Wes Thorne stepped out of the Jeep Wrangler, his expensive Italian shoes immediately collecting dust from the Broken Spur Ranch. He shut the car door and took a minute to straighten his red silk tie and smooth the front of his jacket. Then he tugged the cuffs of his jacket sleeves down to precisely the right spot on his wrists. He liked things to be perfect, when he could manage it. And here he was, in one of the least perfect places, seeking the answer to something he needed. If anyone had told him he would have come to a dusty old ranch and found the answer to his restless nights he would have scoffed. But it was the truth. What he had to have, had to possess, was inside this house.
He strode up the wooden steps and opened the screen door, frowning as it squeaked. Its hinges needed to b
