Ahhh, summertime in Mossy Creek. After midnight, O'Day's Pub and Hamilton House Inn close down and the town goes soft and quiet. The sky in Mossy Creek is coal black, alive with lightning bugs blinking in unison to the pin cushion of stars overhead. You can hear the breeze ruffling the trees and the musical sound of the frogs croaking their mating calls in the Creek. Those of us who live here have always believed our summer nights are filled with magic that clears away the discord and makes the world ready for tomorrow.

Morning starts the bustle of life once more. Those of you who've come to visit in Mossy Creek have met many of our residents. You smile at the cheerful shops around the square and ask how such charm has been protected. The buildings are over a hundred years old.

Not necessarily. From the beginning we've preserved the look of our town. New buildings have been added but Mayor Ida Hamilton Walker and Bert Lyman, owner of WMOS Radio, have worked with Fix-It Shop owner Dan McNeil, who heads the historical district's planning committee, to maintain the ambiance of Mossy Creek. In no way have we forced our more eccentric shop owners to tone down their personalities. Creekites are original and they're stubborn, but we give them lots of help and they love their little town.

Gossip continues to be shared freely, though it can be slightly tainted by the gossiper. So forgive us if we sometimes mislead. And if our local purveyor of secrets (me) doesn't tell all, drop me a note. I'll try to find out what you want to know, and who knows? I might even print it in the Gazette.

This summer in Mossy Creek promises to be special. Come sit a spell in the gazebo or join me for English tea at the Hamilton House Inn and I'll catch you up on all the news as it happens.

A good leather recliner.

That's all a man really needs to be happy. I ran my hand possessively over the butter-soft leather arm of my just-delivered chair and leaned back into heaven. The recliner was a custom job, extra long when stretched out full-length. Josie McClure over at Swee Purla's helped me pick it out weeks ago. The start of summer is a strange time to acquire a hot leather chair, even in Mossy Creek, where summer and strange go hand-in-hand as the temperature rises. I hadn't really intended to buy an honest-to-God-real-leather chair that day. The thing cost more than a month's salary.

But, as Josie carefully explained to me when I balked at the price tag she put on paradise, there comes a time in a man's life when he has to stop living like a bear in a cave. She's an ardent believer in the Japanese art of feng shui as a way to visualize and change your life. I wasn't so certain furniture philosophy was going to change my life, but I was willing to be convinced. A leather chair was the pot of gold at the end of enlightenment. So, I nodded and made hmm-ing sounds.

Sort of like I did now. Mac Campbell was on the other end of the phone, having a great deal of fun at my expense.

"Patty said Josie's worried about you. Apparently you're about one feng shui faux pas away from total chaos."

"You're about one crack away from about a dozen parking tickets."

"Touchy, aren't you?"

"You would be, too. Patty's blowing this all out of proportion. I only agreed with Josie that it was about time I replaced the castoff furniture I've either inherited or liberated from divorcing-couple garage sales. I haven't agreed to anything else."

Mac's hoot of laughter kept me honest.

"Okay. Not much else." I could actually hear Mac's grin all the way through the phone.

"Son, you are living in a house with a toilet in the wealth area. You'd better agree to change something. Patty thinks you need to focus on your relationship area first."

"Mac, why do I need a relationship area if I don't have a relationship at the moment?"

"You're right. The first order of business is having your chi all messed up because your back door and front door line up."

"They aren't actually lined up."

"Close enough that Josie made you promise to keep the toilet lid down and avoid opening the back door until she could do a full-scale analysis of the problems--free of charge."

That much was true. Josie had declared a state of emergency and had taken my case on a probono basis. At least for the consulting. The rest of it she charged through the nose for. That first consultation with Josie shocked more than my pocketbook. It shocked me out of denial. She was right, I had to change some things. I had to stop pretending that this job, Mossy Creek and the house were just way stations in my life. That I'd be moving on to bigger and better things eventually. Truth is ... I'm not going anywhere and really don't want to. There might be bigger, but I doubted there'd be better. It was time to accept Mossy Creek was my town for better or worse, until death do us part.

Especially now that I'd made the supreme sacrifice and engaged a decorator.

"Trust me, Mac. If I'd known what I was letting myself in for, I'm not sure I would have gone through with the consultation. I thought I was just shopping."

"You don't shop at Swee Purla's; you have a consultation. Everyone knows that."

"Apparently not me. I thought it would be easy to get someone to fix up the house for me and save me all the trouble. How long can it take to buy a few pieces of furniture and maybe new blinds? Dammit, Mac, I didn't want a place worthy of some national design magazine centerfold. I didn't want fancy. All I wanted was to make my house feel a little more like home and less like an empty military barracks."

"Hey, I understand. Me and the boys are rooting for you."

"What?" I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Well, you're in Josie's cross-hairs now. Won't be long before you'll be looking at paint chips. Unless you can break free."

"I have to go." Bang my head into the hallway wall. The one with test paint patches on it. I hung up.

I had been foolish and naive. I hadn't known anything about feng shui. But my biggest mistake was not realizing that the force was strong with Josie. I was toast. Quite literally.

My idea of color theory is that tan is, well ... just tan, and it pretty much goes with everything. Ha! Apparently there is some worldwide conspiracy to fragment the color tan into about a million sub-colors that all look exactly the same but are called foo-foo names like sandstone and harvest wheat and toast. Then--just when you think you've got a handle on the tan thing--the decorator asks trick questions like, "Which of these three paint chips is closer to your wall color?"

Huh?

My walls are white. Don't get me started on what the decorators of the world have done to the color white! It's actually scary.

If color torture weren't enough, whatever furniture you order has to be delivered to you when it finally arrives--by a big truck with Swee's logo plastered all over it. Every woman on the block now thinks I'm just one big-screen TV short of having a wicked bachelor's pad. That's what happens when you're single and have a new stereo system delivered the day before you have a leather chair delivered.

The combination is fatal.

My buddies thought I was going over to the dark side. The women in town thought I was going over to the dark side. The two groups just didn't agree on what the dark side was.

Sighing, I hauled myself out of my newly beloved chair so I could haul myself down to the station. Might as well give Sandy her chance to comment on my sudden wild streak. She wasn't expecting me until later in the day, but I figured there's no time like the present to get the unpleasantness over with. A little grilling never hurt anyone. Not much. Besides, Sandy could use some cheering up.

"Hi, Chief." Sandy reached for the pink message slips she had piled on top of the row of file cabinets and walked them over to the counter. When she actually handed them to me and turned back to her filing without saying a word about my new chair or the messages, I began to worry about my favorite dispatcher. She never, ever, allowed me to sort my own messages. Hell, I was rarely allowed to touch them.

Looking at the slips in my hand, I had to admit the truth. The effervescent Sandy Crane was officially depressed, and I knew why. Not that I could do anything about it.

