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They were still there lurking, hiding just below the surface, waiting to be unearthed.
    The coffee table lay buried under horse tack—a German martingale, snaffle bits, headstalls, and reins. The smell of leather and horses rose up from the table, a scent that stroked the past and lit a fire in Mariah’s brain.
    The kitchen was no different from the living area. It was cramped and cluttered. More horse gear. A small dormitory-sized refrigerator held a six-pack of Coors beer, half a stick of summer sausage, and a block of rattrap cheese. The floor was a quarter-inch deep in sand, and dust covered everything. In the pantry sat a box of saltine crackers, a bag of beef jerky, a can of sardines, and a sack of horse feed. In the tiny laundry room she found an apartment-sized washer/dryer combo and an unusually large number of metal feed buckets.
    She paced the kitchen, kicking up sand, trying to shuck off the feelings tightening around her throat. Anxiety bathed her back. She felt sweaty and claustrophobic. The creak of the floorboards echoed in her ears, old and cranky. The melody of “Camptown Races”—as solid as if someone was singing it—riffled through her head. A song Dutch used to whistle while he worked.
    The photographs on the wall were all of Dutch and horses and various other cowboys. In one close-up, Dutch and Joe Daniels grinned at the camera, holding a trophy between them, but in Joe’s eyes, beneath the smile, she saw pain. What haunted him?
    Joe Daniels.
    Everything about the man radiated dark, dangerous energy. Brooding, rugged, cocky. The worst kind of trouble. She should stay far away from him. She couldn’t wait to sell this dump and leave Jubilee in her rearview mirror.
    The neglected house was only about eight hundred square feet and covered with years of grime. Any rational person would throw her hands up in despair and have the property condemned.
    Another thing that struck her was what was missing. No television set, no computer, no Internet service. The house echoed what she already knew about her father. Dutch cared about one thing and one thing only.
    Horses.
    The single bedroom had one twin bed with a thin mattress and a chair covered with more horse supplies. The bedside table was laden with books on the care and training of cutting horses and entry forms for upcoming cutting events. The lamp was made from deer horns. The shabby, discolored curtains were adorned with galloping horses.
    He was here. Her father. She could feel him. Could almost hear his voice, a deep, rolling bass that sounded like thunder mumbling behind a cloud.
    His home. Such as it was. He’d left it to her.
    Mariah sank down on the end of her bed, felt an involuntary smile curl her lips. She drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, took a deep breath, and inhaled the stale, horsey scent of the bed linens.
    She felt Dutch around her, like a flash of lightning. Hot and close.
    A strange fissure of joy cleaved her. Against all common sense, she felt a strange skip of inexplicable homecoming.
    And that’s when she saw the rattlesnake.
    J oe stopped his Ford F–150 King Ranch, which was pulling a horse trailer, beside Dutch’s battered old Dodge Ram dually.
    His friend had been dead only a few days and Joe hadn’t had the heart to step foot into the cabin. He had no idea what kind of mess Mariah had walked into. Actually, he didn’t care. All he wanted was for her to go away.
    Right now, he was here to retrieve his horse.
    He wasn’t about to let Mariah sidetrack him, no matter how much she reminded him of Becca.
    He thought of the way she’d treated Dutch. Never calling him or coming to see him. Thought about how the last thing Dutch had asked of him was not to contact Mariah until after the funeral.
    Joe clenched his jaw, hardened his heart against her.
    Just go get your horse.
    The morning sun was bright now and it had started burning off the dew. His head throbbed as if someone had buzzed a chain