Every single thing in the office had some sort of Western vibe to it, from a pair of matching lamps shaped like silver spurs, to a chair that had fake rifles for arms, to a cowboy sculpture made out of lassos that had been, well, lassoed together. Silver studs trimmed all the dark green leather sofas and chairs, while bits of turquoise glimmered in the top of a glass coffee table. Paintings of cattle and cowboys covered the walls, and what looked like a genuine bearskin rug stretched across the floor in front of the fireplace in one corner.

   The bear wasn’t the only dead animal in here. A large buffalo head was mounted on the wall above the fireplace, with several smaller deer, elk, and moose heads flanking it. A stuffed red fox snarled on the wide mantel above the fireplace, while a bobcat glared up at it from the floor. Hooked to each animal was a small white tag that featured a location, along with a date. Somebody liked to hunt—and show off their trophies.

   A desk stood in the opposite corner of the office, across from the dead-animal shrine that clustered around the fireplace. A phone, a monitor, a laptop, pens, notepads, papers. The desk was the only normal thing in sight.

   Because the woman sitting behind it was anything but normal.

   She got up and stepped forward, beaming at us. Instead of wearing a typical business suit, the woman was dressed like a cowgirl, from her pink plaid shirt studded with pearl buttons to her tight white jeans to her white boots with silver tips. A saucer-size silver buckle studded with a dazzling array of pink and white rhinestones clung to her white leather belt, along with two white holsters, both of which contained an old-fashioned, pearl-handled revolver. Her long blond hair was done up in two thick braids that trailed down her chest, and her eyes were a light, pretty green. The only thing she was missing was a white Stetson on her head. Oh, wait. There it was, hooked on an antler on another stuffed moose head close to the desk.

   “Roxanne Wyatt, at your service, but y’all can call me Roxy,” she chirped, her voice dripping with folksy charm. “Everyone round here does.”

   Finn stepped forward and shook her hand. “Roxy, pleased to meet you. These are my friends Bria Coolidge, Owen Grayson, and Gin Blanco.”

   Roxy came around the desk and walked down the line of us, nodding and shaking our hands. I was last, and she smiled and reached for my hand.

   I felt her Fire magic the second her fingers touched mine.

   Her hand was pleasantly warm, but I could sense the hotter, elemental magic that lay just below the surface of her skin. Roxy started to drop my hand, but I wrapped my free hand around both of our joined ones and gave hers another long, vigorous shake, trying to determine exactly how much power she had.

   I didn’t sense an explosive, deadly burn, one that could incinerate you on the spot, not like I had with Mab Monroe and Harley Grimes, two other Fire elementals that I’d battled. Oh, Roxy could still light someone up and toast them alive with her magic, but it would take her a while. Her Fire power was moderate, at best.

   Roxy gave me a strange look, and I flashed her a smile and finally dropped her hand.

   She stared at me a second longer, then gestured over at a large wooden cabinet adorned with bone handles. “Can I offer y’all a drink? You must be thirsty after driving down from Ashland. Water, tea, coffee, something stronger?”

   We all asked for waters, and Roxy passed out the bottles before telling us to make ourselves comfortable on the leather sofas.

   Roxy plopped down in her desk chair again, cracked open her own water, and took a long swig before setting it aside and looking at Finn. “I was very sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. Please accept my heartfelt condolences on your tragic loss.”

   I snorted. Roxy gave me a sideways look, but Finn leaned forward on the sofa, blocking her view of me, and cranked up the wattage on his smile.

   “Thank you,” he said. “How well did you know Deirdre?”

   Roxy leaned back in her chair and laced her fingers ­together over her sparkly belt buckle. “Well, Ms. Shaw hired me as the new resort manager about two months ago. I only ever actually met her in person a few times, although I emailed with her frequently about resort matters.”

   Finn nodded. “My mother told me that she owned the hotel and theme park, but I have to say that I was surprised to get the deed in the mail. And so quickly.”

   “Yes, well, Ms. Shaw called me up about a week before her, um, passing and told me that she was changing her will and leaving you the whole kit and caboodle.” Roxy held her hands out wide. “I want to honor her wishes to the fullest, especially in death.”

   “I appreciate that,” Finn murmured.

   Roxy gestured at several neat stacks of papers on her desk. “I’ve prepared some information about the hotel and theme park for you, if you’d like to review it now. Or maybe a quick tour of the hotel first? I’ve got to go get ready for the high-noon show soon, but I could show you around for a few minutes right now.”

   “Actually, I’d like to see my mother’s room,” Finn said in a smooth voice. “Deirdre told me that there was a suite set aside for her personal use. I’d like to go through it and see her personal effects. And, of course, I’ll be boxing those up and taking them with me when we leave.”

   Finn sold it well, and it sounded like a perfectly innocent request from a grieving son, instead of the plan we’d worked out to get access to Deirdre’s suite without attracting any unwanted attention. Finn might own the resort, but this was still new, uncharted territory, and we needed to tread lightly until we knew exactly whom we were dealing with.

   Roxy blinked, as if she hadn’t expected Finn to ask for that right off the bat, and for a split second something almost like satisfaction flashed in her green gaze. My eyes narrowed. Why would she be so interested in our looking at Deirdre’s suite?

   But the emotion vanished, and she smiled again, her white teeth gleaming almost as big and bright as the rhinestones on her fancy belt buckle. “Sure thing. Just let me text Ira. He has the keys to all of the hotel’s private areas, including Deirdre’s suite. He should have time to show you where it is before he announces the high-noon show.”