Sandy still spent most of her time in the office even though she'd been promoted to "officer." She was having some trouble qualifying on the firing range. With a rifle and a decent scope she can shoot the tail feathers off a hawk at 600 yards, but using a pistol she couldn't put more than two in a row in the kill zone of a paper target. Why? Closing your eyes as you pull the trigger pretty much insures a bad score.

She was shooting herself in the foot ... so to speak.

My guess was Sandy's soft nature couldn't reconcile itself to shooting anything that looked like a person. Or she was afraid she'd make the wrong decision when push came to pull. God willing, she'd never have to pull a gun or shoot anyone in a town like Mossy Creek, but I have a responsibility to the citizens and, more importantly, to Sandy. I can't put her on the streets unless she can do the job. All the job.

She either qualifies like every other officer or she works the desk. Even Battle wouldn't have bent that rule. The issue is strictly black and white, governed by state regulations. For once, there isn't even a smidgeon of gray area for me to agonize over.

Sandy doesn't blame me, but it breaks my heart to see the sparkle fading from her smile. She worries that her dream of being a real officer is slipping through her trigger finger. The harder she tries the worse her scores get.

The hell of it is, Sandy was born to be a small town cop. She loves the people, makes it her business to know everyone and genuinely wants the best for Mossy Creek. Watching Sandy quietly filing our meager stack of incident reports, I knew I'd have to give this problem some more thought.

In the meantime, I had a couple of questions about my messages. I've gotten used to Sandy putting them in context and making sure I had all the important background on the issues. Seeing the pristine, un-annotated messages in my hand was a little like reading a book with blank pages. I didn't quite know what the plot was.

"Hannah called? Someone moving the books in the library again?"

"Nope." She didn't even turn around to answer me. "That whole book moving thing doesn't usually happen for a few more weeks."

Okay, now I was really worried. The old Sandy would have practically bounced as she relayed the info, making plans to stake out the library for the annual moving of the books event. It happened every year near the beginning of the summer and near the end of the summer. Well, it had happened for the last year and a half, long enough to establish a pattern of harmless mischief. A mystery. But Sandy wasn't even interested.

"So," I prompted. "Why is Hannah calling?"

"Don't know. Didn't ask. I figure that's her business."

I clamped down hard on my response. Now was not the time to remind Sandy that as our dispatcher it was her job to screen my calls. I made a mental note to have a talk with Jess, her husband. Then I asked, "Okay. Next question. Did Dwight say why he needs me at the special council meeting he's calling tomorrow night?"

"No."

"Sandy, I know he wouldn't actually say why. That would ruin his little surprise plan. It's always a secret coup with him. But, you, you know, right? You've always got an ear to the ground. I count on you for the good stuff. Don't let me down now. What's Dwight's emergency?"

She looked up from her filing, a tiny bit of the sparkle was back. "I think he's tired of the kids playing in the park."

"Because..."

"Little Ida rode her bike past him this morning and rang that fancy bell on the handle bars to warn him. But Dwight being Dwight, he jumped ten feet and splattered coffee all over his new suit." She looked at me speculatively. "And..."

Now this was the Sandy I knew and loved, waiting for me to finish the deduction. "And..." I concluded, "Dwight being Dwight, now it's war on kids enjoying their own public park?"

"Right, Chief. That's what it looks like. You know he's been in a bad mood since last fall's reunion."

I would never forget Dwight's expression as he realized his old humiliation could be traced to Ham Bigelow's ambition. Ham had gotten rid of his rival for the state senate by making Dwight look incompetent. Twenty years ago Dwight had been busy barfing in the bushes instead of guarding the high school mascot and symbol of Mossy Creek's honor. That stolen ram was the first link in a chain of events that ended with a fire that destroyed the high school.

The loss of a high school is hell on your political capital.

Probably didn't help that Dwight irritated Battle Royden enough that the former chief finally roared, "Sorry doesn't get it done. Now does it, Dwight?" Half the town had quieted down just in time to hear those words. The news anchor from Bigelow heard it, too. Got it on film. Battle's question made a good sound byte.

I tried not to smile at the memory. It just wasn't neighborly, but I couldn't help it. Dwight never had been very good at getting people on his side. "I do have to admit that solving the mystery of the fire was political, if not poetic, justice."

Sandy grinned and slapped an empty file folder against her thigh. "It was a moment to savor. Yes, indeed, it was a moment."

"I imagine another moment will be watching him face-off with Ida over kids using the park."

"The smart money's on Miss Ida," Sandy advised.

I didn't even try not to smile as I headed for the door. "My money is always on Ida."

My thoughts were on her more often than not as well, but I didn't volunteer that information. I considered it "need to know" only. And nobody but me needed to know.

The town library is a modest concrete-block building without fancy stonework or architecture. It's the hodge-podge kind of building that says, "We spend money on books, not bricks." Still it's a solid building, bigger than a town our size would normally have. Right before I moved home, we were the fortunate recipients of a tidy estate left by the Sisters Grim. The two spinsters, Sadie and Sarah Grim, had reveled in their little literary pun during the last years of their spinster lives and extended the joke by leaving all their money to the library. The town, in turn, reveled in their legacy.

Until the details were revealed.

The terms set the town on its ear. I understand Dwight's were the most irate set of ears in the bunch. I wish I'd been here to see those fireworks. According to the executor of the estate, Mac Campbell, the city fathers and mothers had no control over the money. Every decision about what to spend and how to spend it was given to Hannah Longstreet, our full-time librarian, who'd suddenly become a very important person without ever meaning to.

The Sisters Grim figured that only someone working in the library day in and day out could truly know what the town needed to bring its library closer to the county branch "showplace" over in Bigelow. Then they figured they needed someone strong like Mac to face down the town. And the sisters were right. The town (Dwight) didn't have a clue. He pressured Hannah to make cosmetic changes and improve the facade. Dwight wanted to turn the library into an imposing, impressive institute of learning that would project the image of a progressive and growing Mossy Creek. To give the man credit, he did try to camouflage the completely cosmetic aspect of his proposal by swearing we needed to widen the door anyway for better handicapped access.

Since the library already happily accommodated anyone with special needs--including book deliveries to shut-ins--Hannah ignored Dwight and used the money as she saw fit. She decided we needed more space for a proper children's section and kid-sized furniture. Also on her list were a decent heating and air-conditioning system; serious additions to our large-print and audio title collections; and a computerized system with two terminals for patrons to use for research on the internet.

But her pride and joy took her last bit of legacy money. She had an idea for a "local interest" room, which meant she also needed the archival materials necessary for preserving the important historical records of the area--diaries, journals, old maps, auction catalogs, school year books, newspapers and articles, published quilt patterns, letters home from soldiers, Sue Ora's old first drafts of manuscripts and unpublished stories, and even fund-raising cookbooks from the local churches. Katie Bell's research for Lady Victoria put the bug in Hannah's ear about how important our history was. She wanted anything that related to what it meant to be a part of Mossy Creek. Once she put the word out, donations for the collection had happily exceeded her expectations.

