“I mean…” Xander eyed the newcomers as they talked to Gideon and then lowered his voice as he turned back to me. “What are we going to do? He has the shotgun and doesn’t know who I am about seventy-five percent of the time.”

A comforting weight settled on my chest as I dressed for the occasion before zipping my jacket and tying my boots. “I figured we’d go find Dad.”

I rustled through my glove box, quickly grabbing my headlamp and a flashlight, then stuffed them in my pockets, pausing only long enough to tuck in the little white onyx bishop next to my driver’s manual so the chess piece didn’t get lost. We probably had another hour of good light, but if I was wrong, it was going to take more than that to cover the hundred acres Dad owned, and that was if he’d stayed on the property.

“Don’t you think we should let Gideon and the PD handle this now?” Xander asked quietly.

I looked back to where Gideon stood with the other four officers who made up the Alba Police Department. They all had sidearms strapped on. I was on the receiving end of more than a couple of glares. Not that I could blame them. At least three of those guys had put cuffs on me at one time or another.

“You mean, am I going to let the men with the guns find our dad, who has his own gun?” I didn’t wait for Xander’s response, turning toward the northern section of the property.

“Wait!” Xander gripped my elbow, and I tensed, reminding myself at least a dozen times not to beat the crap out of him for touching me without warning.

“Let go of me.”

My tone must have gotten through to him, because he dropped his hand.

“There are rules, Cam. Regulations. They know how to handle this kind of thing. The last thing we need is you flying off the handle.”

Ah, there it was, the butter knife–soft condescension Xander used when he thought the twenty-five months he had on me age-wise gave him the right to issue orders. He’d never make a quick, clean cut to get his way. He’d simply saw with that lightly serrated edge until you were too raw from the friction to object.

I preferred the more direct butcher’s-knife approach.

“You and your rules. You’re telling me that if he points that shotgun at them, they won’t pull the trigger?”

Xander scoffed. “Come on, it’s the guys.”

“You willing to bet Dad’s life on that twenty-five-year-old bully who doesn’t bother to answer his radio and has flicked open the holster on his weapon at least four times since they started talking? I’m not. I know where he is, and I’m getting there before they do.”