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“He is not my man,” she shot back, then huffed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Beau chuckled. It was a rare sound, and the change in his demeanor startling. “Maybe … Lissy-love…”

“It’s the first time he called me that,” she grumbled.

“Hmm.” He only smiled.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Seriously, Beau.”

“I was there, Felicity. From the moment you walked in, your only concern was him.”

“He’s a friend I can’t seem to shake,” she muttered. “Despite my track record as the worst friend in history.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I’m the last person to give relationship advice … but he’s a good man.”

“I know.” She blew out a breath. “Which is exactly why I should end” — she waved her arm about — “whatever he thinks this is. But since we’re talking about him … thanks for the leniency.”

He sighed. “Been in his position. I get it.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“All right, then.” He straightened, his normal surly look in place. “Back to business, Graham. Mercer’s been issued a formal warning and placed on two weeks’ desk duty. He’s not a happy man, so be aware.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, Deputy. Just…” He let the rest hang.

She gave a small nod. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

Felicity sequestrated herself in the meeting room away from the death glares and loaded up the security feeds. There was no audio, but the footage told enough of the story.

Mercer approaching Ronan.

Ronan turning his back on him — clear, deliberate — but Mercer kept talking. Needling. Jabbing his fingers on Ronan’s hunched shoulder. Leaning in. That’s when Ronan moved.

His right arm snapped out, fast and clean, landing hard.

“Damn fine punch, too,” she muttered.

Mercer went down, then scrambled back up, swinging wild and sloppy — landing maybe two out of the handful he threw. So out of shape it was almost laughable.

Then she saw it.

Felicity stilled.

She scrubbed back several frames, slowed it, and paused.

The man from Iron Horse. The one she declared undercover.

Her pulse kicked. Months, and she still hadn’t been able to put a name to his face. And now—

There he was. Clear as day.

A clean, full-face shot.

She clipped the frame, saved it, then kept the footage rolling, tracking him as he slipped toward the door, gone just as the first table went over.

Impatience gnawed at her. She needed to get home. Needed access to her own setup, the wider network of feeds she could pull from.