I marched back into the office from my lunch break around one o'clock. It was just me and Peter in the office today, besides Genevieve, our secretary.

The Frost Security office was a little unconventional. Peter had picked the old saloon up for a song a few years earlier when we'd decided to finally make our start as a security agency. The renovations required a lot of hard work. We handled everything from gutting the interior and redoing all the plumbing, to rewiring the whole joint. But it was ours, lock, stock, and barrel, out on the far edge of Enchanted Rock. We'd kept a lot of the wild west motif, liking the unique style of the design. Rather than keep it as an open barroom, though, we'd installed glass offices and a conference room. The clear walls were all equipped with shades we could draw to give us privacy when needed.

The other guys, Jacob, Matthew, and Frank, had come along over the course of the next couple years. Every time our IT girl, Lacy, found a report of a wolf spotting in a place where wolves were never spotted, Peter or I flew out for recruitment. Most of the time they had a pack, or we realized they weren't up to snuff for our team. But sometimes you found guys like us. Ex-military, living their lives as veterans in the best possible ways they knew.

Like Jacob, who had been a cop in LA after he mustered out of service. Or Frank, who'd been a private bodyguard in Brazil after serving his country. Or even Matthew, who had been a firefighter after doing his time as a rescue jumper in the Air Force. Sure, they could be rough around the edges at certain times, but they were all good men. I was proud to call them part of my pack. And that was a phrase I'd never imagined myself my saying: part of my pack.

Then, of course, there was me. Served two tours in Afghanistan, but came home to nothing. No family, no parents, no girlfriend. My father had cut us from the pack, got tired of their gypsy ways, unique to them, and settled down with a human woman. They had me. By the time I'd realized what I was, though, he had died from a hit and run accident. Mom remarried, but the guy was a real asshole. She pushed me off into the military. I didn't want to leave her unprotected, but she'd forced me to go. Said she wanted a better life for me than she could provide.

Looking back, it was clear she knew what was coming. My stepfather murdered her six months into my first deployment, confessed to the cops and everything. By the time I'd gotten back, they'd locked him up in the federal pen for life, and I had no chance for revenge. I would've taken it, too, so it was probably better there'd been no delay with a trial. It took me a little while to get over my anger and make peace with what had happened, but I finally did.

I worked as a bouncer for a couple years after I got out, until Peter found me. We spotted each other at first as he came into the little bar in Texas where I was working, like two veterans sometimes do. It's the way we stand, the way we scan the room for possible threats, the way we cross our arms even. We knew right off the bat that the other guy had been in combat.

Then, of course, we smelled each other. A musky, othery scent that only shifters can smell on one another, like two wolves in the wild. He left and bought a bottle of whiskey and a case of beer, then waited around for me in the parking lot till after close.

He hadn't been my first shifter to meet like this, but he'd been the first one to put up beer and bourbon as a peace offering. We split the booze and stayed up till morning in his shitty motel room, unburdening ourselves of how different we were. How different we were from the rest of the shifters out there, the wild ones who didn't care about people the way we did. He told me about his plan to come up here, to Enchanted Rock, and start his own business. About how he could use a man like me on the payroll. It sounded too damned good to be true.

“You wanna pay me to follow people and video tape cheating wives and shit? I don't know how to do that, man. I can shoot and fight, and that's about it. Hell, it's even been a while since I hit the range. Probably take a few clips to get back in the swing of things.”

He'd laughed. “You'd be surprised what they teach us in the SEALs, Richard. If they can get me up to snuff, then I can do the same for you.”

And the rest is, as they say, history.

I walked through the little office, past Gen's desk, bag of double cheeseburgers from Dixie's in hand. Genevieve was our den mother of sorts, our secretary and first employee. She was a sweet little older woman in her late sixties with a crop of fiery red hair that was just starting to go white in a few spots. Her granddaughter was Lacy, our IT girl.

“Back for the meeting, or just bringing the old dog his lunch?” she asked as I headed past her and went back to Peter's office. “Because he needs to eat more than he needs to work. He'll be skin and bones before too long if he keeps this up.”

Yep, she was our den mother, alright. And she was also one of the few humans who knew what we actually were. She loved us all, regardless of how different we were.

“Meeting?” I asked, confused.

“Supposed to be here in ten. Do you not read your text messages, young man?”

