He considered taking another shower, this time a cold one, and decided he didn’t have the energy. He’d just have to suffer for a while.

So he closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, it was morning, and his phone was moving around like a Mexican jumping bean on his bedside table.

“Sheriff Garrett,” he said, out of long habit.

“It’s Melba,” came the response.

Eli sat up, wide-awake. “What?”

“We need you out at the Painted Pony Creek Motel, pronto,” Melba answered. “Specifically the lot behind it.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Eli said, throwing back the covers on his bed and getting to his feet. “What’s going on?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Melba said. She was smart as hell, and one of the best cops Eli had ever had the privilege of working with, but she could get on his last nerve when it came to getting to the point.

“Try me,” Eli barked, out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans. Then he yelled, “Eric! Get up now!”

“Ouch,” Melba complained.

“Talk to me, damn it.”

“Well, Sheriff,” his new favorite deputy replied matter-of-factly, “we’ve got ourselves a body out here.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

BRYNNE WATCHED FROM her apartment’s front windows, coffee cup in hand, as several police cars sped past, streaks of light and sound.

It was almost a parade, she reflected on the calm surface of her mind, although there was certainly nothing celebratory about the scene. Beneath, where the deeper waters ran, Brynne’s spirit churned with alarm.

Where was Eli? That was her most urgent thought.

As rapidly as the vehicles moved, she saw and registered each insignia—the Creek’s small municipal force, the Montana state police, the sheriff’s department—not Eli’s SUV, but one of the cruisers.

Where was he?

The two rigs bringing up the rear moved at a slow, solemn pace: the van marked Wild Horse County Coroner and the ambulance.

No lights, no sirens.

No hurry.

Brynne bit her lower lip and pressed her face closer to the breath-fogged glass, straining to see farther down the street, but the window frame and the sign next door—Nellie’s Nails—blocked her view.

And that was when the first what-if struck her.

What if the call all those police were answering was “officer down”?

And what if that officer is Eli?

What if he’s been shot or stabbed or God knows what else in the line of duty, and that coroner’s van is for him?

Sickness surged, scalding, into the back of Brynne’s throat and, for a long and treacherous moment, she actually thought she might faint.

She set her cup down and grasped the wide windowsill until her head stopped spinning and her breathing slowed enough to rule out hyperventilation.

At her feet, poor Waldo wailed piteously, aware of her distress and frightened by it.