Warning Shot. Jenna Kernan

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      He scratched the side of his head and realized he needed a haircut. “It’s just my experience that the Mohawk people consider themselves separate from the United States and Canada.” He half turned to look back at her. “You know they have territory in both countries.”

      “Yes, I was briefed. And smuggling, human trafficking and dope running happen in your county.”

      She’d left out moonshining. But border security was thankfully not his job. Neither were the vices that were handled by ATF—the federal agency responsible for alcohol, tobacco, firearms and recently explosives. He was glad because enforcement was a dangerous, impossible and thankless assignment. His responsibilities, answering calls from citizens via EMS, traffic stops and accidents made up the bulk of his duties. He was occasionally involved with federal authorities, collaborating only when asked, and Agent Hockings seemed thrilled to do everything herself. He should leave it at that.

      “Borders bring their own unique troubles.”

      “Yet, you have made limited arrests related to these activities. Mostly minor ones, at that, despite the uptick in illegal activities, especially in winter when the river freezes.”

      He ignored the jibe. He did his duty and that was enough to let him sleep most nights.

      “It doesn’t always freeze,” he said.

      “Hmm? What doesn’t?”

      “The river. Some years it doesn’t freeze.”

      She cocked her head and gave him a look as if he puzzled her. “How long have you been sheriff?”

      If she were any kind of an agent, she knew that already, but he answered anyway.

      “Going on six years this January.”

      “You seem young.”

      “Old enough to know better and halfway to collecting social security.”

      “You grew up here, didn’t you?”

      “I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

      “You have family up here?”

      His smile faltered, and he swerved to the shoulder. He gripped the wheel with more force than necessary and glanced back at her, his teeth snapping together with a click.

      One thing he was not doing was speaking about his past. Not his time in the military, not the men he’d killed or the ones he couldn’t save. And he wasn’t ever speaking of the time before the sheriff got him clear of the compound. He needed to get this question machine out of his county, so he could go back to being the well-respected public servant again.

      As far as he knew, only two men knew where he came from—his father and the former sheriff. And he looked nothing like that scrawny kid Sheriff Rogers had saved. So changed, in fact, he believed his own father would not know him. At least that was what he prayed for, every damn day. All he wanted in this world was to live in a place where the rules made sense, where he had some control. And where, maybe someday, he and a nice, normal woman could create a family that didn’t make his stomach knot. But for now, he needed to be here, watching his father. Here to stop him if he switched from preaching his unhinged religious vision to creating it.

      She opened her copper-flecked brown eyes even wider, feigning a look of innocence.

      “What?” she asked.

      He unlocked his teeth, grinding them, and then pivoted in his seat to stare back at her.

      “Two hours ago, you showed up in the city of Kinsley at city hall, making it very clear that you did not want the assistance of the county sheriff. Now you want my résumé.”

      “Local law enforcement is obliged to assist in federal investigations.”

      “Which I will do. But you asked about my family. Like to fill in some blanks, that right? Something before I turned thirteen?” She was digging for the details that were not in public records or, perhaps, just filling time. Either way, he was not acting as the ant under her magnifying glass.

      She met his stare and did not flinch or look away from the venom that must have been clear in his expression. Instead, she shrugged. “What I want is out of this back seat.”

      He threw open his door and then yanked open hers. She stared up at him with a contrite expression that did not match the gleam of victory shimmering in the dark waters of her eyes. Dangerous waters, he thought. Even through his annoyance, he could not completely squelch the visceral ache caused by her proximity.

      “You prefer to drive?” he said.

      She slipped out of his vehicle to stand on the road before him. “Not this time. When do I get my vehicle back?”

      He drew out his phone and sent a text. By the time she had settled into the passenger side, adjusted both the seat and safety belt, he received a reply.

      “It’s there now,” he said. The photo appeared a moment later and he plastered his hand across his mouth to keep her from seeing his grin. Axel slipped behind the wheel and performed an illegal turn on a double solid, a privilege of his position, and took them back the way they had come.

      “Why are you whistling?” she asked.

      Was he? Perhaps. It was just that such moments of glee were hard to contain. By the time they reached the sign indicating the border of the Mohawk rez, she caught sight of her vehicle.

      Someone had poured red paint over the roof and it was dripping down over both the windows and doors on one side. There were handprints all over the front side panel.

      “My car!” she cried, leaning forward for a good look. Then she pointed. “That’s damaging federal property.”

      “Looks like a war horse,” he said, admiring the paint job. It was so rare that people got exactly what they deserved.

       Chapter Three

      Rylee Hockings stood beside the surly sheriff with hands on hips as she regarded the gooey paint oozing from the metallic door panel of her official vehicle and onto the road. She struggled to keep her chin up. Her first field assignment had headed south the minute she headed north. When her boss, Lieutenant Catherine Ohr, saw this car, she would be livid.

      Her vehicle had been towed and left just outside the reservation land and abandoned beneath the sign welcoming visitors to the Kowa Nation.

      “Maybe the paint will fill in the bullet holes,” offered Sheriff Trace.

      His chuckle vibrated through her like a call issued into an empty cave. Something about the tenor and pitch made her stomach do a funny little tremble. She rested a hand flat against her abdomen to discourage her body from getting ideas.

      “I could use those prints as evidence,” she said to Sheriff Trace.

      “Or you could accept the life lesson that you might СКАЧАТЬ