That was right! I remembered now that my phone had buzzed while I was driving up to Dixie's. I winced. “Sorry, Gen, I was driving and forgot to check it after I got out of the Jeep.”

She clicked her tongue. “Tsk, tsk. Well, the meeting's in a few minutes so make sure he stuffs at least one of those burgers down his throat. You know how he gets with low blood sugar!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I laughed and headed further into the small office, my boots clomping on the historic hardwood we'd refinished. It was surreal to think of the boots that had walked across these same floorboards as me over a hundred and fifty years before—actual cowboys, old miners, and settlers. All the men and women who had struck out west and settled in this land.

“Figured you could eat,” I said as I walked into Peter's office, a little room at the back surrounded by soundproof glass. The greasy takeout bag hung from my hand like the holy grail of the fat Western diet. The boss always skipped lunch, it seemed, always too intent on whatever case he had going.

But that's the way he was. Always intense and focused.

He glanced up at me from beneath his eyebrows and nodded distractedly. Peter was always the serious one; it was as if  he was sizing you up each time he met you. For some people it was unnerving, but to me it was just the way he looked. You got used to it after a while.

“Thanks,” he grumbled as I dropped the takeout bag on the corner of his desk. I took a seat in one of the visitor chairs in front of him, sunk down low, and crossed my legs.

“Got a meeting in a few minutes for a new case,” he said, turning back to the field notebook he always carried, jotting down information. “You busy?”

I shrugged. “What kind of case?”

“Stalker, death threats. The usual, I guess, but not so much up here.”

“Stalker, huh?” I echoed. “Small town like this? I figured that for more of a big city thing. Don't you think Frank would be better suited?”

Peter nodded and set his pen aside. “Probably. He's got more experience on the bodyguard front, but you're what I got. Sent him, Matt, and Jake down to Denver, though, on that fraud case to bring in the big bucks. You fight your wars with the army you're given.”

I cracked a wry smile and shook my head. “So, I'm the best you can do is what you're saying?”

He shrugged and smirked, the little expression no more than a flash. “That's what I'm saying.” He grabbed the bag of Dixie's off the corner of his desk and tore into it.

“Sure then, I guess,” I replied as he wolfed down the burger. “Put me where you need me, right?”

He nodded, mouth full of beef patty and cheese. As shifters, we had to eat a lot. As security personnel who maintained peak physical condition, though, we had to eat even more.

“Name's Jessica Long,” he said, passing over a sheet of paper torn from a yellow legal pad. Genevieve’s neat, flowing script covered most of the page. “Been getting threats to leave town or else for the last couple weeks.”

“Sheriff Peak can't do anything?”

He shrugged. “Not sure, but I'd honestly be surprised if he could. How do you put a restraining order on an unidentified person?”

“FBI?” I asked with a shrug, just throwing ideas out there.

He shook his head, burger still clenched in one hand. “No internet threats, which means no crossing state lines. It'd stay local, so they don't have a dog in the fight.”

I nodded, reading through the scant bit of information. It wasn't much, but it was enough to start.

He finished off Dixie Burger number one and tore into the next as I finished up the page. “Says she owns a little art gallery curio place downtown and keeps getting calls there,” I paraphrased. “A couple at home, too, but nothing physical yet, no people she's spotted following her. All calls from different numbers. Not much to go on.”

He grunted in acknowledgment around a mouthful of cheeseburger as I heard the office's front door open.

“Hi,” said a woman in a timid voice.

“Hello, welcome,” Gen said, her chair scraping as she pushed back from her desk. “Are you Ms. Long?”

“Jessica, please.”

“Shit,” Peter grunted as he wiped his mouth clean with a napkin. “Thought I had more time.” He went to put the half-eaten burger aside and get up from his desk.

“Don't worry,” I assured him, “I'll help get her settled in the conference room. Gen'll have you neutered if she finds out you didn't finish lunch.”

Peter nodded his appreciation, his hands already delivering the burger to his chomping mouth.

“Jessica,” I could hear Gen reply, a smile clearly in her voice. She was the warmest, most wonderful woman I'd ever met and she could make anyone feel at home—which was great for us, since we were all a bunch of gruff military vets that tended to cause a panic in people the first time they saw us. “Have a seat, dear. Would you care for coffee or tea? Misters Frost and Murdoch will be right with you.”

