systems. An extra set of eyes watching his back.
But in the end, caution had won out. He needed to look on his own. See what, if anything, was there. He scrolled down the screen, stopping when he reached the record of the day's activities.
It took a moment to isolate, but it was there. An unauthorized entry. Someone had gained access to his files. Unfortunately there was no identifier. Just as Harrison had predicted, the pathway had been wiped clean. There was nothing left to tell him who it was.
Nothing at all. Only the fact that someone had been there. Someone who desperately wanted to bring Cullen down. But Cullen couldn't let anything get in his way now. He was too close. Everything depended on these final moves, the death dance of opponents in a battle for survival.
And despite all he had accomplished, Cullen Pulaski was afraid.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOWN WAS PROBABLY too optimistic a word for Creede, Colorado. Situated on a horseshoe bend in the highway, there wasn't much more than the main street, but the way that street settled into a majestic crag in the mountains went a long way toward explaining why summer homes had sprung up all along the valley. That and the fact that the Rio Grande was prime fishing water.
There was big money here. Discreet money. A far cry from the town's heyday as a rip-roaring boomtown, but no less important to its survival. Gabe drew in a cold, cleansing breath. Winter was in the air, but hadn't come yet, the aspens still decorated with gold.
The streets were fairly deserted—tourist season was on the wane. Some of the shops had already closed for the winter. It gave the street a desolate feeling, as if it didn't really exist. Gabe swallowed a laugh. He'd gone poetic.
"We're almost there." Madison pointed toward an open parking area between two buildings. "The one on the left should be the courthouse, and according to this map, the sheriff's office is just beyond that."
They'd flown into Alamosa a couple of hours ago, rented the Jeep, and had been on the road ever since. Between red-eye flying, jet lag and the tension emanating from the woman next to him, it had been a hell of a ride. A sort of pleasurable pain. He liked to keep his edges sharp, and Madison Harper, it turned out, was the perfect hone.
He pulled the Jeep into the parking lot, and without farther conversation they got out and walked back to the main sidewalk. The sheriff's office looked more like a house than a public building, but the truck out front was clearly marked and the man getting out of it was unmistakably the law.
"Gabriel Roarke?" The big man closed the distance between them quickly, already extending his hand. "Patrick Weston."
"Thanks for agreeing to meet with us." Gabe shook the offered hand. "This is my associate, Madison Harper."
"Not sure what I can give you that you don't already know, but always glad to lend a helping hand." The sheriff's eyes crinkled at the corners. A lifetime spent laughing. Gabe wondered idly what that would feel like.
"We've read the report , of course," Madison said, looking up at the sheriff as they walked. "But you know as well as I do that sometimes things are omitted."
Weston nodded, his expression turning serious. "I take it you all are considering something more than an accident?"
"It's possible," Gabe said, not willing to reveal too much too soon.
The sheriff shrugged, leading them up the path to his office. Gabe put him som ewhere between forty and forty-five. A career lawman, if he had to call it, with the rugged look of an outdoorsman.
"Did you know Mr. Stewart?" Madison asked, her brows drawn together as she studied the man.
"Everybody knows everybody up here. Or has heard about them." Weston held the door open, then followed them into the office.
The room was a hell of a lot like every sheriff's offic e in the country, right down to the smell of burned coffee. They followed Weston into a cramped space that served as his office, taking seats in the perfunctory
But in the end, caution had won out. He needed to look on his own. See what, if anything, was there. He scrolled down the screen, stopping when he reached the record of the day's activities.
It took a moment to isolate, but it was there. An unauthorized entry. Someone had gained access to his files. Unfortunately there was no identifier. Just as Harrison had predicted, the pathway had been wiped clean. There was nothing left to tell him who it was.
Nothing at all. Only the fact that someone had been there. Someone who desperately wanted to bring Cullen down. But Cullen couldn't let anything get in his way now. He was too close. Everything depended on these final moves, the death dance of opponents in a battle for survival.
And despite all he had accomplished, Cullen Pulaski was afraid.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TOWN WAS PROBABLY too optimistic a word for Creede, Colorado. Situated on a horseshoe bend in the highway, there wasn't much more than the main street, but the way that street settled into a majestic crag in the mountains went a long way toward explaining why summer homes had sprung up all along the valley. That and the fact that the Rio Grande was prime fishing water.
There was big money here. Discreet money. A far cry from the town's heyday as a rip-roaring boomtown, but no less important to its survival. Gabe drew in a cold, cleansing breath. Winter was in the air, but hadn't come yet, the aspens still decorated with gold.
The streets were fairly deserted—tourist season was on the wane. Some of the shops had already closed for the winter. It gave the street a desolate feeling, as if it didn't really exist. Gabe swallowed a laugh. He'd gone poetic.
"We're almost there." Madison pointed toward an open parking area between two buildings. "The one on the left should be the courthouse, and according to this map, the sheriff's office is just beyond that."
They'd flown into Alamosa a couple of hours ago, rented the Jeep, and had been on the road ever since. Between red-eye flying, jet lag and the tension emanating from the woman next to him, it had been a hell of a ride. A sort of pleasurable pain. He liked to keep his edges sharp, and Madison Harper, it turned out, was the perfect hone.
He pulled the Jeep into the parking lot, and without farther conversation they got out and walked back to the main sidewalk. The sheriff's office looked more like a house than a public building, but the truck out front was clearly marked and the man getting out of it was unmistakably the law.
"Gabriel Roarke?" The big man closed the distance between them quickly, already extending his hand. "Patrick Weston."
"Thanks for agreeing to meet with us." Gabe shook the offered hand. "This is my associate, Madison Harper."
"Not sure what I can give you that you don't already know, but always glad to lend a helping hand." The sheriff's eyes crinkled at the corners. A lifetime spent laughing. Gabe wondered idly what that would feel like.
"We've read the report , of course," Madison said, looking up at the sheriff as they walked. "But you know as well as I do that sometimes things are omitted."
Weston nodded, his expression turning serious. "I take it you all are considering something more than an accident?"
"It's possible," Gabe said, not willing to reveal too much too soon.
The sheriff shrugged, leading them up the path to his office. Gabe put him som ewhere between forty and forty-five. A career lawman, if he had to call it, with the rugged look of an outdoorsman.
"Did you know Mr. Stewart?" Madison asked, her brows drawn together as she studied the man.
"Everybody knows everybody up here. Or has heard about them." Weston held the door open, then followed them into the office.
The room was a hell of a lot like every sheriff's offic e in the country, right down to the smell of burned coffee. They followed Weston into a cramped space that served as his office, taking seats in the perfunctory
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