She knocked down a wall and added another eight hundred square feet to the library. The new footage was mostly space for the children and computers, but some of it was for her local room. During the entire renovation, Dwight stood right beside her telling her how short-sighted she was to care about the inside of the building and about whether the patrons were comfortable in the summer heat when, Heaven help us, the outside of the building was just rotting away!

Standing in front of the building, I took a good look. I didn't see any rot--concrete rarely rots--but I did see a number of cars in the parking lot and two pre-teens leaving with several books each. Hannah's plan seemed to be working quite well. In fact it probably irritated the snot out of Dwight. For the second time today, I smiled at his expense.

The girls thought I was smiling at them, so they giggled and nodded as they passed me. I grabbed the door before it swung closed and slipped inside. I'd half expected the call to be about some summer troublemakers with too much time on their hands. At least I was uncharitably hoping for some troublemakers. Zeke could use some help weeding the park flower beds. That's where my troublemakers always ended up. I haven't had a kid yet who'd rather have me call his parents down to the station than do community service.

But, today, I didn't see any obvious candidates for our flower-bed chain-gang. There were no children running like heathens through the stacks. No shrieking laughter. No loud talking. But neither was the library deathly quiet. There was a pleasant hum about the place, a quiet purpose.

I scanned quickly for Hannah, found her several rows of books away and looking down an aisle. She was a bit younger than me and had been a widow for a few years now. I couldn't remember how many.

Her small, black-rimmed glasses were shoved up on top of her head, messing up a short blonde 'do that was actually cut so short the cropped style should have made her look masculine. Except that Hannah Longstreet couldn't look masculine if she tried. Even with short hair and in khakis. No one ever asked me, but if they had, I'd have told them it was her eyes. Enormous, bottle green and smiling. Yep, smiling. And soft. Like she was always glad to see you. No doubt about it. The eyes put her squarely in the "girlie girl" category.

She had a pencil stub tucked behind one ear. Her arm was part-way up, and her finger was raised. I expected her to bring it to her lips and make the classic librarian "shushing" sound at someone farther down the aisle. Instead she slowly turned her hand and crooked her finger in summons. I moved close enough to hear what she said.

"What did I tell you?" she asked the aisle, hands on hips. Nice hips. This was a librarian who worked out regularly and expected an answer pronto. "Well?"

Two voices. One mumble. One whine.

Hannah glanced at me with a half-grin and motioned for me to give her a minute. Then she turned back to her culprits. "Speak up, and don't you be making those puppy-dog eyes at me. Well ... what did I tell you?"

The culprits slithered into view. One of them quite literally. On his belly, his head never far from his paws. He was a medium-haired, medium-sized, motley-looking, splotchy-colored mutt. When he rolled over in submission, gravity gave him a kind of doggie grin that made it clear he wasn't the least repentant. I laughed.

Hannah turned on me, not too far from laughter herself. With an effort she managed to look stern and reprimand me. "Do not laugh at them. You will only encourage them."

I straightened up and said, "Yes, ma'am." Librarians almost always had the moral high ground.

"We're sorry, Miss Hannah." The boy wasn't even looking at her. He'd dropped down on his knees to give the mutt a tummy rub with one hand. The other held a book. "I know you said we had to stay in the office if I wanted to play with him, but I saw Caralee nosing around the summer reading books and I had to go get my last book before she stole it. Daddy'll be mad if I don't get my reading finished this week. He says I have to work starting next week. Won't have time to read. You know I can't come back much. And if I don't get it done, I won't get to have my name on the fund raiser thing."

When he looked up, the first detail I cataloged was the bruise on his left cheek. Like he'd been backhanded by an adult. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I hated it when intuition kicked in without true evidence; always put me squarely in that gray zone I hated so much.

He had to work? Intuition kicked me again. I was beginning to feel like a punching bag. Intuition slammed me again. "Punching bag" was a bad analogy in this situation.

The kid was maybe nine-years-old. Freshly scrubbed face, brown hair, a freckle or two and wearing old, but fairly clean hand-me-down clothes. I didn't have kids, but I'd seen enough hand-me-downs in my lifetime to spot them, the way they never quite fit because another body had broken them in, stretched them out in all the wrong places.

Hannah leaned over and touched his cheek. Just below the bruise and casually drawing my attention to it. Great. Hannah wanted to be sure I saw it. I wasn't imagining things.

"Clay, sweetie, I can bring books to your house. I take them to lots of people."

"Daddy don't like people coming to the house."

Well, that settled it. I'd be making a social call on Daddy. Whoever Daddy was. "Hannah, aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Love to, Chief. This is Clay Atwood, my favorite kid. Next to my own little girl, of course." The boy smiled at that. Then Hannah moved on to the dog. "And this is ... d-o-g." She spelled it, just like you spell ice cream in front of three-year-olds. "He's why I called. He wandered in this morning like he lived here. No one's ever seen him before. He's as sweet as pie, but I had to put him in the office because he kept trying to herd all the kids into one group in the corner."

"Herd?"

"Yeah. At first I wasn't sure he was doing it on purpose. But then every time I looked up he'd managed to quietly nudge another one of the kids into the growing group in the corner. He was so intent on it and did it so well, and so many times ... I did a little research. The best I can tell he's an Australian Cattledog. Or at least enough of one that it's splitting hairs to figure out what other genes he's carrying around."

I looked at the heap of over-grown puppy on the floor. He looked like a mutt, and then again ... he didn't.

"Dog?"

Dog bounced up immediately and re-deposited himself devotedly at my side, one paw gently resting on my boot, his eyes watching me intently for a command, any command that he could slavishly perform. I had an overwhelming urge to warn him not to get attached to me--he wasn't staying.

"Look at that, Chief!" Clay said. "It's like he knows he's your dog now. You are so lucky. Is he going to be your police dog and round up criminals? Or maybe rescue people? Here boy, smell my hand so you'll remember me when we have an earthquake. I saw a rescue like that on TV once." Clay was clearly impressed that he might know a police dog.

"I don't think so, Clay. For one thing, we hardly ever have to use earthquake dogs around here. Besides, he's too friendly to be a stray. I imagine he belongs to somebody. Heck, there may be a tourist looking for him right now. Why don't you take him outside near my truck in case someone is driving around looking? I need to ask Miss Hannah a few questions and then I'll be right out. Can you handle that, Special-Deputy-For-The-Day?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Show her your book first so she can check it out."

He held his book up for a split second and then ignored the adults. "Come on, Dog. Let's go catch criminals."