I got up and headed from the office, idly folding the yellow legal page and shutting the door behind me. I headed into the main reception area, page in hand, as Jessica was just about to take a seat. “Coffee, please,” she said.

I stopped in my tracks the second I laid both eyes and nose on her.

Dark brown hair, green eyes, perfectly full lips on a wide, expressive mouth. Jeans, button up top, modest heels. She couldn't have been much younger than me, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.

And, God, the way she filled the room with her fragrance. It was unlike any woman I'd ever smelled in my life. Light, sweet, and just like eternity. How had I never run into her before in all my years in the Rock?

I'm not sure how long I'd been standing there like that, but it seemed like an hour or more.

“Richard?” Gen asked, snapping me awake. “You alright, honey?”

I realized our new client was staring at me in confusion, so I shook my head a little and cleared my thoughts. “Sorry,” I said with a smile. “Just remembered I left my keys in the Jeep outside, that's all.” It was a little white lie, of course, but I didn't want to look like a complete starstruck moron.

“Mmhmm,” Gen said before turning back to our client. “Jessica Long, this is Richard Murdoch, one of our security personnel.”

Jessica turned back to me, those green eyes glancing me up and down.

Right. I was at work. And this woman needed my help. I crossed the room and extended my hand. “Richard,” I said. “Please.”

She took my hand, her soft palms dwarfed by my large, rough hand. She didn't shrink back, though, just kept her eyes fixated on mine, a little smile on her lips. “Jessica,” she said, shaking my hand, “Jessica Long.”

I smiled back, my hand still holding hers.

“Do you want to show her to the conference room?” Gen asked, her voice a mixture of concern and amusement.

I smiled wider and released her hand. “Right. This way, Ms. Long. It is Miss, isn't it?”

I caught Gen in my peripheral rolling her eyes. I shot her a discreet look, but she just ignored me and headed off to get Jessica her coffee.

“Yes, but you can call me Jessica. No need for formality.”

“Jessica it is, then.” Together, we headed back to the conference room. The whole way, I had to keep myself from glancing behind me to check and double-check to see if she was even real. “Please, sit wherever you'd like,” I said as I opened the door to the small conference room and showed her in.

She took a seat in the nearest chair, her legs pressed tightly together in nervousness. And I could tell she was all nerves right, a whole bundle of them.

I sat near her, leaving a chair in between us, so as not to be too close, but not too intimidating and distant. I was well aware that I could be, under the right circumstances. “How'd you hear about us, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Not at all,” she replied as she put her purse down at her feet. “My friend Sheila Pearson recommended you. Her father used your services a while back.”

“Pearson?” I asked, trying to recall where I'd heard the name. Then it clicked. “Oh, right, Pearson Hardware. That was an interesting one.” One of the employees had been breaking into the store overnight and stealing from the safe in the back. They had sensors covering all the areas and there was never any log of someone entering the cash office after the last sign-out. Instead, they'd been going up into the tiles and crossing over the walls that way. It took Peter and I sniffing our way through the place and Frank posing as a cleaning crew member for them to discover that it was one of the assistant managers. Frank's knowledge of Spanish and Portugese had really come in handy on that one. One of the crew members who knew about the plan had no idea a white guy could be fluent in either language.

“Well, hopefully this one won't be that interesting,” Jessica replied. Gen came into the conference room, coffee in one hand, sugar and cream in a little caddy held in the other. Genevieve set the coffee and caddy down in front of Jessica and excused herself.

“Thank you,” Jessica said with a grateful smile.

“What seems to be the problem? You mentioned on the phone with Genevieve that you think you have a stalker? Someone making death threats, both at home and your work?” I checked the paper again. “At the Curious Turtle Art Gallery that you manage?”

“Own,” she added. “I own it, partially, not just manage.” She folded her hands very carefully in front of her, her medium length red nails lightly chipped. She worked with her hands, I could tell, but she still cared about them. That much was certain from how soft and smooth they'd felt as we shook. “And not exactly death threats. More like warnings to get out of town, or else.”

“Or else?” I asked, shifting in my chair to get more comfortable. I pulled out a small notebook and pen from my pocket and prepared my note-taking. “They'll hurt you, they'll come after you or your business?”

She shook her head, her lips pursed. “I don't know, to tell you the truth. All I know is that it started right around the time my partner Blake Axelrod passed away.”

I jotted down the name Blake Axelrod in the notebook. “Your partner? He passed away recently?”

