Fierce Wanderer Read Online Free

didn’t you turn in the photos to the police?”
    “My ex-fiancé,” she said, “is the Chief of Police.”
    “Shit,” Blake breathed.
    “And at least two of the people he was dealing with were officers. I know they’re not all corrupt, but I don’t know who to trust there, and he could be making up stories about me already, he’s probably already put fake evidence in my apartment for some crime or another…” She could hear her voice getting more hysterical by the second.
    He reached toward her, then let his hand fall on the seat between them. Was he going to hold her hand? She wanted him to. Would that be weird? It’s not like we’re on a date, for goodness’ sake.
    She didn’t care. It would make her feel better to hold his hand. She reached out, tentatively, and set her fingers against his. He turned his hand over and linked their fingers.
    “Better?” he asked.
    She couldn’t speak, so she nodded. It had been ages since someone offered her comfort like this. She and Tobin had broken up shortly after Hera hired the private investigator. The photos hadn’t arrived until months later. And in the meantime, there’d been heated arguments with Tobin over the phone and in person. She didn’t have any friends in Winston. Nobody had sympathized with her, nobody who knew what was really going on, anyway.
    “Anyway,” she said, “that’s why I’m going to Reno. It’s out of the county, and my best friend is there. I figure, I’ll turn in the evidence to people who know what to do with it, and stay with Emma for awhile so I can figure my life out again.”
    She hadn’t even been able to tell Emma her plan. She was afraid her phone line was tapped, or her house bugged, or something. It didn’t feel safe. Nothing did. She’d been living in paranoia for too long.
    They came into the town of Findley just as it was getting dark. The old false-front buildings were supposed to look charming and historic, but Hera thought they just looked sad. Blake parked in front of one that read Strickets Saloon.
    “This is the place,” he said.
    She regretted that he had to let go of her hand, then berated herself for caring. He’s just a nice guy. It was hand-holding, not third base .
    But it had been so long since anyone seemed to care about her.
    She followed him to the door. He’d changed out of his torn Star Wars shirt and was now in something with a logo she didn’t recognize. Maybe a super-hero of some kind. Fitting.
    He pulled on the door handle, but it didn’t budge. “Hmm,” he mumbled.
    “What is it?”
    “Well, it’s Friday night. They should be open. Come on,” he whispered, “we’ll go around back.”
    “I don’t know—” but she followed him anyway.
    This was the same behavior that made her stay with Tobin so long. Not listening to her gut.
    As they rounded the corner of the saloon, Hera halted in her tracks. Blake stopped, too. “What are you looking at?”
    She pointed. There was the red truck, parked in plain sight right outside the saloon.
    “All right,” Blake whispered, “now I’ve gotta get to the bottom of this. Do you want to wait in my truck?”
    “No,” she said. Was he stupid? “They know your truck, you idiot. And I’d piss myself with fear waiting for you to come back. We’re in this together.”
    And if something happened to her, she could only hope his brothers would be smart enough to take the folder out of state, get it to Reno and far from Tobin’s reach.
    “Okay, come on.” He led her to a yellow, frosted-glass window, propped open by someone who’d hoped to let in the cooler evening air, she suspected.
    Hera heard a man’s voice coming from inside. “We don’t wanna get involved.”
    “That’s old Matt Stricket,” Blake whispered.
    The harsh voice inside spoke again. “Involved or not, someone told us you’d know more about the guy driving that white Ford pickup.”
    “It’s Blake, Blake Fournier,” Matt said.
    “Where’s his place?”
    A