I opened my mouth to caution him, but Hannah put her hand on my arm. "Let him go," she whispered. "He won't get into any trouble. Not here."

So, we were back to the bruise. "I think we need to go in your office, Hannah. Have you got a minute?"

"Sure. I have my summer intern covering the circulation desk."

I followed her. "You wiggled budget money for an intern out of Dwight's tight-fisted little hand?"

"No, I think Ida and Sue Ora beat it out of him."

"Ah." I grinned. "Makes sense. I hear there's likely to be another showdown at this special council meeting he's called."

She waved me into the small office and shut the door. "I hate that I'm going to miss it. Got to go over to Bigelow for a library services presentation. I need the continuing ed hours."

I waited for her to scoot around the desk before I took a seat in the old, oak school chair nearest me. On the wall behind her squares of fabric clung to a flannel sheet tacked to the wall. I'm not an expert but I've seen a few quilts in my day. This was some kind of quilt--in pieces and on a wall, but it was still a quilt. As quilts went, this one was pretty snazzy, bright colors and patterns with oddly blank patches--more sandstone than toast--scattered evenly over the design. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that you're a quilter, Hannah."

Laughing, she swiveled around to survey the collection of fabric on the wall. "Yeah, that's a quilt in progress. It's my summer reading program reward. If the kids read all the books on my list for their age group, they get to put their name and a favorite quote on the quilt."

She reached to straighten one violet-colored piece and then turned back to me. "When all the spaces are filled, I'll finish it up. Then we're going to display it in City Hall for a month this fall and auction it at Autumn Fest as a fund raiser for the library."

"Clever."

"I liked the idea." She pulled the glasses off her head and tossed them on the desk. A signal that she was ready to get down to business. I jumped right in.

"Clay's afraid his Daddy's rules will keep him from getting a spot on the quilt."

"Right."

"Most parents would dance naked in town square if it'd get their kids to crack a book. And this guy is putting up road blocks for his kid. How often is Clay bruised?"

"Not often enough for me to report it."

"But too often for you to be comfortable?"

"Yeah. And it's the location of the bruises. I can't quite explain it. I see other kids with bruises. I have one of my own--the sweetest, clumsiest child on God's green earth. I know kids, but something about Clay worries me. Once he had some bruising that I would have sworn was from fingers squeezing his arm. I did ask him about that one. He said an old window fell on his arm while he was filling up the bird feeder outside it."

I leaned back and thought for a moment. "That's a pretty good lie for a kid his age to come up with. May turn out that the reason it's so good is that he was telling the truth."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't think it's the truth or even his lie. And neither do you."

"I don't think anything yet, Hannah."

"Yeah, you do, or you wouldn't be talkin' to me. Clay's not clumsy. Never bangs into anything when he's here. I've got high hopes for him as an intern when he hits junior high."

"Okay. I'll check around, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to anyone. This is an informal investigation at best. I don't even know if the Atwoods are in my jurisdiction yet. If my checking comes to nothing, I don't want a family smeared by gossip."

"Understood. I'll leave it to you." To fix.

The unspoken words hung in the air. She was leaving it to me to fix. She was way too confident for my peace of mind. I used to see that kind of faith in Battle. People thought nothing about dropping their suspicions in his lap and leaving him to untangle the threads of the problem. No one ever gave a thought to whether Battle had the authority. They just expected him to handle it, and he did. With or without bending the law.

Now they were looking to me.

I stood up to leave. "Any other problems you want to hand me while I'm here?"

She grinned. "Nope. That pretty much clears my list for today, but I can probably think of a few more by tomorrow if you have some slack in your schedule."

"Uh huh. I just bet you could." I let myself out.

Peels of laughter rolled over me as soon as I exited the library. Dog and Clay were catching criminals by wrestling in the small patch of grass bordering the front shrubs. Dog was winning, poking his nose into every uncovered tickle spot Clay had and sending a new scream of laughter into the air with each poke. As soon as I stepped onto the walkway, Dog's head came up. He put a paw on Clay to hold him there and looked straight at me.

Woof? (Do you need me?)

Hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I understood him as clearly as if he'd been speaking English. He wasn't my dog. I shouldn't be able to decipher his barks. He shouldn't be that aware of me. I didn't like this at all.

"Dog, you are going out to Hank Blackshear's place until we find your owners."

He looked down at Clay. Woof. (We're going.) Then he trotted over to me and sat beside my leg waiting for direction. Clay dusted himself off, a smile lingering on his face as he reached for the library book he'd perched precariously on one of the boxwoods. But the smile faded as he said goodbye to Dog.

"Well, I gotta be gettin' home."

"Where is home?"

"Out at the Bailey Mills Trailer Park. It's not one of the double-wides, but it's big enough for Daddy and me."

The Bailey Mills area wasn't my jurisdiction, technically. It was just outside the incorporated area of Mossy Creek. That's where my badge ended. "You meeting your mom or dad in town?"

"No, sir. Momma died a long time ago. Daddy's at work. I walk it. Takes a bit of time. That's why I can't be doin' this all summer."

I fought to keep the flash of anger off my face. An eight or nine-year-old had absolutely no business walking miles of road by himself. Hell, he had no business riding a bike that far, but he didn't seem to know it. Jurisdiction or not, Daddy and I would be having a little chat.

"I tell you what. Police officers worry about kids walking that far alone. It's our job. And since I'm going out to the Blackshear place, it's just a bit farther to drop you off. So how about I give you a lift this time?"

"In the police Jeep?" His voice all but squeaked.

"Yep."

"Yes, sir!"

I flicked my arm at the Jeep in a signal to Dog, who not only knew I wanted him to move off my foot, but correctly interpreted the direction of my "flick" and waited by the Jeep for me to let him in. I shook my head. "You have got to be someone's dog."

"Wouldn't it be cool if you got to keep him?"

"Uh huh." But I silently gave Dog a warning look. Do not get your hopes up.

Clay was a great kid. Ready smile. No complaints. Didn't chatter on constantly, but he wasn't silent either. By the time we'd arrived at the trailer park I'd begun to hope that Hannah and I were just jaded adults, jumping at shadows. The kid seemed well-adjusted, was even supposed to check in regularly with his neighbor while his dad was at work. Maybe his dad just needed a few parenting pointers about child safety.

Dog made the trip with his body curled in the back seat floorboard and his head resting on the console beside my elbow. Clay leaned over from time to time and kissed Dog on the head. Dog's tail thumped happily in response, but he didn't move.

I stopped when Clay said, pushed the emergency brake and scanned the area. There looked to be thirty or so trailers. Everything from an almost elegant double-wide to one trailer so small it could be easily pulled behind most trucks. Clay's trailer was on the smaller side of medium. I guess to a kid, it looked bigger.

