"Fine. Fasten your seat belt first." He eased Ma into the backseat with Wendy, then hurried to the driver's seat.
Wendy's heart beat a rat-a-tat. The roads into town were slick. The snow-splattered roadside weeds spun by the car window. Clutching Ma to her, Wendy remembered all the times past when Ma had wrapped her soft plump arms around her.
The sheriff glanced back at her, asking her wordlessly how Ma was doing. Her heart in her throat, Wendy looked into his ice blue eyes. Their depths—so clear and calm—steadied her. She nodded, telling him just to get them to the clinic where Ma would get the medication she needed.
She gave Ma a gentle squeeze and prayed to get to Steadfast safely—without running into a patch of glazed ice or another buck. It was hunting season and the deer were on the move.
The miles flew past. At the outskirts of town, the sheriff radioed ahead to the clinic. At its entrance, a nurse wearing a heavy white sweater burst through the emergency-room doors, pushing a gurney ahead of her. The sheriff gently lifted Ma onto it.
Wendy slid across the seat to him. He swung her out, too, as though she didn't weigh anything at all. His touch—or her worry—made her breathless. "Thanks, Sheriff," she managed when her feet hit the ground. She hurried after Ma. His gaze followed her inside or it felt that way.
Sheriff Rodd Durand watched the automatic doors close behind Wendy. The young nurse's pretty but anxious face lingered in his mind. Keyed up, he felt drawn to follow her to see the end of the drama they'd just shared. Instead, he climbed into his Jeep. He had another burglary investigation to conduct and sick cattle at home.
Four miles out of town back at the Ukkonen property, he bumped along its rutted road and pulled in, parking next to the nurse's dark Blazer. He radioed his location to dispatch, then got out. Dread clumped in his midsection. Examining a crime scene here hit him harder than it had as a cop in Milwaukee. Here, the people who depended on him were individuals he was coming to know, not just the law-abiding public. As Steadfast's new sheriff, he'd expected drunkenness and disorderly conduct, petty theft, minor drug offenses, and the occasional drunk-driving case—stuff like that. He'd never expected a string of burglaries aimed at the most defenseless—the infirm, the elderly, the poor. Pathetically easy targets.
The thief—whom he'd nicknamed "the Weasel"—had used the same simple MO again—hitting the isolated house of an older person away from home. Shivering in the brisk wind, Rodd paused next to the back door and glanced down at the footprints. The pretty nurse and her patient had trampled over the same brand-new, generic men's boot prints he'd seen twice before. The thief must have bought them just to use in the burglaries. They showed no unique wear patterns. With his toe, he nudged the remnants of the door open and walked into the shadowy kitchen. He stopped short, the body of an aged black-and-white mixed-breed dog blocking his way. Out of habit, Rodd knelt and felt for a pulse. But the old dog had been gone for hours.
A picture from the past flashed into his mind—Bucky, his father's hunting dog and his own first pet. How many times had he wakened and found that Bucky had become his pillow for the night?
He ruffled the shaggy fur at the dog's neck. "Poor old fella."
A sudden spurt of anger whipped through him like the icy wind outside. An old widow living all alone and now her dog killed. And all for a few lousy bucks. Rodd felt himself steaming with the callousness of it. Then Uncle George's words came: "Ride your anger. Don't let it ride you." Rodd sucked in air and rose. "Weasel, this is your last nasty job."
With that pledge pulsing inside him, he began the first methodical examination of the crime scene, routine to him after more than ten years in law enforcement. Room by room, section by section, he viewed the upheaval—upholstered furniture upended with the bottoms slit open, old books dashed helter-skelter on the floor. Alongside the worthless bric-a-brac, expensive antiques lay shattered and scarred— one, a smashed, green-glass hurricane lamp over a hundred years old. A thief with brains might have taken this and fenced it successfully, but not the Weasel—a thief in a hurry, who took only cash. Rodd let out a sound of disgust and quit the house.
