She had three years’ worth of research notes on the legendary antique brooch, including credible evidence it was once blessed by Pope Urban the Fifth.

Forged by the Viking King, Olav the Third, in 1075, the jewel-encrusted treasure had journeyed into battles and crossed seas. Some claimed it was used as collateral to found the Sisters of Beneficence convent at La Roche.

Most thought it was a legend, but Sydney knew it existed. In somebody’s attic. In somebody’s jewel case. In somebody’s safe-deposit box. If even half the stories were true, the Thunderbolt had an uncanny knack for survival.

And if it had survived, she’d pick up its trail. If she picked up its trail, she’d find it. And when she found it, she’d make sure it stayed with the Laurent Museum-even if she had to hog-tie Bradley Slander to keep him out of the bidding.

Life was looking up for Cole. He’d spent the past three days at a livestock auction in Butte, Montana, with his eye on one beauty of a quarter horse. In the end, he’d outbid outfits from California and Nevada to bring Night-Dreams home to the Valley.

He might not be in a position to produce the next round of Erickson heirs, but he was sure in a position to produce top-quality cutting horses. That had to count for something.

Cole tossed his duffel bag on the cabin floor and kicked the door shut behind him. Of course it counted for something. It counted for a lot. And he had to get his grandmother’s voice out of his head.

It had been months since the wedding. He wasn’t a stud, and she could only make him feel guilty if he let her.

He pulled a battered percolator from a kitchen shelf and scooped some coffee into the basket. As soon as Katie was pregnant, he’d make his case for the Thunderbolt again. If Olav the Third could start a tradition, Cole the First could change it.