He’s off the ATV and walking over, hand extended. “Welcome to Rockton, detective.”

“It’s Casey,” I say, and before I can add a please, Dalton says, “Butler.” That’s my new surname.

“Casey, then. I’m Will Anders.”

I detect a slight accent that reminds me of a guy from Philly I dated.

“You’ll call me Will,” he continues. “Just like you’ll call him Eric, no matter what he says.”

A snort from Dalton, who takes my bag and heaves it onto the ATV.

“And as much as I’d like to pretend I came roaring out to greet the new hire, it’s business.” He turns to Dalton. “We found Powys by the streams. Looks like …” Anders glances my way. “Natural causes.”

Well, I guess that’s my welcome, then—a dead body the moment I arrive.

“Heart failure?” I guess.

“Environmental. When I say natural …”

“You mean nature. Okay. Let’s go take a look.”

Dalton slaps a hand on the ATV’s back seat, blocking me. “Will? Get on. Butler? Take that one.”

I glance at the other vehicle. “I can’t drive—”

“Station’s two minutes that way.” Dalton points.

“That’s not where the body is.”

“But that’s where you’re going, detective. This isn’t a homicide.”

“Which is up to me to determine, sir. That’s my job.”

He doesn’t remove his hand from the seat.

“All right, then,” I say. “I guess I’m walking.”

I don’t get more than five steps before Dalton is off his ATV and in my path, so close I nearly ram into him. When I back up, he advances, uncomfortably close.

“Eric …” Anders says, his voice low.

“Did I give you an order, detective?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. Either I gave you an order or I didn’t, and I don’t know how it works down south, but out here, you disobey an order and you’ll find yourself in the cell until morning.”

Anders steps between us. He shoulders Dalton back, keeping an eye on him, much the way one might ease off a snarling dog.

“He’s kidding,” Anders says. “He’d only keep you in there until dinner hour.” A wry smile, and I’d like to think he’s kidding, but I get the feeling he’s not.

“I know you’ll want to come along,” Anders continues, “but you just got here. What we have out there is death by misadventure. Not homicide. Normally, that’d still be your gig. But let’s just hold off. We’ll bring the body back, I’ll explain the situation, and you can take it from there. Reasonable?”

I nod.

He looks at Dalton. “See how that’s done?” Then a mock whisper for me. “ ‘Reasonable’ isn’t really in Eric’s vocabulary. You’ll get used to it.”

The grin he shoots Dalton holds a note of exasperated affection, as if for a sometimes-difficult younger brother. Dalton only snorts and points at the back of the ATV.

“I thought I’d drive today, boss,” Anders says. “You hop on back.”

Dalton gets on the ATV and revs the engine.

“That means get on or I’m walking,” the deputy says to me. “Eric drives. Always.”

I nod. It’s not a tip about transportation. Employee relationships might be a little casual here, but Eric Dalton is in charge and I’d best not forget it. Which is fine. That’s one reason I like being a cop. My brain understands paramilitary relationships, often better than normal ones.

Anders gives me directions to the station and then says, “Go directly there. Park out back and head in the rear door. Anyone flags you down? Pretend you didn’t see him. Anyone comes into the office? Tell him to come back when we return. Wait for us to make the proper introductions.” He glances at Dalton. “Well, wait for me to do it. Poke around the station, and we’ll grab lunch when we get back.”

“Is Diana—?”

“Later,” Dalton says. “You’re on the clock, detective.”

“Diana is fine,” Anders says. “A bunch of us went out for drinks last night. She’s doing great. As much as I’m sure you want to see her, wandering around town isn’t wise. Not until you’ve settled in.”

He waves me to the ATV, gives me a five-second lesson on how to drive it, and takes off with the sheriff.

Six

As Anders suggested, getting to the station is easy. The fact that I made two wrong turns may have more to do with the ATV ride itself. Dare I say it was fun?

My first boyfriend had a dirt bike. He’d lend me his sister’s so we could ride into a nearby gravel pit. I encouraged those gravel-pit trips, which gave his ego a much-needed boost. I just never admitted it was more for the ride than the make-out sessions.

When my parents found out, they grounded me for three months. Not because I was sneaking off with a boy. I was fifteen, and they trusted I was smart enough not to jeopardize my future by getting pregnant. It was the dirt bike that disappointed them, showing a distinct lack of judgment. My mother gave me medical files of horrific motorcycle accidents and then quizzed me afterward, to be sure I’d read them. The world is a dangerous place. You don’t add to it by doing crazy things like riding dirt bikes. Or fighting back against gangbangers in an alley.