Saved By The Sheriff. Cindi Myers

to play themselves out in the form of letters to the editor of the local paper or the occasional shouting match after a few too many beers at one of the local taverns.

      When Travis had arrested Lacy for the murder of Andy Stenson, he had received more than one angry phone call, and a few people had refused to speak to him ever since. When he had issued a public statement declaring Lacy’s innocence, most people had responded positively, if not jubilantly, to the news. He couldn’t recall hearing even a whisper from anyone that a single person believed Lacy was still a murderer.

      On impulse, he drove past the police station and two blocks north, to the former Eagle Mountain Hospital, now home to the county Historical Society and Museum. As he had hoped, Brenda Stenson was just locking up for the day when Travis parked and climbed out of his SUV. “Hello, Travis,” she said as she tucked the key into her purse. A slender blonde with delicate features and a smattering of freckles across her upturned nose, Brenda seemed to be regaining some of the vivacity that had all but vanished when her husband of only three years had been murdered. “What’s up?”

      “Lacy came home today,” he said. “I was just over at her folks’ place.”

      “How is she? I saw her mom yesterday and told her to tell Lacy I would stop by tomorrow—I thought maybe the family would like a little time alone before the crowds of well-wishers descend.”

      “So you don’t have any problem with her being out?” Travis asked, watching her carefully.

      She pushed a fall of long blond hair out of her eyes. “Lacy didn’t kill Andy,” she said. “I should have spoken on her behalf at the trial, but I was so torn up about Andy—it was all I could do to get out of bed in the morning. Later on...” She shrugged. “I didn’t know what to think. I’m glad she’s out.”

      “Except that now we don’t know who is responsible for Andy’s death,” Travis said.

      “No, we don’t. It makes it hard to move on, but sometimes these things never get solved, do they? I hate to think that, but I’m trying to be realistic.”

      “I want to find the real murderer,” Travis said. “I feel like I owe it to you and Andy—and to Lacy.”

      “You didn’t try and convict her all by yourself,” Brenda said. “And you fought harder than anyone to free her once you figured out the truth.”

      “But I started the ball rolling,” he said. “And this isn’t really going to be over for any of us until we find out what really happened that day.”

      She sighed. “So what’s the next move?”

      “I know we’ve been over this before, but humor me. Do you know of anyone who was angry or upset with Andy—about anything? An angry husband whose wife Andy represented in a divorce? A drunk driving case he lost?”

      “Andy hadn’t been practicing law long enough to make enemies,” Brenda said. “And Eagle Mountain is a small town—I know pretty much everyone who was ever a client of his. None of them seem like a murderer to me.”

      “I think the odds that the killer was a random stranger are pretty low,” Travis said. “So one of those nice local people is likely the murderer.”

      Brenda rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if trying to warm herself. “It makes me sick to think about it,” she said.

      “If I can convince Lacy to help me, would you mind if we go through Andy’s case files?” Travis asked. “I figure she would have known his clients almost as well as he did.”

      “Of course I don’t mind. Everything is in storage. I haven’t had the heart to go through anything myself.”

      “I don’t know if it will help, but it seems like a good place to start,” he said.

      “Stop by whenever you’re ready and I’ll give you the key to my storage unit,” she said.

      They said good-night and Travis returned to his SUV. He had just started the vehicle when his cell phone buzzed. “Hello?”

      “Sheriff, Wade Tomlinson called to report a shoplifter at their store,” Adelaide said. “He said he saw you drive past a few minutes ago and wondered if you could swing by.”

      “Tell him I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” Travis ended the call and turned the SUV back toward Main, where Wade Tomlinson and Brock Ryan operated Eagle Mountain Outfitters, a hunting, fishing and climbing store that catered to locals and tourists alike. Technically, a call like this should have been routed through the countywide dispatch center. The dispatcher would then contact the appropriate department and the officer who was closest to the scene would respond. But locals were just as likely to call the sheriff department’s direct line and ask for Travis or Gage or one of the other officers by name.

      Wade Tomlinson met Travis on the sidewalk in front of their store. “Thanks for stopping by, Sheriff,” he said. He crossed his arms over his beefy chest, the eagle tattoo on his biceps flexing. A vein pulsed in his shaved head. “Though I guess we wasted your time.”

      “Adelaide said you had a shoplifter?”

      “Yeah, but he got away, right after I called.” He led the way inside the shop, which smelled of canvas, leather and rope. Climbing rope in every color of the rainbow hung from hooks along the back wall, while everything from stainless-steel coffee mugs to ice axes and crampons filled the shelves.

      Wade’s business partner, Brock Ryan, looked up from rearranging a display of T-shirts. The one in his hand, Travis noted, bore the legend Do It In the Outdoors. “Hey, Travis,” he said. “You didn’t pass a skinny teenager in a red beanie on your way over here, did you?”

      “No,” Travis said. “Was that your shoplifter?”

      “Yeah. I caught him red-handed shoving a hundred-dollar water filter down his pants. I sat him down up front by the register and told him we would wait until you got here before we decided whether or not to file charges.”

      Unlike Wade, who was short and stocky, Brock was tall and lean, with the squinting gaze of a man who had spent long hours in the sun and wind.

      “What happened after that?” Travis asked.

      “I turned my back to get a tray of fishing flies out of the case for a customer and the kid took off,” Brock said, his face reddening.

      “Did the kid give you a name?” Travis asked. “Did you recognize him?”

      Both men shook their heads. “He wasn’t from around here,” Wade said. “He wouldn’t say anything to us, so we figured we’d let you see if you could get anything out of him.”

      “Maybe you two scared him enough he won’t come back,” Travis said.

      “Burns me up when somebody comes in here and tries to take what we’ve worked hard for,” Brock said. He punched his hand in his fist. “If that kid ever shows his face here again, I’ll make sure he never tries to steal from me again.”

      Travis put a hand on the tall man’s shoulder. “Don’t let your temper get the best of you,” he said. “If the kid comes back, call the office and one of us will take care of it.”

      Brock hesitated, then nodded. “Right.”

      A third man emerged from a door at the back of the shop—a lean, broad-shouldered guy in a black knit beanie. He looked as if he had been carved from iron—all sharp angles and hard muscle. He scanned Travis from head to toe, lingering a moment on the badge on his chest, and Travis wouldn’t have called his expression friendly. “Do you have a new employee?” Travis asked, nodding toward the man.

      Brock glanced over his shoulder. “That’s Ian,” he said. “A friend of mine.”

      Ian nodded, but didn’t offer to shake hands. “I’ll wait in back,” he said to Brock, and exited the way he had come.

      “Your friend