Page 60 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
"Sheriff," he says.
"Sheriff," I confirm.
He gets in the back without another word.
The drive down the ridge is different from yesterday. Less loaded. More deliberate. Like we've moved from the question of whether we're doing this to the business of how.
The town comes into view around the bend.
And there, parked outside the sheriff's office like he owns the sidewalk, is Halford's truck.
The skin on my wrists goes cold.
Rowan's hands are steady on the wheel. His jaw sets.
"He's already there," I say.
"Yes."
"He's getting ahead of it."
"Yes."
I look at the truck. At the building behind it. At the door that is about to either help us or fail us depending on which story got there first.
"Drive faster," I say.
Rowan drives faster.
Rowan
Halford's truck sits outside the sheriff's office like a statement.
Calla sees it the same second that I do. Her jaw tightens. Her hands fold in her lap. Controlled. She goes very quiet and very still. The version of her that is the most dangerous.
"He's getting ahead of it," she says.
"Yes."
"He wants to be the first voice the sheriff hears."
"Yes."
Beck leans forward from the back seat. "Then we make sure he's not the last."
I park directly behind Halford's truck. Close enough to make a point. We get out, Calla first, then me. Beck is falling into step on her other side. We cross the sidewalk like we own the ground under it.
Because she does.
The sheriff's office smells like old coffee and pine cleaner.
Deputy Marsh looks up from the front desk and does a quick calculation with his eyes. Calla, me, Beck, the expressions on all three of our faces. He reaches for his radio before anyone says a word.
"Sheriff's in back," he says. "I'll get him."
Halford sits in the chair beside the front window. Hat on his knee. Expression pleasant and composed.
Different from the feed store. Different from the porch. The composure is the same but the effort behind it is showing now. Like a coat that still fits but has started pulling at the seams.
