Page 3

"Brent, I'm going to need you to find your contract," she says. "Page four. I'll wait."

She waits. She drags the brush across the F with a stroke so clean it takes my breath, and she paints with her whole arm, her whole body leaning into it.

Griffin clears his throat. She holds up one finger without looking.

I've faced down armed men with more patience than this woman is showing a portable toilet vendor, and I've never wanted to stand anywhere so bad.

"Thursday," she says. "Thank you, Brent. I appreciate you." She hangs up, tosses the phone on the tarp, and pushes to her feet. Paint streaks her fingers and there's a smudge of red along her jaw she doesn't know about. Five six, maybe. Full mouth. Dark brown eyes that sweep over Griffin, land on me, and narrow.

"You're the sheriff from over the pass."

"Josiah Crane, ma'am."

"Ramona Vega. Mona." She wipes her hand on her jeans and shakes mine. Firm grip, warm skin, a little tacky with paint. She lets go first. "Griffin says you're here to help with security. I've got a plan for that."

She pulls a stack of paper from the canvas bag at her hip. Vendor maps, a parking diagram, a timeline broken into fifteen minute blocks. She hands it to Griffin. I read it over his shoulder because I read everything over everyone's shoulder, it's a hazard of the job, and my eyes catch before my brain can stop my mouth.

"You've got a permit gap on page three."

Her head comes up slowly.

"Bonfire permit," I say. "County fire marshal's signature line is blank. You're burning Saturday night. Without that signature, somebody from the county can shut you down at sundown."

Griffin flips to page three. Stares at it. Says nothing.

Mona holds out her hand for the packet. Griffin gives it back like he's handing over a live grenade. She looks at the page for a long moment, and pink climbs her throat into her cheeks, over that smudge of paint.

"I was aware," she says.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I was going to call him today."

"Good."

"Don't call me ma'am."

"All right."

She stares at me. I stare back. She's pretty when she's embarrassed and prettier when she's angry, and she's managing both at once. The wind picks up off the ridge and cuts across the field, and she crosses her arms tight over her chest, shoulders hunching. Her jacket is lying on a hay bale fifteen feet away. She doesn't go get it.

Something warm lands on her boots. Sergeant has planted himself on her feet, eighty pounds of German Shepherd leaning his weight against her shins, gazing up at her with his tongue out.

She looks down. "Your dog is sitting on me."

"He does that."

He does not do that. He's never done that. In seven years he hasn't sat on anybody but me.

Mona's mouth twitches. She fights it and loses, and a smile breaks loose, quick and crooked, gone in half a second. She reaches down and scratches between his ears with her painted fingers. Sergeant's eyes close.

"Fine," she says to the dog. Then to me: "Two weeks, Sheriff. Parking lot's yours. Stay out of my way and we'll get along."

She picks up her brush and kneels back down on the tarp.

Griffin steers me away with a hand on my shoulder. Sergeant has to be called twice before he'll leave her.

"That went well," Griffin says.