The tiny yard around the trailer was a mess. Grass hadn't been mowed. If there'd ever been a flower bed there was no sign of it now. The trailer itself looked to be in reasonably good shape, at least on the outside.

From a chain inside his shirt, Clay produced a key. "So I don't lose it." Before he went inside, he hugged Dog and said, "You can bring Dog around to visit sometimes, right?"

"Clay, I'm pretty sure he belongs to someone." Two pairs of puppy-dog eyes drooped. Sighing, I said, "But we'll see."

He let himself in, and I walked over to the neighbor's trailer to let her know Clay was home and to ... snoop. This might not be my jurisdiction, but I was already here. Earlene Hardeman lived in one of the tiny trailers. She was retired, no family. Living in a trailer and collecting a few dollars a week for "watching" Clay let her stretch her social security.

By the time I left, I knew more than I wanted to know about Samuel Atwood. He was a hard man, who ran a tight ship. Only noticed his son when he had to. Couldn't confirm the bruising but Earlene's comments painted a picture of borderline neglect. A gray area if I'd ever seen one. I'd be back. I left my number in case she ever needed to reach me.

"Hank Blackshear, I can't believe you are telling me to take this dog over to the Bigelow pound. They euthanize after fourteen days, for God's sake." I raised a brow and gave him my best official glare. The one that says: You and I both know I can't make you do this, but you don't want to irritate me.

Hank squared off and stared me down for all he was worth. And he's worth a lot. Solid man in the community. Solid marriage. Solid career. Solid values. Besides, when you play softball with a man, it's hard to intimidate him. He raised his brow right back at me. "I am not telling you to take that dog to Bigelow. I'm telling you that I don't have room for him here."

I snorted. The Blackshear Clinic was old but in first-class condition. When Hank took over, he brought everything up to the most modern standards. He'd added buildings and kennel runs so he'd have enough room for a proper large and small animal practice. I was looking at all that extra room over his shoulder right now.

"You had room to take care of Possum when Ed Brady needed you. Hell, Hank, I'm looking at two empty kennel runs!"

"Casey needs those. They're the closest to the house. When I'm out on a call, she can't be rolling all over the place trying to find a spot to put a dog when a client drops one off. And I can't ask my clients to handle their own dogs and walk to the back forty. No."

Damn. Casey's wheelchair trumped my need to get rid of this dog. What was I going to say that wouldn't sound completely insensitive? Even if I thought Hank was lying about needing both runs? Every instinct I had told me Hank could take this dog if he wanted to. Why on earth wouldn't he?

Dog had taken up residence by my side with one paw on my boot again. I flicked my hand at him to tell him to get off and down. He did. I shook my head. Hank could see Dog would be no trouble at all, so what was Hank's real problem?

Couldn't be money. Ida had set up a small per diem for any animals Hank cared for at the request of the town. It wouldn't cost him anything.

Ida. I smiled.

She had lots of room. I had to talk to her about the council meeting anyway. She liked animals. She'd take Dog.

"Okay, Hank. You can't take him. I'll figure something out."

"Good man. You'll enjoy having him around. He's about the best-behaved Cattledog I've ever seen. It's like you trained him personally."

"Whoa. I'm not taking this dog in. My next stop is Ida's."

Hank smiled. It reminded me of one of Mac's smiles. I didn't like it. He thumped me on the back as I turned to leave. "Tell Ida I said hello. And don't forget to come out to the ball game Friday night. Casey wants you to coach third base for her girls."

I had to laugh. "The Blackshears, who just turned me down for a favor, now want a favor from me?"

"I turned you down. Casey wants the favor, and you're welcome to go tell her no. God knows I can't, but maybe you won't have any trouble with it."

Shaking my head, I declined. You don't tell a ray of sunshine that you're going to rain on her parade. "Tell her I'll be there. Get in the Jeep, Dog."

He obeyed. This time he plopped himself right in the middle of the passenger seat and grinned at me as I got in.

"You have not won, you mangy mutt." I leaned toward him to make my point.

He poked my nose gently with his and then looked out the window.

As the crow flies, Ida is actually quite close to Hank and Casey. But getting there in the Jeep meant I had to circle around Trailhead Road. Dog enjoyed the scenery. I used the time to check with Sandy. The answer to every question I asked her was a resounding, "No." No one had called in about the dog. No one had placed a lost dog ad in the paper. No one had put up any fliers around town.

Time for Plan B. I turned onto the long drive up to the Hamilton place, and reached out to scratch Dog's ear. "You'll like it here."

Woof. (Uh huh, sure.) Then he promptly laid down on the seat in a sulk.

I was still laughing when I saw Ida walking up the drive toward the Jeep. I hit the brakes a little too quickly. Dog slid to the floorboard with a thump, and now I did feel like a jerk. "Sorry, Dog. I'm not used to a dog in the car."

He crawled back up on the seat and mumble-growled a scold at me. I cut the ignition and got out. He followed, perking up as he saw cows through the rail fence. Every muscle in his body tensed.

"No! Sit. Stay."

His butt hit the ground, but he wasn't happy about it. On the other hand, I felt quite clever. Nothing like saying just the right thing at the right time to avoid disaster. I sure didn't want Ida to realize this was a herding breed until I was halfway back to town. Then Dog could herd all he wanted. Right now I needed him to sit and be charming.

Ida had on some old jeans. Hers, not hand-me-downs. I could tell because they fit in all the right places. Her faded navy t-shirt was a fairly short one, the bottom edge slightly askew--like she's used the end of it to dry her hands. As she approached, she eyed Dog for a minute, then me.

Ida is a woman who, despite all her contemporary thoughts, still does something old-fashioned. She "takes stock" of a man. At least she took stock of me from time to time. I wasn't yet sure what her judgment was. As a chief, I passed muster. As a man, I realized the age difference was giving her fits. She couldn't put me neatly into a category. I wasn't a young friend of Rob's. Or just a town employee. Or a good neighbor.

I wasn't young enough to be completely out of the question, but I wasn't old enough to be acceptable to the logical side of her brain. I hadn't once crossed the line of acceptable behavior. I'd never given her cause to slap me down, to settle this issue once and for all ... never given her the chance to politely decline my attentions.

The all-seeing, all-knowing, completely "together" Ida Hamilton was treading water, and she didn't know which way to swim for land. I certainly wasn't giving her any sign posts. I behaved myself, and let Ida draw her own conclusions about if there was or was not a little spark of chemistry there.

She was the fine upstanding mayor of Mossy Creek. A woman of principles and substance. Ida didn't want to get her fingers burnt or be gossiped about--unless she was orchestrating the gossip. And by now, she knew that nobody orchestrated me. What Ida couldn't control gave Ida pause.

I decided I liked her that way--uncertain but damned if she'd show it. I grinned as I realized that I wasn't the only one holding some "need to know" information close to the chest. Ida had herself a little problem, too. Explained a lot about why her relationship with Del hadn't progressed to something serious.

