Dulcie put her hands on her hips and looked around, squinting. “It would really do wonders for Saddlestring and revitalize the downtown,” she said. “Right now, this place just sits here like an old drunk on the corner. I’m trying to picture what it could be like.”

“You really need to use your imagination,” Marybeth said, deadpan.

There was so much work to be done inside—battered plaster wallboard would have to be replaced, ceilings raised, new plumbing and electricity installed—although they’d recently been encouraged when a structural engineer confirmed that the foundation’s overall structural integrity was solid. In order to keep costs low, Marybeth planned to do as much of the preliminary work herself with help from Joe at night and on weekends. Matt Donnell wasn’t much of a hand when it came to carpentry or renovation, although he certainly put in the hours. Matt was better at dealing with local, state, and federal agencies that required permits and approvals. In fact, Matt was meeting with the building inspector and state fire marshal that afternoon. He’d confided to Marybeth that he had great relationships with the right people who could sign off on the permits.

Dulcie pointed at a large bouquet of flowers on the mantel of the old fireplace. “Those brighten up the place,” she said. “Who sent them?”

“Read the card.”

Dulcie read: “‘Congratulations on your new hotel, Marybeth. I’m proud of you. Love, Joe.’”

“Awwwww,” she said.

“I told him we can’t afford flowers right now, but it’s nice.”

“This is the kind of place where I’d love to work,” Dulcie said, imagining it. “It would be so much better than those cells they give us in the county building.”

The Twelve Sleep County Building was also a relic of the 1920s, and it housed her office, two courtrooms, the road and bridge department, and the sheriff’s department.

Dulcie said, “Although I have to say the atmosphere is better there now that Sheriff McLanahan is gone. There isn’t as much secrecy and good-old-boy nonsense.”

Marybeth nodded. McLanahan had been defeated by fewer than ten votes the year before by his deputy Mike Reed. Although Reed was confined to a wheelchair—he’d lost the use of his legs after an on-duty assault—he had a dutiful and sunny personality that buoyed those around him. Plus, he was friends with Joe.

—

BOTH OF THEIR cell phones erupted simultaneously, and when they realized it, they smiled at each other before taking them. Dulcie turned and walked out of earshot, and Marybeth saw the incoming call was from her house.

It was Lucy, her fifteen-year-old daughter.

“Mom, can Hannah stay with us tonight?”

Marybeth did a quick calculation of the food available in the freezer and refrigerator, and except for the game meat Joe provided in volume, she didn’t have enough items for dinner for six.

“Yes, but I need to stop at the store on the way home,” she said.

“Maybe you can pick up pizza?”

“Maybe. Why is Hannah staying with us again?”

“She’s my best friend, Mom,” Lucy said, put out.

“I know that,” Marybeth said, rolling her eyes. “Is it okay with her mom? She’s stayed over at our house twice already this week.”

“It was her mom’s idea,” Lucy said.

“Oh, really?” That sounded odd to Marybeth. Pam Roberson managed the office for the small construction company she co-owned with Butch, but she took pains to be involved in her daughter’s life and activities, and she kept a fairly tight rein on Hannah, her only child. Like Lucy, Hannah was bright and attractive, although Marybeth had noted a change in her recently. Hannah had expressed an interest in horses, and Marybeth was secretly thrilled. Neither Lucy nor April shared her passion for horses, and Marybeth loved the idea of mentoring Hannah. Marybeth hoped this new development wouldn’t create a rift between Hannah and Lucy because Lucy had no interest at all in riding.

Lucy said, “Yeah, she called a few minutes ago. She talked to Hannah and told her there were a bunch of cops at their house.”

“What? Cops?”

“That’s what she said.”

The sirens, Marybeth thought.

“Lucy, please put Hannah on the phone.”

“I can’t.”

“And why not?”

“Mom, she’s in the bathroom. I think she’s crying.”

4

JOE DROVE HIS BOOT HEELS INTO TOBY’S FLANKS AND rode hard and fast back up the mountain through the water guzzlers to where he’d last seen Butch Roberson. Daisy ran behind, her tongue lolling out to the side. Toby had a surprisingly smooth gait when he went all-out, and it was actually easier on Joe’s aching knees and groin than his walk or bone-jarring trot.

Toby’s hooves pounded the soft ground, and Joe felt the wind in his face. He reached up and clamped his hat tighter on his head so it wouldn’t blow off.

He yelled, “Butch!”

The name echoed back from the wall of trees beyond the Forest Service fence—which hadn’t been repaired.

—

WHAT HE’D HEARD over the radio wasn’t reassuring. An anonymous call had been made to the sheriff’s department reporting two federal EPA officials missing from the night before. Whoever called said the two men had never checked into their rooms at the Holiday Inn and there was no sign of their car. A uniformed sheriff’s department officer was sent to where the caller said the two EPA men had been planning to go, which was a two-acre lot in a development called Aspen Highlands near Dull Knife Reservoir.

A quick check of the lot ownership with the county clerk revealed that it was owned by Butch and Pam Roberson. On arrival, the reporting officer said he could find nothing except some piles of gravel—and freshly dug soil. A quick reconnaissance of the area resulted in the location of a late-model Chevrolet Malibu SA hybrid sedan with U.S. Government plates. The car was found three miles from the Roberson lot. Someone had driven the vehicle off the gravel road and into the canyon choked with heavy brush. No one was inside. The reporting officer said he could have easily driven right by the car if it weren’t for the churned-up tracks on the dirt road. A tow truck, along with forensic techs, had been called to the scene.

Before climbing back into the saddle, Joe had called the dispatcher on his truck radio.

“This is Joe Pickett, GF-forty-eight. I’m located on the Big Stream Ranch . . .” He gave her the location coordinates. “I ran into Butch Roberson—the subject of the current inquiry—an hour ago and I’m going back to find him. Please relay this to Sheriff Reed’s office.”

When she asked, he said, “I don’t want or need backup. It would take them too long to get out here, anyway.”

He signed off, “GF-forty-eight, out.”

GF-48 meant he was number forty-eight of the fifty-four game wardens in the state, ranked by seniority. He had once risen to GF-24 before getting into a confrontation with his superiors and losing his job and seniority number. When he’d been reinstated personally by Governor Rulon, a vindictive bureaucrat had refused to give him his old number back.

It rankled him every time he said “GF-forty-eight.”

—

JOE’S MIND RACED, and he replayed his encounter with Butch the hour before. He had no doubt Butch knew something, and suddenly everything Butch had said carried a different, more sinister meaning. Still, though, Joe wanted to find him and tell him what had been discovered on his property. He had no authority or probable cause to arrest Roberson, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t question him or ask him to follow him into town.

He rode through the opening in the fence and into the timber.

Two federal agents, he thought. Freshly turned-up ground. A car with no one in it.