Rhys’s face, but it was gone so fast she thought she might’ve imagined it.

  “They’d like to talk to me,” Gia said. “And I’d like you to sit in.” She didn’t know why she trusted Rhys Shepard any more than she did the federal agents, but she did. Maybe because she was just beginning to trust Flynn and he and the police chief were fr
iends.

  “Yep.” He took measure of the two agents, who didn’t seem at all happy about this turn of events, and smiled. “This way.”

  Jeff stalled. “You have a card, Chief?”

  “I do. I gave it to your supervisor when he gave me his word that y’all wouldn’t be making any surprise visits.” He smiled again, but this time there was no mistaking that it wasn’t a nice smile. And right then Gia got the sense that the chief wasn’t as laid-back as he appeared to be.

  He led them into a small conference room and took the seat next to Gia. The two agents sat across from them and Rhys slid two business cards across the table.

  “My number’s on there,” he said. “Next time call it.”

  Gia had no illusions that Rhys Shepard was championing her cause. This was a turf war, plain and simple. She did like the fact, however, that she had turned them against each other. It made her feel less like the fox and more like the hunter.

  “Before we start, I would like to say that I’ve been completely cooperative with you people, yet you still continue to stalk me like I’m a common criminal.” Gia squinted across the table at the two agents. “I would like Chief Shepard to take note that once again I’m being completely cooperative.”

  “So noted,” he said in that laconic way of his and leaned his chair back against the wall.

  Surprisingly, Agent Donovan took the lead. Gia had just assumed he was Jeff’s junior. “Do you recognize this photograph, Ms. Treadwell?”

  She looked at a computer printout of what appeared to be security footage. The image was fuzzy and Gia stared at it for a while. Rhys leaned forward and also studied the picture.

  “It’s of Evan and me taken at the Four Seasons at Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman two winters ago.” Gia sucked in a breath. She knew how this looked and wondered why investigators had only discovered the trip now.

  “What were you doing there?” Donovan asked.

  “We were on vacation.”

  “So you chose to vacation in one of the world’s major offshore financial havens?”

  “No, I chose to vacation in a place that wasn’t twenty degrees.”

  “Did you have any meetings while you were there?”