Lydia slowly nodded as she put the card down on her desk as if to regroup.
Then she reached for a separate filing tray and started flicking through the documents with the quick precision of a bank teller counting a wad of cash.‘If SW’s name pops up more than once, I’ll find it,’ Lydia murmured quietly, as if almost to herself, ‘and if Red’s been signing off on them, I need to know…’
Amara and Porter exchanged a glance.
Lydia carried a stack of files, dumped them onto the wooden tabletop, and sat behind her desk.‘I’ll be here a while.I’ll let you know if I find anything.’
Just like Amara earlier, Porter could see that Lydia was putting her personal feelings aside for the job.It was a tough move.
‘Thanks, Lydia.’Porter tugged on Amara’s shirtsleeve and headed for the door.
Outside, he cleaned his sunglasses on his shirt as Amara stood beside him, sliding on her hat.
She had a different hat on today, a dark green one.He still hadn’t seen her wear the bright pink stockman’s hat she’d hung on the wall in his house… It was an eyesore—especially when he’d just woken up and stumbled into the kitchen to start his day.But today was not the day to tease her about it.
‘Got any ideas of what to do now?’It was rare for Amara to ask him that.
‘Yeah,’ he said, sliding on his sunglasses.‘Have you met young Brodie, yet?’
Twenty
The midday heat shimmered over the empty stockyards, the scents of dust and damp earth mixed with a faint methane aroma.Amara and Porter found Brodie working in one of the empty stockyards.
Barely sixteen, the kid was elbow-deep in muck, scrubbing the algae off the sides of a concrete trough with a stiff-bristled brush.His boots were two sizes too big, his jeans patched at the knees, and the old Akubra shading his face had probably seen better years long before he was even born.
Porter whistled low as they stepped up to the rails.‘You always get the good jobs, don’t ya, mate?’
Brodie peeked over his shoulder, the grin showing off his white teeth against his deep tan as he concentrated hard on his scrubbing.‘It’s gotta be better than cleanin’ out the police cells after the drunks have been through, I reckon.’
Porter chuckled.
Amara hooked her arms over the top rail, watching him.‘Got a minute?’
‘Sure…’ Brodie dropped the brush into the water with a splash and wiped his hands dry on his dirty shirt.‘I’m real sorry they pinched your horse like that.He was nice.’
Amara nodded, feeling Porter watching her, as if silently warning her to play nice.
She could play nice.‘Thank you, Brodie.Look, the last time we spoke, you mentioned the horse was a midnight special?’
‘A what?’Porter unhooked the gate and swung it open.He leaned against the rails, shifting the dynamic—now there was nothing between them and Brodie, just open space.All done as casual as anything, like Porter was just getting comfortable.
But Amara saw it now.Porter never just stood somewhere for the sake of taking up space like she’d always assumed.Every movement, every position, was deliberate.Porter always found a spot that gave him control over the conversation—and the person he was talking to.
If Brodie bolted, Porter was close enough to grab him.
If Brodie lashed out, Porter had room to react.
And if anything went sideways, Porter was already between her and trouble.
Like the car park at the pub where Porter had parked his vehicle with the yahoos playing Hold-My-Beer.The police car and himself were far enough away, but in the perfect spot to block them should any of them head onto the road, where he had jurisdiction as an officer to arrest them.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed that before.
Porter was a lot more switched on than she’d ever given him credit for—even in a uniform that looked like he’d slept in it, and in boots that had never seen the right side of a polishing brush.
Had Porter done that to lull the locals into a sense of complacency?To make himself look like just another laid-back country cop, easy to underestimate?Or was it deliberate to make himself more approachable to stockmen, and stablehands like Brodie, who’d trust a bloke in dusty boots more than some big cheese with a mirror shine to their shoes?
‘Exactly what is a midnight special, mate?’Porter asked.
