Page 72 of Where They Belong
“Yes,” Colt said softly. There wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be than in Mason’s arms. “With me.”
The first thing Colt noticed when he awoke the next morning was that Mason wasn’t tucked into his side like he had been the past week since they’d first fallen into bed together. The next thing he noticed was that the sheets on Mason’s side were cold.
He reached for his phone on the night table to check the time, but the screen was stubbornly black. Dead.
“Shit.” He’d been pleasantly distracted with his arms full of Mason when they’d returned home and had forgotten to put it in the charger before going to bed. Prime example for not getting involved with your client. No matter what kind of past they shared.
But after yesterday’s arrests, was Mason still his client?
Before his mind wandered down that road, he realized the morning light spearing through the curtains was brighter than it should be. He frowned. The last thing he remembered was Mason getting up to let the dogs out, but he must have fallen back to sleep—or hadn’t been overly awake to begin with—because he didn’t remember Mason coming back to bed.
Unease trickled into his chest, but he pushed it away as he rose. Gentry Bristow was in jail, along with his dad and John Odling, and Grayson was cooperating with Nick.
Mason was probably in the kitchen with breakfast waiting, but calling out got no answer. He quickly pulled on his clothes and headed down the hall into the main living area and kitchen. But there was no sign of fresh coffee or breakfast. No sign of the dogs, and no Mason.
He plugged his phone into the charger, where he’d left it on the kitchen island, and crossed to the foyer to put his boots on as foreboding snaked into his veins.
He scanned the front yard as he stepped off the veranda and spotted the dogs lying down near the zigzag fence. The dogs should be at the barns or out with Mason and the hands doing herd checks or, at the very least, bounding over to greet him with lolling tongues, wagging tails, and wiggle bums, as usual. The trickle of unease he’d risen with grew to a fast-moving river as he approached them. Marley barely lifted her head, and Diesel flapped his tail a couple of times.
“Hey, you two.” He knelt in the cool grass beside them. “Not feeling so good, eh?”
Marley whimpered and licked his palm. He lifted her lip to check her gums, which looked normal, but her eyes were glazed and unfocused. Same with Diesel. Their breathing seemed even and steady. Colt pursed his lips. The dogs either got into something they shouldn’t have, or someone deliberately fed them something they shouldn’t have eaten. Other than being out of it, they seemed to be okay, which would mean they’d been sedated rather than poisoned. He hoped, anyway. But if it were poison, they would be vomiting and convulsing or seizing. Or worse, already dead.
He looked around the area for any evidence as to what might have been the cause, and over by the grove of aspen trees, a piece of salmon-colored paper caught his eye. He rose and went to inspect it. The paper was the kind a butcher would use to wrap fresh meat.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He turned and bolted for the barns, legs pumping and booted feet smacking the ground with enough force to reverberate through his bones.
Maybe it wasn’t what it looked like. Maybe Mason accidentally left the dogs’ food bags open, and they ate too much. Or the butcher’s paper was an escaped piece of garbage from the dining hall, or Chef Aiden had brought a treat for the dogs. Maybe Mason was simply doing what he did on the ranch each morning, not worried about his own safety anymore because the Bristows were behind bars, and decided to let Colt sleep in.
But all those maybes rang false in the back of his mind.
He ducked into the main barn and called out, but the barn was empty. No horses. No Mason. Nothing but dust motes drifting lazily in the air, which, for some reason, pissed him off. Didn’t they know Mason could be in trouble?
Colt charged into the medical barn, his breath growing sharper and faster, grating up his esophagus as it burst from his lungs like explosive fireballs. Inside, he skidded to a halt. Wes was standing in front of Spice’s stall with Selma, both smiling as Spice nibbled at Wes’s shoulder.
Wes’s smile dropped like a stone when he made eye contact with Colt. “What happened?”
“Have you seen Mason?” Colt panted, his voice graveled and hoarse.
Wes exchanged a glance with Selma, and both shook their heads.
“Haven’t seen him since dinner last night.” Wes tilted his head slightly, his eyebrows lowered.
“What’s going on?” Katie exited Gin-Gin’s stall with Angela right behind her, an edge of concern in her voice. “Is Mason okay?”
Colt reached for his hat that wasn’t there and ran a hand over his head. He didn’t want to panic Mason’s sister, but if something had happened to Mason, there was no time to dance around.
“He’s not at the house or the main barn, and the dogs aren’t acting normal.” He dropped his hands to his side and clenched his fists. “I think they were drugged.”
Katie’s complexion paled. “What?”
Angela stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Call Trina,” Angela said softly. “Maybe he’s over there.”
“Right.” Katie’s mouth tipped up in a hint of a smile that quickly disappeared as she pulled her phone from her back pocket and put Trina on speaker when the call connected.