“Yes, about two weeks ago.”

“And you say it started around the same time? Before or after?”

She shrugged. “To be honest, I don't know. Blake's death was a real shock to the system, you know?” She took a sip of coffee.

“No foul play, I take it?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, confused, setting her mug down. “He was hunting deer when he died, not ducks.”

I smiled. “Foul play? As in, unnatural cause of death?”

“Oh!” she replied, shaking her head. “No, I'm sorry, no. It was a heart attack.”

I nodded, scribbling down more notes. “Well, we can check your phone records, I believe, and figure out the exact date this all started.”

Peter decided to join us, quietly stepping into the conference room. We both turned to him. “Please, don't get up. Ms. Long, I presume?” Peter asked, hand extended to our newest client.

She smiled warmly at him and took his hand. “Yes. Peter Frost?”

Immediately I felt a little pang of jealousy at the way she looked at him before quickly realizing I had no territorial claim on her. I mean, of course I didn't. Why would I? She was a human being, and her own woman for fuck's sake. Besides, she and I had only met a few minutes before. But, God, even the way she smelled was almost too much for me. My gut reaction was to tear off Pete's arm and feed it to him.

The leader of my pack came in and sat next to me, on the other side of me from Jessica, his own notepad in hand. From the way he was acting, I could tell he wasn't nearly as phased by her as I was.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said gruffly. “How much have I missed?”

“Not much.” I passed him the notes and went over what we'd discussed already.

He glanced up from the notes as I finished. “And you keep saying it's a he, correct? But it's an electronically masked voice?”

She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then quickly shut it with a perplexed look on her face. “You know, now that you mention it, I guess we just assumed it was a he—Sheila and I, I mean. So, no, I don't know for sure.”

Peter nodded. “And you told Gen that Sheriff Peak did track the number, but that they go back to several different disposable phones, like the ones you'd buy at the gas station? I assume he told you those are almost completely untraceable, correct?”

She nodded. “That's what he said. But, well, I wasn't sure if he was just pushing me off.”

Peter and I both frowned. “No,” I replied, “unfortunately, that's not the case. They are actually very difficult to track. Notoriously bad to the point where Congress is floating ideas on laws against them.”

“Any jilted lovers, old friends, business associates, people with bad blood?”

She made a face and shook her head. “Not a lot of ex-boyfriends, and none of them were ever any kind of bad breakup that I recall. Maybe I sold someone a painting and they didn't like it? But that wouldn't make any sense. Why would they be upset with me about a painting they picked out?”

Peter and I both jotted down notes as she spoke, frowning as we looked at them. 

“So what can we do?” she asked, sounding both hopeful and anxious. “Anything?”

Peter glanced at me. “Richard, you wanna take this one?”

I nodded. I knew he had an idea of how he wanted to go about this, but if there were any changes he wanted to make, he'd tell me after the client left. He was always doing these little tests on me, to see how much of the training he'd drilled into me had really set in.

“First,” I began, “we'd want to put you under surveillance, ideally at one of our safe houses where we can have total control of the environment—who comes and goes, all that. As you said, the frequency of the calls have increased, and moved from a 'get out town' to a 'get out of town, or else' motif. Generally, an escalation like that means there's going to be continued escalation, and not the opposite.”

“A safe house? An escalation?” she asked with a groan. “I can't do that right now, I've got too much going on at the gallery.”

“In that case, we can put someone on you, someone to shadow you throughout the day and watch your house at night.”

Jessica seemed a little flustered at the idea of having someone tailing her all day. “Can't you just, I don't know, pick up the phone and threaten them or something?”

Peter and I glanced at each other, unsure of how to exactly respond.

“Well,” Peter said, “we could do that, but then you'd be tipping them off that you have security. Also, unwarranted threats against someone's safety, even if it's against someone that's threatening you, are generally frowned upon by law enforcement. Besides, if the person threatening you does try something, they'll take security into consideration when they make their plan, whatever it may be.”

She groaned again, her voice more worried than before. “Do you really think it's that bad?”

We both shook our head, not wanting to alarm her. The general practice was to let the client know how serious the situation could possibly become, but we definitely didn't want them in a panicked state. Frightened, panicked people did crazy things that usually did not end well.

“No, we don't think it's necessarily gotten to that level, but the longer we can keep them talking, keep them making their threats, the more we can possibly pick up from their recordings. Clues to their whereabouts, how they might know you, who they might be.”