Outside, he scanned the snow-covered ground around the house and behind the precariously leaning barn looking for—there. Snowmobile tracks under the new snow.
The Weasel always traveled on a snowmobile. At the first two burglary scenes, Rodd had followed the machine's tracks, but each time the tracks had led him to a popular snowmobile trail where many snowmobiles had already crisscrossed. He'd lost the trail then, in the morass of tracks.
And this thief worked after dark, using the cover of trees. That explained the lack of leads. At night, a snowmobile was only a headlight and a roar—impossible to identify.
Icy wind whistling around his ears, Rodd stared at the bleak horizon. He went over the first two crime scenes in his mind and compared this one to them. Wearing snowmobiler's gear, complete with face mask, helmet, and gloves, meant that the thief left nothing—not even a hair—behind at the crime scenes. Rodd would super vise a couple of his new deputies in examining this latest crime scene and lifting a few latent prints, even if they wouldn't be the thief's. The experience would be good for them. He marched back into the house to do more than just look. He didn't want the older woman to have to take care of the old pet.
In a kitchen drawer, he unearthed a used blue-gingham vinyl tablecloth. Kneeling, he gently wrapped the old dog inside its flannel backing, then carried him out to the barn. There, he carefully secured the long bundle up high across the open crossbeams, where it would be untouched until someone could come out and dig a grave in the frozen ground. He rested his gloved hand on the bundle. "Good-bye, old fellow," he whispered.
Back at the house, while he reinforced the splintered kitchen door to keep wild animals out, he thought of one constant that hadn't seemed significant to him until now: Wendy Carey, Harlan Carey's granddaughter. In only that scant time together, she'd caught his attention—her clear, direct eyes and obvious concern for her patient. He usually wasn't very attracted to women with such short hair, but her appealing face held a rare... sweetness.
Suddenly his thinking cleared. He saw a connection. He needed to talk to her, and she'd need a ride back to her car. As he headed back to town, he radioed the clinic and told them he was on his way to pick her up. He hoped she'd be able to tell him what he needed to know. But questioning a woman always put him on his guard. Raised by a father and a great-uncle, he considered women a mystery. He'd need Wendy's cooperation. Would he know how to get it without upsetting her?
Wendy waved good-bye to the clinic receptionist and stepped outside into subzero chill. She scurried down the snow-packed path to the waiting sheriff's car. Her head bent against the wind, she couldn't see him until after she opened the passenger door and jumped in.
Her breathing came quickly—not merely from running in the cold. Hearing that Sheriff Durand was coming back for her had set her on edge. She avoided looking at him directly, afraid making eye contact would rattle her even more. He was a good-looking man and had a no-nonsense style."Thanks for coming to take me back to my car."
"No trouble. How is Mrs. Ukkonen?"
His matter-of-fact tone steadied her nerves. "We got her here in time. Thanks for arriving just when I needed you." A delayed shiver shook her. Feeling the warmth blowing from the heater, she shook off her brown parka hood and braved a glance at him.
"Just part of my job."
Why was she feeling so fluttery all of a sudden? She never reacted like this to a man. Maybe this was due to all the anxiety over Ma? She tried to settle herself comfortably on the seat.
The sheriff started down the drive. "I need to ask you some questions."
She nodded, fighting her awareness of the man just inches from her. His presence filled the small space, making her breathing shallow. She drew in a calming breath. "You have me as long as it takes to reach my car, Sheriff."
Taking refuge in her role as nurse, she glanced at her watch. "I'm running behind. I've got quite a list of patients to visit today."
"I just need some details for my report. After paperwork, I have cattle to take care of myself." He drove out of the clinic parking lot.
Turning her head only slightly, Wendy studied the sheriff's profile, trying to analyze what was causing her unusual response to him. Sheriff Durand possessed good regular features, an honest face. Healthy skin and black hair. Vertical scar on his jaw. Looked like a deep one that had taken a lot of stitches to close.
