Page 240 of Lost Then Found
My brows pinch together. “Were you expecting anyone?”
Boone shakes his head once, subtle, but there’s a shift in his expression. A flicker of something cautious. “Hud, go on inside. Wash up for dinner.”
Hudson doesn’t argue. He leaves his glove on the porch and heads for the door.
Boone’s shoulders straighten just as the driver’s side door clicks open and a man steps out.
He’s definitely the type of man you notice twice. First because of his size, because holy fuck. He’s tall with shoulders that stretch the seams of his dress shirt, forearms roped with muscle, the sort of build that says he could lift a truck if someone dared him to. And then again because of his face—magazine worthy, so symmetrical and sharp it feels engineered, like he was built in a lab for the sole purpose of being looked at. Strong jaw, sun-bronzed skin that looks more Malibu than Montana. His blond hair is styled like he stepped out of a high-end barbershop ten minutes ago—clean, purposeful, not a strand out of place. There’s a dusting of scruff along his jaw, just enough to make him look even more masculine than he already does, like the universe looked at him and thought,sure, let’s give him that too.
His slate-colored eyes are unreadable, polite but distant, like he’s learned how to disarm a room without giving anyone access. His sleeves are rolled up, like maybe he wants you to think he’s relaxed, but the pressed shirt and expensive-looking slacks say otherwise. He walks like someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up.
Boone’s voice drops low beside me, close to my ear. “Sawyer Hart.”
Hart?
My stomach coils. I don’t know much about the Hart brothers, but I know enough. They don’t show up here at the ranch. And definitely not at the main house.
Sawyer gets closer and flashes a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His cologne hits before he’s within arm’s reach—clean and woodsy.
He nods at both of us. “Evening.”
Boone nods back, but there’s no warmth in it. Just a tight flick of his chin and the bare minimum effort. “Sawyer.”
Sawyer steps forward and holds out a hand like this is some kind of cordial visit.
Boone hesitates for a beat before shaking it, then drops his arm to his side like the contact left a residue.
Sawyer tucks his hands in his pockets and glances toward Boone’s pocket. “Tried reaching you earlier. Had some news about Tate. Thought you’d want to hear it, but your phone was either off or dead.”
Boone digs out his phone and flips it over in his palm. The screen stays black. “Oops.”
I cut him a look. “His phone’s always either dead or lost. Usually both.”
Then I step forward and offer my hand. “Lark Westwood.”
Sawyer takes it with a different kind of smile this time—gentler, almost like he means it. His fingers are warm and his grip firm, but not pushy. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
The southern lilt in his voice is faint but there, threading through the formality like it’s second nature—refined, but not polished clean. There’s something in his expression that softens the sharpness of his features.
Boone’s voice slices through the pause. “Your contacts come through?”
Sawyer releases my hand and lets out a low whistle, the sound sliding between his teeth like it’s too heavy to hold. “Boy, did they.”
Boone folds his arms across his chest. “Go on.”
Sawyer tilts his head slightly, like he’s weighing how much to say. “Turns out Tate set up a shell company a few years back. Totally off the books—nothing traceable at first glance.”
Boone’s brow furrows. “A shell company?”
Sawyer nods. “Yeah. Name’s buried under layers, but it’s been his front for years.”
Boone tilts his head. “So…it doesn’t exist on paper?”
“Well,” Sawyer says, rocking back on his heels, “it exists now. Or at least, the paper trail does.”
My arms cross without me realizing it. “You’re saying he left a breadcrumb trail? That feels…sloppy.”
Sawyer flicks his eyes toward me. “Turns out, Wendell’s smart. But not smart enough to keep a fake company from showing up in federal records once the IRS starts sniffing around.”