Ida broke the awkward silence first. "So, what brings you by today, Amos?"

I laughed. "Since you're meeting me on the road, I'm guessing Hank called you and you know damn well why I'm here."

She rubbed the back of her neck to lift her hair off it in the heat. "He did. I do."

"Did he tell you he refused to take this stray?"

"He didn't have room."

"We pay him to have room."

"We pay him when he has room."

This time both Dog and I snorted. How stupid did Hank and Ida think we were? "I've still got a problem."

"Why?"

"Because I have to park Dog somewhere. He can't stay with me and I don't have time to go all over town looking for a foster home."

"Keep him."

"Ida, I don't have a fence. He could be run over."

She cocked a hip and crossed her arms. "Do you see a fence that will hold him around here either?"

I looked back down the long drive to this spot and then forward to where I still couldn't see the house. "Hell, Ida. He'd have to pack a lunch and make a day of it to get to the street."

She laughed. "Point to you. But I can't take him in. This is prime growing season. I haven't got time to train a new dog where he can and cannot urinate. And Heaven help me if he digs in the beds. The Garden Club is counting on me this year. An untrained dog can do a lot of damage."

Stepping away from Dog I spread my hands like a magician showing off a trick. "Does this look like a dog, who's hard to train?"

"No."

"So, what's the problem, Ida?"

"He's a herding breed for God's sake. The entire time we've been talking, he's had one eye on you and one on the cows. You don't expect him to lie around all day twiddling his paws, do you? I'll be fetching him out of the pasture morning, noon and night. He'll herd my geese until they're nervous wrecks."

"All right. You're a hard woman, Ida. Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you."

That brought her up straight, sputtering. "What you mean by that?"

I signaled Dog back in the Jeep. He gave the cows one more soulful look and then vaulted into the driver's seat. I waved him over to the passenger side then hooked my hand on the door frame before I got in. When I turned to her, Ida was still waiting for my answer. "What I mean, Miss Ida, is that I feel sorry for poor Dwight. He hasn't got a prayer in hell if this council meeting's about the bike incident that ruined his suit. There's not a soul on his side and hasn't been since he lost that damned ram."

Fire flashed in Ida's eyes. I thought maybe I'd gone too far this time and that Ida-the-Mayor was going to take a chunk out of my hide. Instead, Ida-the-woman snapped her open mouth shut on her argument. She sized me up again, and then said, "You're right. I'm not happy about it, but you're right. Someone has to take the first step. And since you seem to think I'm the one who needs a little character improvement, it'll have to be me."

My eyebrows elevated. Ida Hamilton had just admitted she cared about my opinion of her. This was turning out to be some day.

She half-turned to walk back down the drive, but called over her shoulder, "You just be there, Chief. I'll bring the crow."

"We're home." I swore. "No. I'm home. You're visiting, and if Josie finds out you're here, we're both in trouble."

You're in trouble already. You're talking to a dog like he understands you. Had been all day long. What was I supposed to do? Ignore him? He'd been with me all day long because Sandy'd suddenly decided to clean the office. Said she couldn't have the dog around the cleaning chemicals.

So Dog made calls with me. Even lay quietly beside my chair when I stopped by O'Day's on the way home for a consolation beer. Michael wouldn't hear of him being left in the Jeep. Any decent Irish pub allowed dogs. But even with all that high-and-mighty-dog-lover rhetoric Michael wouldn't take Dog home. That was the last straw. I accepted my defeat.

But I wasn't going to suffer in silence. I put my gun and my keys on top of the old-fashioned, bench-seat hall tree that was about the only thing to survive Josie's purge of furnishings. She said the patina of the oak was "fabulous" and I liked the framed top that functioned as a shelf. There weren't any kids running around to grab my gun, but I felt better with my work gun up the minute I walked in the door.

Business taken care of, I turned to Dog, who waited as patiently as always for some command. "Who are you? An alien? Stray dogs don't act this way, buddy. Okay. Let's do this." I began the tour of the house.

"Are you familiar with the movie Turner and Hooch?"

Woof.

"Good. Then you'll know what I mean when I say, 'This is not your chair..."

By the time the council room began to fill, I was tired of explaining about Dog. I'd brought him with me tonight for the same reason he'd been with me all day: new cow-leather chair. I had a mental image of Dog trying to herd the damned thing and then nipping at it when it wouldn't move into the corner. So Dog was my new best friend. He went everywhere with me, because I couldn't leave him in a closed car in the summer, and "stay in the Jeep" was the only command he didn't seem to know. Dog thought it meant, "Wiggle out the window and quietly dog my every step."

Clay wasn't the only kid in town who fantasized about Mossy Creek getting its very own police dog. Kids in the park wanted to see his badge. Patty Campbell had hustled right over to the station to make sure I had the proper collar and leash.

Right now Katie Bell wanted to know if it was true that we had a drug lab in town and Dog was here to sniff it out.

Woof. (Oh, puh-lease.)

I bit my lip and told Katie, "No." Then I shook hands with a couple of the council at the table, raised an eyebrow at Ida, and took a seat as close to the back as I could get away with. Looked like every kid in town had shown up in support of Little Ida, who sat primly in the first row, a militant look on her face. I smiled. Blood will tell.

Dwight bustled in and skidded to an unhappy halt beside me as his consciousness registered the number of people in the room under four feet tall. Then he mentally counted the stern-faced parents with them. You could see his head move as he counted.

I don't believe I've ever seen a man with a face more pinched and sour than Dwight's. Probably knew he'd already lost. Dog felt sorry for him and gave him a nuzzle of encouragement. It was more of a goose really. Dwight squeaked, glared at me, and then mustered his dignity for the walk to the podium. Once there he fumbled through his coat pockets, his back pockets; rummaged through his briefcase, and then did it all again. The more he scrabbled around, the more stressed he looked. Even the other council members were beginning to give each other questioning looks.

Finally Dwight drew himself up and narrowed his eyes. "Okay. Which one of you took it? Well, it doesn't matter. I'm starting this meeting gavel or not!"

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw.

Slowly, like a condemned man I glanced down to my right and then closed my eyes. Dog was happily making splinters out of Dwight's precious gavel. I'm many things, but I'm not a coward.

"Excuse me!" I picked up the dog-slobbery mess with two fingers and held it up. "I ... uh ... I think I have the gavel." I walked it up to the podium. The crowd was howling with laughter, but I noticed that Ida hadn't snickered the first snicker.

I mumbled my apologies and the promise of a new gavel as soon as I could order one. Dwight just stared at his symbol of office with disbelieving eyes. I didn't blame him. I didn't want to touch it either. Gently, I laid it on the table and returned to my seat. Most of the laughing had subsided by the time I was silently promising Dog horrible retribution.