Fighting the urge to trace the scar with her finger, she busied herself latching her seat belt. What was going on with her? From a distance, she'd seen him around in the few months since he'd moved up here to take over his great-uncle's place he'd inherited. Each Sunday she'd noticed him at the church, where he sat in the back and left immediately after the service ended. He just hadn't struck her as anything but what he was now—the county sheriff. Not a man she'd do more than notice.
But being alone with him now, she understood the buzz of interest he'd garnered among the unmarried women in the county. She wished them luck. Stiffening, she straightened her short hair by running her fingers through it.
The sheriff glanced sideways at her, catching her looking at him. "How many visits do you do a day?"
His catching her looking at him had irritated her, but she acted as though it hadn't. She unzipped her jacket and let out a long sigh.
Great. An easy question
. "It depends. Some visits are just med checks. Some take longer, like dressing changes."
The briefest of smiles touched his mouth. "You sound like the old-fashioned country doctor, Miss Carey."
Wendy let herself give him a cautious half smile. "Call me Wendy. Yes, Doc calls me his eyes, ears, and feet. In a rural county like ours, we're lucky to have Doc and his grandson. Without their clinic, we'd be driving more than an hour to get care." She began to warm up. The uncommon flutters were calming down.
Good
. "Did you find any evidence at Ma's?" She relaxed against the seat, assessing him further from the corner of her eye.
He wore a khaki-and-brown, fleece-lined jacket over a starched khaki-and-brown shirt and matching slacks. A polished star on the jacket marked him as sheriff. But his self-assurance was just as evident. This was a man who took charge.
"You took Mrs. Ukkonen away from home last night?" His voice, unruffled, struck a note deep inside her, drawing her from her private observations.
She chose her words with care. "Ma's blood pressure was sky-high yesterday. Doc wanted to check her himself."
"So she'd been away for only one night?" he asked.
The mood in the Jeep altered. This ride to her car was more than just a courtesy. Wendy shifted in her seat. Outside the window, the snow flurries had picked up—showers of white flakes dashed themselves against the windshield as though committing mass suicide.
Uneasy, she tucked one leg under her.
Where is this leading, Sheriff
? "Yes," she said slowly. "Doc called me to take her home as my first stop today."
He nodded. "You called in the Leo Schultz burglary, too, right?"
The mention of the second of the three burglaries puzzled her. What was he getting at? "Yes, but Leo's nephew came to the clinic and drove him home himself that morning," she said, carefully spelling out each fact in order, the same way she reported vitals to Old Doc. "When they found the house burglarized, the nephew called me first because Mr. Schultz looked so pale and shaky. I told the nephew I'd call your office and report it for him."
"But you didn't come out to help Schultz? You didn't think he needed you?"
His question hit her wrong. What was he implying—that she'd let Mr. Schultz down? She sat up straighter. "Doc is his nearest neighbor—didn't you know that? And that morning Doc hadn't come into the clinic yet, so I called him to go over there. Doc could do more for Mr. Schultz's weak heart than I could." She lifted her chin.
"But you did take Schultz to the clinic the day before and had expected to drive him home?"
So? Is that a crime
? "Yes," she replied, keeping her tone measured in spite of her growing tension, "and I'm visiting him later today to do another checkup."
He persisted. "You were also at Fletcher Cram's house when the burglary was discovered, right?" His unemotional tone unnerved her. Why was he forcing her to go back over her patients' burglaries? Maybe they were just strangers to him, but not to her. She'd known them all her life. She blinked away tears. How could someone hurt old people like this? The crimes didn't just rob them of cash. They robbed them of their feeling of safety in their own homes! Worrying her lower lip, she gazed out at the snow-laden pines lining the highway. Emotion clogged her throat.
"You called that one in too," he prompted her. "But I didn't see you there."
Not trusting herself, she wouldn't look at him. "I couldn't stay. And Mr. Cram wasn't so ill that I couldn't leave him."
"But today you couldn't leave."
His question sounded like an accusation. It sparked her temper. "You saw Ma! Finding Jiggs like that..."
He nodded.