Warning Shot. Jenna Kernan

on his scalp where the hair did not grow.

      The sheriff mumbled something as she reached the order window and was greeted by a red-faced woman who said, “Just cleaned the grill. You want something to eat, have to be the fryer.”

      “All right. So...what are my choices?”

      “Fried shrimp, mozzarella sticks or French fries.”

      “Ice cream?”

      “Yup.” She motioned a damp rag at the menu board behind her. “Ain’t cleaned that yet.”

      Rylee ordered the shrimp and fries with a vanilla shake. The woman had the order up in less than four minutes and the counter light flicked off as Rylee retreated with her dinner in a box lined with a red-and-white-checked paper already turning transparent in the grease.

      The sheriff called to her before she could reach her car.

      “Agent Hockings. Join us?” he asked.

      She let her shoulders deflate. Rylee wanted only to eat and have a shower. But she forced a smile. Establishing working relationships with local law enforcement was part of the job. Unfortunately, this local made her skin tingle when she got too close. She hated knowing from the heat of her face that she was blushing. He returned her smile and her mind wandered to questions that were none of her business, like what Axel Trace’s chest looked like beneath that uniform.

      Two months ago, Rylee had had a steady boyfriend but that ended when she got promoted and he didn’t. The help she’d given him on course work might have worked against him in the written testing when he didn’t know the information required. In any case, he blamed her, and she’d broken things off. Showing his true colors made getting over him easy. Except at night. She missed the feel of him in her bed; that had been the only place they had gotten along just fine. Now she knew that attraction was not enough of a foundation for a relationship. So why was she staring at the sheriff’s jawline and admiring the gap between his throat and the white undershirt that edged his uniform?

      Because, Rylee, you haven’t been with a man in a long time. She swept him with a gaze and dismissed this attraction as the second worst idea of the day. The first being pursuit onto Mohawk land.

      Rylee sat across from the pair, who slipped from the surface of the picnic table and onto the opposite bench, staring at her in silence as she ate the curling brown breading that must have had a shrimp in there somewhere. The second bite told her the shellfish was still frozen in the center. She pushed it aside.

      “Want my second burger?” asked Axel.

      “You have a spare?”

      “Bought it for Morris, here. But two ought to do him.”

      Morris gave the burger in the sheriff’s hands a look of regret before dipping the last of his fries into his ice-cream sundae.

      “This is Morris Coopersmith,” said Trace. “Morris, this is Rylee Hockings. She’s with Homeland Security.”

      Stanley Coopersmith was one of the persons of interest.

      Morris’s brows lifted, and his hand stilled. When he spoke, his voice broke. “Nice to meet you.”

      “Likewise.” Rylee accepted the wrapped burger Sheriff Trace extended. “Any relationship to Stanley Coopersmith?”

      Morris grinned and nodded. “That’s my dad.” Then the smile waned. “He doesn’t like comics.”

      Morris’s dad was on her watch list. He led a colony of like-minded doomsday survivalists, who had their camp right on the New York side of the border. It would be simple for such a group to transport anything or anyone they liked through the woods and over the border in either direction.

      “Want some pickles?” asked Morris, offering the ones he had plucked from his burgers.

      “No, thank you,” she said to Morris. Her phone chimed and she checked to see the incoming text was unimportant.

      Morris pointed. “Do you have a camera on that?”

      Rylee nodded.

      “Take our picture,” he insisted and moved closer to the sheriff.

      Rylee gave the sheriff a questioning look and received a shrug in response, so she opened the camera app and took a photo.

      Morris reached for her phone and she allowed him to take it and watched closely as he admired the shot. At last, he handed her back her phone.

      She asked the sheriff, “Are you two related?”

      It was a blind guess. Morris was pink and lanky; his body type more like a basketball player. Axel’s blond hair, sun-kissed skin and muscular physique seemed nearly opposite to the boy’s.

      She wasn’t sure why she didn’t delete the photo, but she left it and tucked her phone away. Then she turned her attention to her meal. She had a mouthful of burger when the sheriff dispelled her first guess.

      “I’m transporting Morris from his home to the jail in Kinsley due to failure to report to his last hearing. He’s got to be in court in the morning.”

      “Oh,” she said, forcing the word past the mouthful of food. She knew the shock was clear on her face. Did he usually stop to buy suspects dinner? She had so many questions but turned to Morris. “I’m sorry for your trouble. I hope the hearing goes well.”

      “Doubtful. Not the first time I got picked up.”

      “Oh, I see.” The investigator portion of her was dying to ask what exactly he had repeatedly been picked up for.

      “I steal things,” said Morris and grinned.

      “Morris,” said the sheriff, his tone an admonition. “What did I say?”

      “Let my lawyer do the talking?” said the boy.

      “And?”

      “Don’t discuss the case.”

      Axel Trace nodded solemnly.

      Morris turned to Rylee. “But I wasn’t stealing for me this time. So that will be all right.” He glanced to the sheriff for reassurance and received none.

      Axel Trace looked as if he were taking his dog to the vet to be put down. His mouth tugged tight and his eyes... Were they glistening? His repeat blinking and the large swallow of soda he took seemed answer enough. Sheriff Trace cared for this boy.

      Rylee choked down the rest of the burger in haste. Morris finished his sundae and grinned, smacking his lips in satisfaction. On closer inspection, he did not seem quite a boy but a man acting like a boy. He certainly didn’t have a grip on the seriousness of his position. Why hadn’t the information on Stanley Coopersmith included that he had a boy with special needs?

      “How old are you, Morris?” she asked.

      “Twenty.” He showed a gap-toothed smile.

      That was bad news. “I see.”

      She glanced to Trace, whose mouth went tight. Then she looked back to Morris. Her gaze slid to the sheriff.

      He motioned to Morris with two fingers. “Come on, sport. Time to go.”

      Morris stood, towering over the sheriff by six inches. He was painfully thin. He wore neither handcuffs nor zip ties on his wrists. Trace pointed at his unit. Morris wadded up his paper wrappers and shot them basketball-style, as if hitting a foul shot. Then he cheered for his success and finally slipped into the passenger side of the sheriff’s car.

      “Is that wise? Having him up front with you?” she asked.

      “Morris and I have an agreement.”

      Morris called from inside the cruiser. “Coke and comic for good behavior.”

      She stared at the young man and staunched the urge to open the door and release him.

      “You