LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter One

      Waking up tied to a chair is bad.

      But waking up tied to a chair staring down the deadly single barrel of old Levi Kenwright’s pump-action shotgun?

      So. Much. Worse.

      James Bravo stifled a groan. Not only did it appear he was about to eat serious lead, but he had the mother of all headaches. Surely Levi didn’t really intend to shoot him. James shook his head, hoping to clear it.

      Still a little fuzzy. And still hurt, too. And Levi still had that shotgun trained right on him.

      The old man wasn’t at his best. His wiry white hair looked as if he’d combed it with a cattle prod and his craggy face seemed kind of pale—except for two spots of color, burning red, cresting his cheekbones. Sweat shone on his wrinkled throat and darkened the underarms of his worn checked shirt.

      His aim, however?

      Way too steady. Levi grunted as he sighted down the barrel. “Good. You’re awake. I was beginnin’ to worry I’d hit you a mite hard.”

      James winced, blinked in another failed attempt to ease his pounding head and cast a careful glance around him. Judging by the lack of windows, the knotty pine paneling, the faint smell of cool earth and the stairs leading upward along the far wall, Levi had brought him to a basement. Was it the basement of the house at Red Hill Ranch, where Levi lived with his way too damn attractive granddaughter Addie?

      Probably.

      On the battered pasteboard side table a few feet away, James spotted his phone, his wallet and his keys. So even if he managed to get his hand into his pocket, there was no phone in there to use to call for help.

      And just how in hell had all of this happened?

      James remembered standing on the porch of his nearly finished new house ten miles outside his hometown of Justice Creek, Colorado. It was a cool and sunny March afternoon. He’d been gazing off toward the big weathered barn at Red Hill, hoping that Addie would soon ride by on one of those horses she boarded and trained.

      The crazy old coot must have come up on him from behind.

      Cautiously, James inquired, “Er, Mr. Kenwright?”

      “No need for formalities, son,” Levi replied downright pleasantly as he continued to point the shotgun at James. “We’re gonna be family. I want you to call me Levi.”

      Had the old man just said they were going to be...family? James’s head hurt too much for him to even try to get a handle on that one. “Levi it is, then.”

      A wry little chortle escaped the wild-haired old man. “That’s better.”

      Better? Better would be if Levi put down the gun and untied him immediately. But James didn’t say that. For the time being, he would say nothing that might rile his captor. A riled Levi could suddenly decide to fire that shotgun. That would be good and bad. Good, because James would no longer have a headache. Bad, because he wouldn’t have a head, either.

      “Levi, do you mind if I ask you something?”

      “You go right ahead, son.”

      “Why

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