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The conversation rolled on easy after that, drifting from the fair to Xavier’s complaints about Texas humidity ruining his hair, to some story about Beau Turner’s barbecue trophy collection that had everybody laughing. I noticed Rhett relaxing bit by bit, his shoulders coming down from around his ears, actually leaning into the conversation instead of just watching it happen around him. By the time Marcus called out that the brisket was close to ready, Rhett had his boots kicked up on the bench across from him and was arguing with Xavier about whether sweet tea was a dessert. Xavier, being from New York, thought it was highly indulgent. The rest of us, being Texas boys, thought it was something more akin to religion than a drink.

Marcus finally pulled the brisket off the smoker with the kind of ceremony you’d think he was handling a newborn baby. He sat it down on the cutting board with more gentleness than I honestly thought possible.

“Now don’t rush me on this,” he said, pointing his knife at Xavier before he’d even opened his mouth. “Meat’s gotta rest.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

“You were fixin’ to.”

Xavier held up both hands in surrender, though the grin on his face said he’d absolutely been fixing to say something. I caught Rhett watching the two of them with an expression I couldn’t quite place, something between amusement and this quiet, wistful thing that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“They’re somethin’, ain’t they?” I said low, leaning toward him.

“Yeah.” He took a pull off his beer. “Kinda hard to imagine Sheriff Webb like this. He’s so serious at the station.”

“Guess everybody’s got a side they don’t show at work.”

Mike got up to help Marcus carry things over to the table, and Cash trailed after him, and for a minute it was just me and Rhett and Xavier sitting there while the cicadas started up their evening racket in the oak trees overhead.

Xavier turned that curious gaze back on Rhett again. “So, has Marcus roped you in on this manhunt for the Sagebrush thief yet?” He was grinning from ear to ear. “It’s his favorite topic to talk about, especially since I don’t let him forget that I lost a couple Gucci shirts off the line about four weeks ago.”

Rhett’s beer bottle stilled halfway to his mouth. “Off the line?”

“Can you imagine?” Xavier pressed a hand to his chest like the memory still wounded him personally. “I hung them out because it’s sacrilege to put them in a hot dryer. I turn around the next morning and two of my best tank tops are just gone. Gone! Do you know how hard it is to find a decent mesh tank in this godforsaken county? I need to go back to the store next time I was in New York to replace them.”

“That’s rough,” I said, though I could feel Rhett go stiff again beside me, the ease he’d built up over the last hour draining right back out of him.

“Dolly lost somethin’ too, didn’t she?” I added, trying to keep the conversation moving so nobody noticed how quiet Rhett had gone. “Think she mentioned it a while back. Some jewelry, maybe? Or shoes?”

“A Valentino bag and her Louboutin heels,” Xavier said, nodding. “She was fit to be tied about that one. And I can understand why. They’re worth almost four thousand dollars to the right buyer.” He shook his head, swirling the last of his beer around in the bottle. “Whoever’s doing this has zero respect for hardworking people around here. Just grabbing whatever’s easy and running off with it. What did Dolly, of all people, do to deserve that?”

“Marcus still ain’t got any leads?” I asked.

“None that stick,” Xavier sighed. “He won’t say much about it to me directly. He doesn’t want me worrying, but I hear him on the phone at night sometimes. Frustrated doesn’t even cover it.” He glanced toward the smoker where Marcus and Mike were still fussing over the brisket, lowering his voice like he didn’t want it carrying. “I think it’s eating at him more than he lets on. Every time somebody new gets hit, he takes it personally, like it’s a mark against him. And the way things are going, it might be.”

Rhett had gone very still next to me, his beer bottle sweating in his grip, condensation dripping down over his knuckles. I glanced over at him, trying to figure out why this was making him so uneasy.

“You alright?” I asked quietly.

“Fine,” he said, too fast, and took a long drink like he needed something to do with his mouth besides talk.

Xavier, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice, already twisting around to call out toward the smoker. “Marcus, baby, tell them about the boot prints! That part’s actually kind of exciting, in a true crime podcast sort of way.”

“It ain’t excitin’,” Marcus called back without turning around. “It’s a headache.”

“Everything’s more interesting with the right narration,” Xavier said, turning back to us with a conspiratorial grin, like he hadn’t just dropped something that had Rhett’s knuckles white around his bottle. “Small boot prints, if you can believe it. Practically dainty. Marcus won’t say it out loud because he doesn’t want to stereotype, but between you and me I think we’re looking for a cowgirl hellbent on revenge or something.”

“Revenge for what?” I asked, grinning at the thought.

“I don’t know,” Xavier shrugged. “But she’s good. Nobody’s ever seen her take anything, and she never leaves a trace, save for the boot prints. It’s a tantalizing mystery.”

“You listen to too many of those damn podcasts,” Marcus said, appearing behind Xavier. “You and every other white woman in the whole damn country.”

Xavier turned on him. “I take so much offense to that.”

Marcus didn’t even flinch. “Yeah, well, food’s done, so get over it.”

“Yay!”