“It won’t take long.”
I just needed the time to formulate what I was going to say to him that would keep him from running.
Ten minutes later, I was up on the roof, kneeling on the hot shingles, when I heard the sound of trouble rolling up the drive.
The cruiser was an old Ford, engine tuned to a low, predatory idle. Even before I saw the car, I felt my body tense—adrenaline like a shot of Novocain to the heart. I squinted against the sun, saw the pale gold flash on the side panel.
Sheriff Calloway.
I finished driving in the last nail—three precise whacks—and stood, rolling the hammer in my palm. The badge on the door caught the light as the cruiser stopped ten yards from the barn.
Calloway sat for a beat, running his hand over his mustache, then stepped out with the measured slowness of a man who knew every set of eyes in town was on him.
He wore his uniform like it was a second skin, beige shirt starched to within an inch of its life, boots polished to a low shine. He closed the door with two fingers, then walked toward me, careful not to step in the mud.
“Morning, Steele,” he said, voice as dry as the dust his tires had kicked up. “You always start your day on the roof?”
I set the hammer on the ridge and crouched, arms resting on my knees. “Storm took a shingle off. I figured I’d fix it before the next one.”
He shaded his eyes, looking up. “Not many men in this county do their own repairs.”
I shrugged. “I’m not from this county.”
He let the words hang, then turned his gaze toward the house. “Saw you got your power on. Guy at the co-op said you paid in cash.”
“That a problem?”
He smiled, thin. “Not unless you robbed a bank on your way into town.”
I liked him more for the joke, but I wasn’t about to let him see it. “You come all the way out here to audit my receipts?”
He shook his head, eyes squinting at the early sun. “Just routine. New folks moving in, old folks moving out. I’m supposed to make sure the land stays in the right hands.”
I hopped down from the roof, landing with a soft thud. The ground was soggy, but I didn’t break stride. Calloway watched every move, hands hooked on his belt. He was taller than I remembered—maybe six foot even—but I still had three inches and a good thirty pounds on him.
He didn’t seem intimidated. I respected that.
He glanced at the barn, at the mustangs inside. “Heard you were bringing in wild stock.”
“Gonna train a few. Sell the rest.” I wiped my hands on my jeans, then leaned against the rail. “You ever ride?”
He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Not since my knee gave out. These days, I just watch the parade.”
We stood in silence, both of us cataloguing the other, old habit. He looked at my arms, at the scars, at the tattoo on my wrist—latitude and longitude in tight Navy script. He clocked it, but didn’t ask.
“Kid from the bakery,” he said, casual as a stick of dynamite, “is he working for you?”
He meant Jojo.
“He’s helping out,” I said. “He’s good with animals. Doesn’t eat much.”
The sheriff looked back at the house, the faintest sound of radio static floating from his car. “You know his story?”
I kept my eyes on him. “I know enough.”
He nodded, slow, then picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers. “Folks around here look out for their own. Sometimes that means asking questions, even when the answers are none of their business.”
His gaze was direct, a challenge or a test. I passed by not flinching.