Ida stood in the silence and shushed the crowd further by waving her hands downward. "I'm going to break protocol tonight and open the session instead of our esteemed Chair, Mr. Truman." She looked straight at me. "I'm also going to do something I should have done a long time ago. I'm going to tell you about a man who never gives up. Someone Mossy Creek can count on. Someone we like to ignore because he's our conscience in many ways. He watches our pennies. He pushes us to be more. He tells us when we're wrong."

She scooted around her chair to stand next to Dwight. I was hoping she'd catch his jaw because it was about to hit the floor. She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Oh boy, does he tell us when we're wrong.

"What we forget is that Dwight was raised to be a pillar of the community. His Daddy decided Dwight would follow in his footsteps. When other kids were out playing, Dwight was being tutored in civics or enrolled in one of the hundreds of community service projects his Daddy thought were important for Dwight's moral fiber and work ethic."

She looked around the room. "It worked. Dwight has never shirked a responsibility in his life. Certainly not when it came to Mossy Creek civic duty." A hushed murmur of agreement issued from the audience. "It's my opinion that Dwight could actually use a little time to enjoy the Mossy Creek he's helped build."

The kids didn't know what was going on, but the parents clapped and agreed. You could see several of them looking at Dwight with new eyes. Not a one of them had thought about the fact that someone had had to do all the things Dwight did. Sometimes it takes more courage to paddle against the flow.

Even Dog woofed a couple of times. Dwight looked downright shocked. While he was composing himself, Ida signaled someone in the doorway. Rob Walker wheeled in one of the sleekest adult bikes I'd seen in a long time. Wheeled it right up in front of the council table and flipped the kickstand.

"Councilman Truman," Ida said, "the citizens of Mossy Creek would like to thank you for all you hard work through the years and present you with this token of our affection. May you ride it in health and good fun."

Everyone else was clapping for an overcome Dwight, who looked pleased as punch and red as a box of Valentine candy. I was clapping for Ida. She knew it. I gave her a little salute. Dog and I went home. There wouldn't be any more council business tonight.

The Friday night ball game crowd included one young man I was particularly interested in seeing. Clay Atwood sat in the bleachers. By himself. When he saw Dog, he vaulted off his seat and met us halfway to the field.

"I was hoping you'd bring him. Heyya, boy! Remember me?"

Dog's reception was obviously one of an old friend. The wrestling commenced immediately. I hauled the two of them apart and asked Clay where his dad was.

"Said he had some business and I should stay here until he got back."

"Uh huh. Tell you what. Why don't you sit in the dugout with the team and hold Dog for me?"

"Really?"

"Sure. You have to be nice to the girls or Casey Blackshear will have you scrubbing out the kennels. No poking, teasing, or arguing."

"Aw! But Caralee's on the team. She's mad at me about the library reading books."

"Sorry. Either you agree or you sit in the stands and Dog is lonely all night."

Dog whined and cocked his head. He did a right nice job of begging. I appreciated it. I wanted Clay in the dugout with the team so I wouldn't miss meeting his father. I handed Clay the ball bag I was carrying for Casey and watched them scamper over to the bench.

Casey rolled up beside me. "You look worried."

"Girls with softballs scare me."

She rolled her eyes. "It's more than that." But she didn't push it. She had a game to coach. I imagined I might get another question or two from her on the subject of my worry after the game.

Fortunately, I didn't have to mention Clay to convince Casey I had troubles on my mind. Like Laurie Grey. New to town, an interesting woman and, according to Sandy, a woman who was more than a little ill with no support system in sight.

Casey's girls played a great game against one of their arch rivals--the Big Sky Ravens, rich little girls with fancy equipment and the best coach money could buy. But our team has an unshakable desire to win. They believe that they can beat any team. That's Casey's gift to coaching.

We'd have won, too, if it hadn't been for that unfortunate incident in the last inning. Score tied. We had two outs. I had a runner on third, a bunt on the way, and the opposing pitcher on the move.

Everything depended on my runner getting home and the pitcher fumbling that ball. I did what any base coach does. I signaled run, shouted, yelled and encouraged. I did lots of things, but I am all but certain I did not signal Dog to streak out onto the field and grab that softball.

Not that Foxer Atlas, the game's umpire, cared. He threw me, the dog, Casey and our girls out of the game for willful interference. Foxer and I were chest to chest for a while there. I don't like being called a cheat; the parents were screaming for my blood. I could see Katie scribbling for all she was worth.

"Foxer, for God's sake. I'm the Chief of Police. I do not cheat!"

"Well, your dog does."

I threw my hands up. "How is this possibly my fault? I wasn't holding his leash, and he's not my dog."

"You'rrrre outta here!" You could tell Foxer was enjoying himself immensely.

My lawyer muscled between us at this point. As big as Mac Campbell is, I couldn't even see around him to give Foxer a piece of my mind. "Give it up, Amos," Mac ordered. "Dog is your dog. He's with you 24/7."

"He's not my dog. He'd eat the chair if I left him at home. Besides that, this is all Hank's fault. He wouldn't take him."

"Then take Dog down to the Bigelow pound or give him away."

"You keep missing the point, Mac. He's not mine to give away. His owners are going to want him back."

"His owner needs to wise up and smell the dog hair."

Woof.

I looked down. When did this happen? When did Dog become my dog? I smiled. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But our softball signals could use some work. I leaned down to scratch his ears. "Huh, boy?"

Then I frowned as I realized Clay and his father had gotten away without my noticing. Okay, tomorrow. First thing. Dog and I were making a house call.

"This is still not your chair," I warned Dog as we tumbled in the door from the ball game. Tonight he didn't wait for me to tell him it was okay to roam the house. "And you are going to have to figure out a way to make it up to all those girls. And Casey. You have to apologize to her."

He stopped on the way to the kitchen to look back at me. Woof? (Again?)

"Yeah. And you'll keep apologizing until she starts speaking to us again."

I noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. "That's probably from Casey, and I'm not defending you. You're taking the rap for this."

The machine whirred through its process and announced the message time in a monotone. Barely a few minutes ago. "Chief? This is Earlene Hardeman. You told me to call. About Clay Atwood and his daddy. He's hit him this time. Backhanded him into the trailer. I hope this is you. I can't read these tiny numbers that well. If you get this, you come on now."

"Dog!" I grabbed my keys and my gear off the coat rack. I could hear Dog's nails scrabbling for purchase as he turned the corner out of the kitchen.

I had Mac on the phone and caught up on the details before I'd pulled out of my driveway. "I don't care what you have to do or who you have to wake up. I'm bringing that boy back. I want him in emergency care with a family in Mossy Creek. He's not going through family services over in Bigelow. I want him here where he'll feel comfortable. Cut the corner off a circle if you have to, but you call me back in five minutes and tell me it's done and I have the authority to pull that child out of that trailer."

