“Depends on whether Melba kicks me out or gives in to my manly charms,” Dan answered, grinning. “She divorced me for having a dangerous job. Now that she’s a deputy sheriff herself, I might be able to talk some sense into the woman. Get her to take me back. We ought to be raisin’ our kids together, man.”

“I hope you succeed,” Eli said honestly. He liked Dan, and he certainly liked Melba. As a Black woman in law enforcement, serving with distinction, she was opening doors not only for female minorities but for many other people, as well.

Dan arched an eyebrow, dropped his voice to a loud whisper. “You watch your back, Sheriff,” he warned good-naturedly. “One of these years, Melba’s going to run against you.” A pause. “And if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny every word.”

Again, Eli chuckled. Offered a casual salute. “She’ll probably win by a landslide,” he said. He shifted slightly on his feet, ready to be on the move again. He wanted to talk to Freddie and/or his parents before it got any later.

Couldn’t have the Lansings complaining that Sheriff Garrett was harassing them with late-night visits.

Besides, he was bound and determined to get back to Bailey’s—and to Brynne—by midnight.

It was probably too soon to get lucky, but he’d settle for another kiss like that last one, following the snowmobile ride.

“Nobody gonna hurt these children on my watch,” Dan stated, serious again now. “How ’bout we meet up over at Sully’s one night soon? Have us a couple of beers and shoot the breeze?”

“I’d like that,” Eli said.

Then he turned and made his way down Melba’s porch steps.

Ten minutes later, he was turning into the long driveway leading up to the Lansing place.

The property wasn’t run-down, at least not in the sad way Russ Schafer’s Painted Pony Creek Motel had been, before Cord and Shallie decided to help fix the place up so they could board some of their horse-training students there, but it wasn’t the kind of place that made a person feel welcome, either.

Floodlights blared from tall poles and parts of the roof, giving the impression of a prison yard at night. Fred Lansing, Sr., Freddie’s dad, fancied himself a modern-day minuteman, ready to defend his freedom against an oppressive government.

He was a bitter, angry man, chronically unemployed, and his wife, who worked as a supermarket cashier, was a meek little thing, plain and quiet and noticeably jumpy.

Eli suspected Fred of abusing the poor woman—hell, maybe Freddie did, too—but there was no proof. Unless Gretchen Lansing filed a complaint, or one of those losers went after her in front of witnesses, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.