Feral (Wolf Ranch #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,4
most efficient way to get up in his business. While he checked out my boobs in this snug tank top, I’d check out his place. I didn’t want to sleep with the guy—I definitely drew a line there, but I had to keep tabs on him, search his property, and figure out exactly what his connection was with the Columbian drug czar Carlos Murrieta. Getting him to think he had a shot of getting in my pants, that was something else entirely.
I rubbed some lip gloss on and applied a little mascara. Watch out, Markle. Here I come.
I headed out the back door, noticing the screen door needed the hinges oiled, and followed the path along the telephone line toward Markle’s ranch. The hedge fund tycoon-turned-rancher had bought the huge property next door. To the world, he’d retired a billionaire to the quiet life of Big Sky Country. The DEA knew he’d left because he’d lost a billion in clients’ money and been fired. Digging had discovered that one of his clients was a shell company for Murrieta. We had to assume he was either hiding in plain sight or a cog in the drug running to Canada.
The county records indicated his property was over a thousand acres, half of it open grazing land with a huge farmhouse, the other half rugged terrain with pine and aspen trees. Plenty of space for bad shit to go down.
Markle had been relentlessly trying to buy the Shefield place since he moved in. According to Natalie, he’d emailed and called her with pitches that varied in nature from dire warnings about the state of the deterioration to offers far exceeding the value to downright threatening, saying he’d be turning her in for every type of county code violation imaginable.
Sure, the place needed updating. I paused in my walk, looked back at the house. It was two story with wood siding painted a forest green. It was faded in spots, and the white window sills and trim needed some scraping, but it was… homey. The roof was shot, the grass overgrown. It looked neglected, which it was. But it wasn’t dangerous or against county code. Hell, I didn’t think there were any regulations way out here. It all led to the fact that Jett Markle was most likely a dick. A retired hedge fund manager on paper but most likely a drug runner who wanted the extra land for some illegal purpose.
When I reached the end of my property line, I carefully pulled up the top string of barbed wire and set my boot on the lower one, then slid between them to emerge on his side.
A group of cows turned their heads to watch me approach, completely uninterested. Two were lying down in a small patch of shade near the fence line.
I breathed in the Montana air—the scent of wild grasses and dusty earth hit my nostrils. I’d thought I would hate being back in Montana, but it was strange—there was definitely a sense of “home.” A rightness or belonging, even after the nightmare of my childhood. I couldn’t hate an entire state for the wrongs of the Carp family. I’d stayed away long enough, but now… I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it. Like this was how outdoors should feel, with the hot sun on my face, the constant breeze, the verdant smell. It was like my body recognized it here over the places I’d been living the past ten years.
I was playing a part, but even the cowgirl boots and jeans felt right on my body. I wished I had the hat to go with the outfit. I made a mental note to buy myself a cowgirl hat at the seed and feed in town. I walked until I neared the ranch house, barn and stable—all new buildings in pristine condition. It made the Shefield place look like something out of a horror flick.
Two men stood near the stable, one of them speaking in a raised voice like he was giving the younger man a dressing down.
Markle. Even if I hadn’t spent the last six months investigating the hell out of the guy, I’d know him by the designer jeans and five thousand dollar Stetson that just looked stupid on him. He looked like a Hollywood cowboy. Not because he was good looking, which he was, but because he appeared to be in costume or playing dress-up. He might own a ranch, but he sure as hell wasn’t a rancher.
Not