Page 103 of Wild Sanctuary

“You don’t have to do that, Dave.”

“No trouble at all.” He settles into the chair nearest the door with the unhurried ease of a man who has sat in this kitchen a thousand times. “The crew’s checkin’ the outbuildings. Boys’ve split up, east and west. Anythin’ looks off, we’ll know.”

He turns his hat in his hands for a moment, studying the brim.

“Your daddy had a break-in once, long time ago now. Turned out to be Hector Pruitt’s boy looking for cash to buy a dirt bike.” He shakes his head. “Bill tanned his hide and drove him home. Different times.”

The story doesn’t help, but I don’t think it’s meant to. It’s Dave’s way of being here.

We sit together for the better part of an hour. He doesn’t push conversation, just drinks the coffee I pour for him and tells me about a fence post he replaced last week that turned out to have a bird’s nest inside.

“Left it alone,” he murmurs. “Some things’re more important than straight lines.”

Wyatt comes back from the cabin with mud on his boots and a jaw so tight I’m surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. He claps Dave on the shoulder in the doorway, a wordless exchange that carries the weight of their friendship. Dave shoots me a reassuring smile, sets his hat back on his head and lets himself out.

Once he’s gone, Wyatt doesn’t tell me what the sheriff said, just stations himself at the kitchen counter with paperwork he’s not reading while watching the driveway like he’s daring someone to come up it.

While he’s busy, I shower and change into the bathrobe June left folded on Wyatt’s bed before she went down to the cabin. It’s soft and oversized, and I’m more than a little grateful for the comfort. I cinch it tight and go back downstairs with wet hair, bare feet, and nothing else to put on until June gets back.

Wyatt’s eyes find me and drop the full length of the bathrobe before he catches himself. His jaw flexes and he scrubs a hand over his face, turning back to the paperwork he’s not reading.

Around ten thirty, Dolly Briggs pulls up in her station wagon with a casserole dish and a face full of purpose. I haven’t seen her since the fundraiser, but I can’t help recalling how, even back when she’d press a lemon drop into my hand after church, she knew everything about everyone within a thirty-mile radius. Time has only sharpened the skill.

Dolly doesn’t gossip. Instead, she distributes intelligence with the efficiency of a wartime radio operator, and she heard about the break-in from her nephew, who is apparently Deputy Torres. She hugs me tight before placing the casserole on the counter, and telling Wyatt he looks terrible.

“You need to eat.” She points an accusing finger at him. “And sleep. You look like you haven’t done either.”

“I’m fine, Dolly.”

“You are not fine. You’re a man runnin’ on spite and caffeine, and I’ve known you since you were in diapers, Wyatt Hartley, so don’t you try that face on me.”

Wyatt doesn’t argue. He just takes the casserole dish and puts it in the fridge, and Dolly pats his cheek on her way out like he’s still six years old.

The kitchen barely settles before a truck rumbles up the driveway around eleven. Wyatt looks toward the window.

“Marcus.” I can see his shoulders loosen a fraction.

The back door opens with an easy knock before we hear his voice. “Anybody home?”

“In here,” Wyatt calls back.

Marcus appears in the kitchen doorway, hanging his jacket on the hook. “June called me. Said there was some trouble over here last night.”

Wyatt gives him the short version. Break-in. Cabin tossed. Laptop gone. Sheriff’s just about done processing the scene.

Marcus listens with his arms folded, his face growing more serious with every detail. When Wyatt finishes, he shakes his head slowly.

“Lord.” His eyes find mine. “Daisy. Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.” I’m closer to believing the words every time I say them. “Wasn’t there when it happened.”

“Thank goodness you were at the auction dinner and not at the cabin.” He exhales heavily before tapping his fingers on the table with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, what could’ve happened if you’d been home alone.”

The words linger in the air for a moment as he pours himself coffee and leans against the island.

“Any idea who’d do something like that?” he asks Wyatt. “Come on to Hartley land and target a guest?”

“Not yet.” But the determination in Wyatt’s eyes tells me it’s only a matter of time before that changes.