Behind them, Maggie coughed and Quinn turned to see his wife leaning into the doorway, her eyebrows raised. She had on a white terry-cloth robe, reddish-brown hair pulled up into a bun. Her eyes tired and sleepy as she stifled a yawn with her fist. Hondo snuffled up to her, tail wagging.

Brandon apologized, picked up his biscuit sandwich, and headed past his mom and back to his room to get dressed for school. Quinn rinsed off the plates and slid his stiff uniform shirt over his white tee before kissing Maggie on the cheek.

“I’d prefer Brandon didn’t talk like this was Cole Range at Benning,” Maggie said.

“We were talking about John Wesley Byrd.”

“What about him?” Maggie said, grinning. “Besides the kid being a real son of a bitch.”

“Brandon said he hasn’t seen the boy all week.”

“Did you find his mother?”

“Not yet.”

“You think something happened to her?”

Quinn refilled his coffee mug and reached for his Tibbehah County cap. “Chester Pratt was worried,” Quinn said. “And now I can’t find Chester Pratt.”

“Well, you know what happened to Gina Byrd.”

“She went off with a new man?”

“Isn’t that what she always does?”

“Her daughter says she’s just mud riding down in Louisiana.”

“While leaving her kids to fend for themselves?”

“Yep,” Quinn said. “TJ may be the only momma John Wesley knows.”

“A kid raising a kid.”

“Wish I could say it was an unusual arrangement in this county.”

Quinn kissed Maggie again and headed for the door. Brandon was already outside in the backseat of the Big Green Machine, Hondo sitting up front, ready to ride shotgun.

As he walked around his truck, his cell rang. Quinn answered.

“Howdy, Quinn,” a man said. “Bruce Lovemaiden over in Parsham County. Looks like we found a vehicle y’all were looking for? A blue Nissan registered to a Gina Byrd.”

“Any sign of her?”

“No, sir,” he said. “Appears she crashed the vehicle and just abandoned it. You want to drive over and have a look-see?”

THREE

You take that dog everywhere?” Sheriff Bruce Lovemaiden asked.

“Only places he wants to go,” Quinn said.

Hondo tenderly jumped out onto the roadside, walking up to Lovemaiden. The sheriff patted the old dog’s head as Hondo sniffed his hand. “What’s his name again?”

“Hondo.”

“That’s right,” he said. “Like that John Wayne picture. The one they shot in 3D.”

Lovemaiden was a big man with a sizable belly and a head the size of a bowling ball. Despite him having at least ten years on Quinn, he had the air of an overgrown kid. His dark hair was slicked down and hard-parted like a third grader’s.

“Can’t say I blame him for wanting to get out of Tibbehah County,” Lovemaiden said. “And head on into God’s Country.”

“Never heard Parsham County called that.”