Chapter Four

      It had snowed last night, dumping another six inches. Fortunately Highway 191 through the Gallatin Canyon had already been plowed by the time Beau dug himself out and drove to his office on the second floor of an old brick building in downtown Bozeman.

      “Good morning, boss,” Marge said from behind her desk as he came in. Pushing sixty, solid as a brick wall and just as stout, Marge Cooke was as much a part of Tanner Investigations as the furniture.

      “I’m on my way to the airport soon,” he said, taking the mail and messages she handed him. “I’ll probably be out of contact for a few days,” he said over his shoulder as he headed for his office. He heard her get up and follow him.

      As he sat down behind his desk, he looked up to find her framed in the doorway. She lifted one dark penciled-in eyebrow and asked, “Since you never take any time off and I know you aren’t busy decorating for Christmas, I’ll assume you’re working. You want me to start a client file?”

      “No, this is...personal.”

      Just when he thought her eyebrow couldn’t shoot any higher, it arched toward the ceiling.

      “It’s not personal like that,” he said, giving her a shake of his head.

      “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      He laughed. “I’ll be checking in, but I know you can handle things until I get back.”

      “Whatever you say, boss. Far be it from me to suggest that you haven’t been on a date since a Bush was in office.”

      “Clearly you forgot about that brunette a few months ago.”

      “That wasn’t a date,” she said as she turned to leave. “And she made such an impression that you don’t even remember her name.”

      He sat for a moment, trying to remember the brunette’s name. Sandy? Susie? Sherry? Not that it mattered, he told himself as he sorted through his mail and messages. He wouldn’t be seeing her again.

      There wasn’t anything in the mail or messages that couldn’t keep.

      Taking out the letter and the article Walter Justice had sent him, he read them again, then flattened out the article, wondering why it had been included until he saw the travel writer’s byline: DJ Price.

      So was he to assume that DJ Justice’s pseudonym was Price? He typed DJ Price into his computer’s search engine. More articles came up, but no photo of the author. From the dates on the articles it would appear she was still employed as a freelance writer for a variety of publications. If DJ Price was DJ Justice.

      He returned the article and letter to the envelope, folded them into his pocket and shut off his computer. As he walked out of his office past Marge’s desk, she said, “Shelly,” without looking up as he passed. “Wouldn’t want you straining your brain trying to remember the woman’s name all the way to the airport.”

      Beau chuckled to himself as he made the drive out into the valley. He couldn’t help feeling anxious, since he had no idea what he was getting himself into. Nor did he know what to expect when it came to DJ Justice.

      At the airport, he waited on the ground floor by the baggage claim area. There were a half-dozen people standing around holding signs. Dana Savage was one of them. The sign she held up read, CARDWELL RANCH. DJ.

      He hung back as the arrivals began coming down from upstairs. On the drive here, he’d told himself there was no way he would be able to recognize DJ. She’d just been a kid of five all those years ago. He’d been a skinny but worn ten.

      But the moment he laid eyes on the dark-haired woman at the top of the escalator, he recognized her. Dee Anna Justice. That brown-eyed girl had grown into a striking woman. Her hair was long, pulled back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Burnished strands had come loose and hung around her temples.

      Silver flashed at her ears and her wrists and throat. She was wearing jeans, winter leather boots that came up to her knees and a teal blue sweater. She had a leather coat draped over one arm, and there was a carry-on in her hand.

      She looked up in his direction as if sensing him staring at her. He quickly looked away. This was not what he expected. DJ didn’t look like a woman on the run. She looked like a woman completely in control of the world around her.

      So what was he doing here?

      * * *

      DJ HAD STILL been upset as the flight attendant announced they would be landing soon. She’d stuffed her purse back under the seat. Out the window, she’d seen nothing but white. Snow blanketed everything. She’d realized with a start that she’d never felt snow. Or had she?

      Now she surveyed the small crowd of people waiting on the level below as she rode the escalator down. She knew she was being watched, could feel an intense stare. But when she looked in the direction it came from, she was surprised to see a cowboy.

      He stood leaning against the stone wall next to the baggage claim area. He was dressed in jeans, boots and a red-and-black-plaid wool jacket. His dark Stetson was pulled low, his blond hair curling at the neck of his jacket.

      As he tilted his head back, she saw the pale blue familiar eyes and felt a shock before he quickly looked away. There had been a moment of...recognition. Or had she just imagined that she knew him? She tried to get a better look at him. Why had she thought she recognized him?

      She had no idea.

      He was no longer paying any attention to her. She studied his profile. It was strong, very masculine. He held himself in a way that told her he was his own man. He was no urban cowboy. He was the real thing.

      She scoffed at the idea that she knew him. She would have remembered a man like that. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off him and was startled when she reached the end of the escalator.

      Turning toward the exit, she spotted a woman about her own age holding a sign that said CARDWELL RANCH on it, and in smaller letters, DJ.

      The moment her cousin saw her, she beamed with a huge smile. DJ was surprised how that smile affected her. Tears burned her eyes as she was suddenly filled with emotion. She had the crazy feeling that she’d finally come home. Which was ridiculous, since she’d never had a real home life and, as far as she knew, had never been to Montana.

      She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat as she wound her way through the small crowd to the young woman. “Dana?”

      “DJ?”

      At her nod, Dana gave her a quick hug. “Welcome to Montana.” She stepped back to stare at DJ. “You don’t look anything like the last Dee Anna Justice.”

      DJ heard relief in her cousin’s voice.

      “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Dana said, then must have noticed that DJ didn’t know what she was talking about. “Your father did tell you about your former roommate pretending to be you.”

      “No, I guess he failed to mention that.”

      “Well, it’s water under the bridge... I’m just glad you’re here and I finally get to meet you.”

      “Me, too,” DJ said, feeling that well of emotion again.

      “We’ll get your luggage—”

      “This is all I have.” Traveling light wasn’t the only habit she’d picked up from her father. She had stopped by the bank before she’d left San Diego. She took cash from her safe-deposit box, just in case she might have reason not to use her credit card. But that would mean that she was on the run and needed to hide.

      Dana glanced at the overnight bag. “That’s it? Not to worry. We have anything you might need. Ready to