“Shit.” She pushed away from the tree, but didn’t know whether to continue to the ranch or double back into town. This was too much. “What the hell happened?”
“If only I knew.” Grief made him sound older than his sixty-five years. “I don’t have the resilience to find out. I can’t bear it. The authorities have already declared it a tragic accident—the result of construction shortcuts taken to meet the tight schedule and remain within budget. In a sense, I want that to be true, but . . . could you look into it?”
Dazed, she lowered the phone, shaking her head. Could she?
The ranch in the distance had become the closest thing to a home she’d ever known. The log and stone homestead, the surrounding meadows and mountains, and the three young men who’d ushered her into their midst. Identical, yet as comparable as three glasses of amber alcohol—each packing a wildly different experience. Mark was a reliable farmhouse ale, Kris a searing Fireball whiskey, and Tommy—well, he was a lone ranger’s drink—undeterminable, but with a potency that could strip the enamel off unwary teeth.
Frankie had scarcely admitted it to herself, but recently, she’d toyed with the idea of staying for good. Leaving Philip’s employ and living out her life in Sage Haven—allowing herself to accept the dream it offered.
Now that dream was impossible. Due to a tragic architectural failing or something more sinister, she couldn’t begin to guess. But having her first real shot at happiness go crashing down along with the balcony?
That pissed her off enough that she wanted to know who to blame.
Balling her free hand, she raised the phone to her ear. “We’ll keep this quiet,” she said, and set off along the track toward Sage Haven. “Mourn it as an accident and hope that’s exactly what it was.”
And if it wasn’t?
Protectiveness hit her bloodstream, pumping purpose through her body. If it wasn’t, then the murder of a royal family should be all the motivation she needed to track down the person responsible. But honestly—no one would escape punishment for messing up the lives of her boys.
“What will you tell the princes?” Philip asked.
Finally, she was thinking fast. “Nothing. They’ve got enough to worry about.”
“But for their safety—”
“They’ll get their own guards.” No one would touch them. Not on her watch. “Two each, at all times. More if they leave the grounds.”
“Guards are already stationed throughout the palace.” Philip sounded unsure. “It’s never been protocol to shadow our royal family down every hall.”
She glanced back at the ranch and its inherent safety. “These princes don’t know that.”
There was a beat of silence. “I take it you’ve accepted the promotion?”
Had she really been given a choice? Picking up her pace, she swallowed her doubt. It was time. To go back to Kiraly—to do what she’d once dared herself to do. Prove her worth. Find her value. If she focused on that, she might be able to ignore the bleakness rippling like an oil spill inside her at the thought of returning home.
If only she’d gone back years ago. She’d achieved what she’d set out to do the moment she found the princes hidden in this mountain-ringed valley. She shouldn’t have agreed to Philip’s suggestion that she stay and keep watch on them—she shouldn’t have allowed herself to get attached.
But she hadn’t planned on volatile, sexy-as-hell Kris.
No. Not Kris. Not anymore.
Prince Kristof.
She hadn’t braced for his tameless charm, wicked grin, and fast friendship. For her untrained heart to open for him. A truth she’d never told him—just as he’d never trusted her enough to share his royal heritage. For years she’d pretended she didn’t know. She’d waited, desperate for that sign she meant more to him than the rest of the clueless people in this town—more than the women he charmed into his bed. For years, Frankie had waited to share her own identity in return.
Trust me, her heart begged whenever his blue eyes darkened with the desire he’d never quite acted on. Tell me.
Now it was too late.
If he told her today, it wouldn’t be out of trust. The situation had him cornered. It would pry the secret out of his big, rough hands with little care of what it meant to her.
Shame bled into her hurt. Her secrets would air with his, though he’d call them by a dirtier name.
Lies.
She couldn’t handle that pain. Not today. Breaking into a run, she hurled that future confrontation from her mind.
“I accept,” she answered. Because despite the unbearable strain it would cause between her and Kris, despite her fear and guilt and shortcomings, there was one thing the past four years had taught her. “I’ll protect these men with my life.”
Kris Jaroka should have seen it coming.
No lie lasts forever.
He rolled his farm truck to a halt in front of Rose’s Diner and pulled the keys, twirling them around his index finger as he stepped out. A casual act to fool his gut into relaxing and his heart into slowing down, because he’d spent all morning fixating on this moment and had yet to imagine how it could end well.
Didn’t matter.
He was going to ask her anyway.
Frankie. She was back in town. When not away on an investigative case, she lived in the main street of Sage Haven, renting a hidey-hole above the worst coffee-brewer in Montana. She didn’t seem to care that her apartment wallpaper puckered and tore or that the bathroom tiles were stained with he-didn’t-want-to-know-what. As long as there was coffee and food within reach, irrespective of quality, all was good for Frankie.
He strode into the diner and nodded to the man behind the counter. A curtain blocked a staircase to the left of the register, and Kris slipped around it, taking the steps three at a time. Only two apartments were up here—the diner owner’s and Frankie’s—and naturally, hers was the one with scuff marks on the door, an apple sticker on the knob, and an old piece of paper taped beside it, reading: Not the restroom. Turn around, asshole.
Nerves thundered through him. He slid a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, taking in his last breath as the cowboy she’d believed him to be.
He knocked.
“I’m busy!” Frankie snapped from inside.
From her, that was close enough to permission to enter.
He stepped into the tiny studio apartment, which was nothing more than a cramped living space with a double bed down the far end. An empty takeout box sat open on the kitchen counter, a scrunched napkin beside it.
“Morning,” he said, kicking the door closed with his boot heel.
She didn’t look up from where she stood side-on at the foot of the bed, stuffing a jewel-bright jacket into her backpack. A small blessing, because all it took was the sight of her to nudge his lust awake like a toe prodding a dozing beast. Stirring, it focused lazily on her—then stretched wide with feral intent.
Blood hot, Kris moved in and set his keys down, leaning a hip casually against the counter.
It was getting worse. Harder to pretend their friendship was innocent, because desire had him craving her in every way imaginable. Ways he had yet to imagine. It was a mutual attraction he couldn’t act on. He recognized the lust in her eyes—had felt it hum and crackle between them for so long, the anticipation was daily torture—but she refused to outwardly acknowledge it and he wasn’t stupid enough to ruin their friendship by making a move she’d regret.