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zones—plus gaining more than a mile in altitude—explained the weird feeling, wired but exhausted. I’d gotten jet-lagged without ever boarding a plane.
    A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. I opened it to find Calvin standing in the hallway, appearing to be even more exhausted than I was. Granted, I’d only met him a few hours before, but something about him seemed…different. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
    His smile hadn’t changed, nor had his genial nature. “If you need anything, I’m right next door.”
    â€œI’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said. “Good night and thank you for dinner.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” He smiled wistfully. “I’m so glad you came.”
    â€œMe too.” Mine was an automatic response, although, oddly enough, I meant it. How often did a woman get to spend the night in an honest-to-goodness bunkhouse anyway? I caught myself before the something-to-tell-my-grandchildren thought had a chance to become fully formed in my mind.
    More like something for my memoirs. That was, if anyone wanted to read them.
    After Calvin left, I washed my face and combed out my hair before changing into my pajamas. I could hear the men’s voices and laughter from the mess hall, despite the fact that the kitchen lay between us. Apparently, the rooms all interconnected in one way or another. With no need for soundproofing in a building intended to house a bunch of cowboys who knew one another and worked together every day, I suspected the interior walls were relatively thin.
    I turned out all the lights except for the lamp on the nightstand and crawled into bed with the latest romance novel on my TBR list, an erotic paranormal guaranteed to keep me awake half the night.
    It didn’t.
    When I awoke several hours later, the lamp was still on and my book had fallen forward onto my chest. Ophelia lay curled up on the rug by the exterior door, her head up and cocked to one side. She looked toward me with her ears pricked, listening.
    A moment later, I heard what must’ve awakened me.
    Tap, tap, tap. The sound was coming from the wall my room must’ve shared with Calvin’s.
    Mice?
    I doubted it. Especially after my tired brain finally made sense of the pattern.
    I rose from the bed and went out into the hallway, passing through the kitchen to peer into the mess hall. The room was still warm—no doubt the men had added more wood to the fire in the potbellied stove—and the moonlight streaming in through the window was more than enough to prove it was empty.
    Frowning, I retraced my steps, pausing at Calvin’s door.
    Then I heard the moan.
    I raised a hand to knock, hesitating as I recalled that Calvin had served in the same war my grandfather had and possibly suffered from the same sort of nightmares. As a child I’d learned to ignore the restless mutterings and occasional shouts coming from Grandpa’s room. Later, when his health deteriorated, I’d often gone in to check on him, never knowing what I would find.
    When yet another moan broke the silence, I knocked without hesitation. “Calvin? Are you okay?”
    The door must not have been latched very well because with my knock, it swung wide. The room was dark and silent, save for his raspy breathing.
    â€œCalvin?” I said again.
    Although I didn’t know Calvin well at all, I knew enough to realize something was wrong.
    I flipped on the light.
    Calvin lay on his bed, his hands clasped to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. A bluish tinge circled his mouth as he sucked in one long, shuddering breath and then another.
    And then none.
    â€œCalvin!” I was shouting now, praying someone would hear. I ran to the bed and shook him. Receiving no response, I screamed out the first name that came to mind. “Wyatt! Help!”
    The thud of footsteps mingled with muttered curses. A pair of hands pulled me back, practically throwing me