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here in fifteen minutes,” he said before turning toward the shop.
    “Aren’t you going to lock the truck?”
    “Not necessary.”
    The door swung shut behind him, and Phoebe was left standing on the sidewalk, wondering whether she’d heard him right. No need to lock the truck, even with her suitcases in the backseat and his window rolled down? She’d heard about places like that but had always assumed the people who lived there were fictional—or idiots. Zane didn’t strike her as stupid, and her body’s lingering reaction to his touch confirmed that he was very much a real man.
    She turned left on Frank Lane and was pleased to find a bookstore halfway up the block. It made sense to have a print book for when they were out on the cattle drive, rather than relying on technology that would need to be recharged.
    “Welcome to Morgan’s Books.” A trim man with neatly clipped gray hair greeted her with a smile. He wore a brown button-down shirt a few shades darker than his skin and tan slacks with a crisp crease down each leg. “I’m Morgan. Please let me know if you need any assistance. Otherwise, feel free to wander.”
    “Wandering in bookstores is one of my favorite things in the world,” she replied with a smile.
    “I like you already.”
    She quickly found the latest Liz Sutton mystery and was thrilled to see a “Signed by local author” sticker on the cover.
    One of her favorite authors lived in this small town? She carried her treasure under her arm as she browsed the fiction section. When she glanced at her watch, she was shocked to discover that twelve minutes had passed.
    Somehow, she had the feeling that cowboy Zane would not appreciate being kept waiting. She paid for her book, promised to visit again before she left town, and raced back to the truck.
    Zane wasn’t there yet. But two old ladies were. They were well into their seventies, both about the same height with white hair and papery pink skin. The thin, curly-haired one with no makeup was dressed in a plush green tracksuit with bright white sneakers, while the plumper one wore a full face of makeup, including false eyelashes, and a prim flowered dress with thick, nude pumps. Oddly, they were sitting on the front bumper of Zane’s truck, and the one in the tracksuit was pointing a handheld video camera toward the front window of Mitchell Tours.
    After a moment of hesitation, Phoebe opened the passenger door of the truck. The old ladies hurried toward her.
    “This is Zane Nicholson’s truck,” the one in the flowered dress said.
    “I know.”
    “Are you with Zane?”
    Phoebe glanced at the one in the tracksuit, whose video camera was now pointed at her. Since it was about eighteen inches away, she could imagine how huge her face must look on the screen.
    “Don’t mind me,” the old lady said. “Just keep talking like I’m not even here. And...rolling.”
    “Are you with Zane?” the other one repeated.
    “I’m...yes, I guess. Sort of.”
    “Scoop!” The one in the tracksuit pumped a fist in the air.
    “You’re his girlfriend?”
    Phoebe looked around, expecting to see the ladies’ caretakers coming toward them with white coats and apologies, but although the town was bustling, no one seemed to be paying them any attention. Should she call the police? The hospital? Or was this kind of nosiness normal in a small town? Maybe this was why Zane hadn’t locked the truck, because he knew these two busybodies would guard it for him?
    Not sure what to do, she said, “I’m here for the cattle drive.”
    The women exchanged a meaningful look and grinned. Somehow, it made Phoebe even more uneasy.
    Just then, the door to Mitchell Tours opened, and Zane stepped out. When he saw the old women, he seemed to falter for a moment, but it happened so fast that Phoebe wasn’t sure.
    The one in the green tracksuit hurried to the front of the truck, with her video camera pointed toward Zane. “What can you tell us about the cattle