Page 61 of Forbidden Rancher's Return
He didn't expect the sheriff's report this fast. He didn't expect us this fast either.
He looks at Calla first. Then at me. Then at Beck.
"Morning," he says.
Nobody answers him.
Sheriff Tom Grady comes through the back door. Broad man in his sixties, gray at the temples, with the unhurried manner of someone who has seen most things twice. He looks at Calla.
"Calla." A nod. "Heard about the barn. I'm sorry."
"Thank you, Tom." Her voice is even. "You've met Rowan Cade."
The sheriff looks at me. "I have. Welcome back."
"Thank you, sir."
His eyes move to Halford. Then back to Calla. He has already done his own version of the math.
"Why don't we go to my office," he says.
Halford stands. "I was here first, Tom."
"And I'll get to you." The sheriff's voice doesn't change in temperature or volume. "Sit down, Harlan."
First name from the sheriff. The familiarity of a man who has known Halford long enough to stop being impressed by him.
Halford sits.
The sheriff's office is small. Two chairs across from a wide desk, a filing cabinet that hasn't closed properly in years, a window that looks out on the alley.
We all fit, barely. Beck stands against the wall with his arms folded. Calla sits straight in the chair across from the sheriff. I stand beside her.
"Fire investigator is coming Thursday," she says. "I spoke with him this morning. He confirmed accelerant along the south wall and said the burn pattern is consistent with a professional application."
The sheriff writes. "Timeline."
"Generator sabotage the night before. Someone on the property in the dark during a storm. Opened the fuel cap, drained it without being heard." A pause. "The same night Harlan Grayson came to my front porch uninvited and offered to have his friend the county assessor look at my property taxes."
The sheriff's pen stops. He looks up.
"He was on your property that night."
"Less than an hour after the generator was tampered with. He arrived on foot from the direction of the pasture where we'd seen headlights earlier." Calla's voice doesn't waver. "He referencedthe power outage he had no reason to know about unless he caused it."
The sheriff writes more. Slower now. Careful.
"When did you first notice the vehicle on your property."
"Tuesday night. Approximately nine-fifteen. The headlights entered from the lower pasture, not the road."
"You're sure about the direction."
"The tire tracks confirmed it the next morning. Lower pasture gate."
I watch her do this. Dates, times, and details filed in her head like inventory. She answers every question without hesitation and without drama. Just facts, laid out clean, the way she runs everything.
The sheriff writes slower as she continues. Not because she's going fast. Because what she's saying is getting harder to dismiss.
