Burke snorted.
“Looks like he’s winning.”
“Only temporarily.”
Grant settled the horse with the kind of effortless confidence that came from a lifetime in the saddle. Then he nodded toward the house farther down the hill.
“Dad home?”
“Yeah. Truck’s down there.”
Grant nodded once.
“Naomi’s threatening to quit if he doesn’t stop feeding peppermints to the horses.”
Burke smiled despite himself.
“She’s been threatening that for five years.”
“Yeah.” Grant’s mouth twitched. “And somehow she’s still here.”
Burke tapped the steering wheel.
“See you later.”
Grant lifted a hand and turned the palomino back toward the fence line as Burke drove on toward the house.
The Scott farmhouse sat at the bottom of the rise, white paint softened by years of mountain weather.
Burke pulled into the gravel drive beside an old Ford pickup he’d seen his entire life. The blue paint had faded close to gray, but it still ran, and Burton Scott wasn’t about to give it up.
Burton sat in a wooden chair near the railing, a glass of iced tea in his hand. He didn’t bother getting up when Burke stepped onto the porch.
“Evenin’, Sheriff,” he said, the title dry and affectionate at once.
Burke smiled.
“Evenin’, Dad.”
Burton nodded toward the empty chair beside him.
“Sit.”
Burke dropped into the chair and stretched his legs out, boots settling against the boards he’d helped replace one summer in high school.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The quiet here was different than in town. It worked some of the day’s static out of his shoulders, but it didn’t loosen the knot that had formed when he’d listened to that first episode.
“You hear about the podcasts?” Burke finally asked.
Burton gave a quiet grunt.
“Hard not to. Naomi’s been playing them in the barn. Grant claims he doesn’t listen, but he’s been asking questions.”
Burke shook his head once.
“Naomi still sounds like trouble.”