“You think it's someone that knows me?”

“Unfortunately,” I said with a nod and a wince, “that's likely the case. Angry customer, business rival, someone you may have ignored in the past? Who knows right now?”

The look of worry on her face cut right through, gutting me as she tightly gripped her coffee cup in both hands like it would somehow bring her a bit of stability in all this. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes sad. She didn't deserve this, and all three of us knew it. “Well,” she said, almost mournfully, “when do we start?”

“Right now,” Peter said. “We'll get a quote typed up for you before you leave today, and then I'll send you out the door. Richard'll meet you at the Curious Turtle, and I'll get with our IT person to get your phone records looked at, see if we can’t try to trace the numbers or follow any other leads that come up.”

“Wait,” she said, setting her coffee back down. She looked at us and slowly blinked. “You guys have like an actual IT person who can do that?”

Peter and I exchanged a look of confusion. “Well, she's not Q, or anything, and we don't have crazy gadgets,” he said with a smile. “But she can at least record phone calls and maybe figure something out from them.”

Jessica laughed and shook her head as we both got up to leave. A couple moments later, we were back in Peter's office, the door closed behind us.

“You doing okay?” he asked as he settled down behind the computer and began to bring up the invoicing software.

“Me?” I asked, trying to fake a lack of concern. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Don't play dumb, Murdoch,” he said as he began typing up the invoice. “I can tell she's already gotten to you.”

I slumped into the chair. “Gotten to me? What're you talking about?”

“You know, I've noticed something over the last few years,” he replied as he continued to type. “When you're not being completely truthful, you just repeat someone's answers as questions.”

Shit. He knew me too well.

“She's an attractive woman and seems genuine,” Peter continued. “You don't need to be ashamed of having a little crush.”

I laughed, leaning forward in my chair and resting my elbows on my knees. “Fine. Yes, okay, I think she's good looking. And, no, I don't think it'll affect my performance on the job. We good?”

“We were good even before you told me that, brother,” Peter said, continuing to type up the invoice. “Just wanted you to hear you say it, that's all. I trust you with my life, why wouldn't I trust you with hers?”

“Think it's that serious?” I asked, my eyebrows raised. “Trusting me with her life, and all that.”

A peculiar look came over his face, and he took a break from typing to turn his attention to me. “Something just seems off about the whole thing. The death threats starting up right around her silent partner's death? That just seems very coincidental, doesn't it?”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” I replied, playing devil's advocate. We did that, bouncing ideas around on cases, trying to chew holes in each others theories. You had to if you wanted to get to the truth of the matter and keep from making your evidence fit your narrative.

He grimaced and turned back to the computer screen.

As he finished, I chewed over my thoughts on the subject. Something definitely sounded strange about the whole thing, but it was something I couldn't really put my finger on. A lot of times you just needed to get into these cases and look around at every possible person, every little clue, and let the back of your brain sort them out for you.

He printed two copies of the quote, one for the client and one for Gen so she could keep it on file, and handed it to me.

I glanced down at the page. “Cutting it a little close to the bone on this one, aren't you?” I asked when I saw the pricing he'd offered.

“Hometown discount,” he replied with a shrug.

“I popped my head out to see her car,” he added when I gave him a strange look, “and I can tell she's not exactly rolling in cash. Plus, she just lost her partner in the business. I figure this might give us some goodwill, help us get a discount on some art for the lobby. And come on, Murdoch, you know I only seriously charge the corporate clients.”

I gave a short bark of laughter. “Yeah. Right.”

“Besides,” he continued, “if I don't put you to work, you’d just be lounging around anyways. Idle hands, and all that.”

I gave him a wolfish grin as I held up the ridiculously cheap quote. “Uh-huh. Sure, Frost, sure. Certain you ain't crushing on this lady too?”

“Just get out of here and give her the quote,” he replied with a sigh of resignation, his eyes shifting back to the screen, “so we can get you started on this and figure this out soon. Soon as Lacy comes into the office, I'll tell her to get on the phone with you. And I'll switch off with you tonight on watch. Got it?”

I nodded. “Got it.”

I left Peter in his office, quote in hand, and headed back into the conference room with it. I wasn't sure what game he was playing at, but this quote was way too cheap compared to our normal client rates.

I wasn't sure what it was, but something told me Frost knew something I didn't.