That done, my next call was to the sheriff's department to let them know I was rolling on this call and would advise if I needed assistance. The chances of a county car being any closer than me were slim and none. As I suspected, they were more than happy to let me handle this.

Most of the trailers were dark by the time I pulled up to the park. The Atwood trailer was one of them. I saw Earlene look out her window as I got out of the Jeep. I nodded. The curtain winked shut.

Dog trotted alongside me to the Atwood's. I knocked. No one stirred. I knocked louder. This time a complaint rumbled through the trailer, followed by a begrudging and gruff, "Hold your horses."

The light flared on. Samuel Atwood pulled open the aluminum door, but left the screen door closed. He'd pulled on a hasty pair of pants, hadn't bothered with the snap. His t-shirt was clean.

"Mr. Atwood?"

"You? No need you coming around here. I already disciplined the boy for letting the dog loose."

"Could I see the boy?"

"What for? I already told you I took care of it. I'd think you'd have better things to do than come around here rousting us out of bed over a little mix-up like that ball field thing."

"Mr. Atwood, let me make myself a little more clear. I'm not here because of what the boy did. I'm here because of what you've done and to be sure the boy's all right after your discipline. We've had a complaint. I need to see Clay. Clay, you in there?"

Dog whined.

"Who complained? That old biddy?" He pointed at Earlene's trailer. She can't see squat without her glasses on, and she goes to bed at eight o'clock. You just wait. My boy'll tell you he's fine."

I shifted back from the door. "Fine. Get him out here or I'm going to need to come inside and see for myself."

For the first time Samuel began to look impatient. "Well, he ain't here. He run off. I gave the kid a little swat, and he run off. That's what he does. Runs off and has his sissy cry and then comes slinking back."

Anger has no place in law enforcement. It clouds the judgment. I did my best to shove mine as far inside as possible, but it pulsed insistently. "How old is Clay?"

Samuel shifted back and forth on his feet, he could feel the noose tightening. "He'll be nine come September."

"You let a nine-year-old boy go off, unsupervised, in the middle of the night? And you went to bed?"

"I was just restin'. There's nothin' to worry about. He'll be back. He always comes back. Just ask that old biddy over there."

Part of me wanted to haul Atwood out of the trailer and down to jail, but Clay was my first priority. Without taking my eyes off Atwood, I asked my partner for help. "Find him, Dog. Go get me Clay."

Like a greyhound off the mark, Dog streaked away. He'd been quietly whining and leaning toward the woods on our right. I had a pretty good idea that's where Clay was, probably curled up against one of the old-as-time trees and feeling guilty about hating his father. He didn't know he wasn't alone in that.

While I waited, I stared at Atwood. Sometimes the silence is palpable this far out from town. Any little sound carries in the stillness. Soon enough Dog began barking and I heard a faint but definite exclamation from a surprised kid. Atwood huffed. "Told you."

"That's good. That's real good. Here's what the deal is, Atwood. I'm going to go find those two, and when I get back here, if you're still here, I'll be arresting you. Child endangerment, neglect, abuse and anything else I can make stick."

"What if I'm not here?"

For the first time in what seemed like hours, I smiled. Atwood wasn't as stupid as he looked. "Then if I ever find you, I'll be charging you with all of that plus abandonment. But one way or the other, that little boy will not be hit again. Not while I'm drawing breath."

A second after Atwood shut the door, I heard the sounds of cabinets being opened and drawers being slammed. I grabbed the high-beam out of the back of the Jeep and went hunting for the boys. They met me before I'd gone more than a hundred yards. Clay ran at me so hard, I stumbled when I caught him. I hugged him close and made room for Dog, who seemed to think it was his due as a hero.

Clay seemed content to hold up in the middle of the field and collect himself. I kept an eye on Earlene's trailer in the distance. I didn't want Samuel causing any problems. On the off chance that Sandy might be right where I needed her, I pulled my walkie and keyed Mossy Creek dispatch. "Sandy?"

"Right here, Chief."

I leaned the walkie against my forehead for a moment. Then I keyed again. "I do not know what I'd do without you. Over."

"Not nearly as well," she informed me. "Mac called. Said you might need me. Over."

"I do. I need you to haul out to the Bailey Mills trailer park." I described Earlene's trailer and asked Sandy come out tonight and get a full statement while the details were fresh.

"I'm on it, Chief! And Mac said to call him pronto. Over."

"Yes, ma'am. Out."

A couple of hours later, Clay and I stood on Mac and Patty's porch saying our goodbyes. Mac had not only cut every bit of red tape he could find, he made sure that Clay landed on their doorstep. In barely more than an hour, Mac had had them approved for emergency foster care. Since they'd already been approved for state adoption, it was a pretty small leap to emergency foster care. Especially when you have a father who's a judge and willing to call in favors.

Clay had taken to Mac and Patty like a duck to water. There's a whole lot to like in Mac and Patty. Great house, great dogs and a lot of love saved up waiting. Even so, he wasn't quite ready to let go of my hand or Dog's neck. Patty whispered for me not to rush him and took their labs back inside. Maddie, the pale yellow one had been reluctant to leave Clay's side, but after giving some sort of doggie instruction look to Dog, she allowed Patty to drag her back inside.

Before Mac closed the door, he said, "Son, you just knock when you're ready to come in. We'll be here."

I nodded and waited for Clay to tell me whatever it was he'd been working up to all night. He kissed Dog on the head, then looked at me. "He didn't want me."

"Maybe he was just scared. He may be back."

"No." Clay's eyes were bone dry and his voice didn't so much as quiver. "I mean he didn't want me before. So I don't want him now."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to argue or agree that it was okay to feel that way. This was Patty's job. Not mine. I didn't know what to do, especially since it was my fault his father was gone. Battle would have been proud of how I handled this one. I sure as hell nudged it the way I wanted it to play out.

"Hey," I said, "why don't we give it some time?"

He nodded, kissed Dog again and knocked on the door. Just before it opened he said, "I'll be okay."

Patty gathered him in. I don't think I've ever seen her look happier. Clay is definitely going to be one of her visionary pieces if everything works out like we've planned.

Dog followed me to the car, looking over his shoulder once or twice. As we reached the car, he balked and sat down.

Woof. (Do you need me?)

In that moment my heart sank, because I knew exactly what he meant. My dog was asking me to be a hero. "Do I need you? Like do I need you as much as a scared young boy who's just lost his father?" I took a couple of deep breaths. I sure as hell didn't want to cry on the phone to Patty. And then I dialed her number.

"Hey, I need a favor. I need you to take Dog."

"What? Why?"

"Clay needs him more than me." I cleared my throat. "Just open the door and let Clay's dog in."

She did.

I went home to my leather chair and discovered that you need a lot more than a leather chair to be happy.