To Mom, who got me started.

      I will always miss you.

Chapter 1

      Deputy Constance Halloran drove along the U.S. highway toward Conard City, taking her time, keeping an eye on traffic, glad her shift was almost over.

      Spring had settled over the county, greening it with recent rains, filling the air with the fragrance of wildflowers and the scent she thought of as green. With her window rolled down, the aroma wafted into her car, earth’s special perfume.

      Today had been a lazy day, an easy shift. She’d had only one call about a minor theft at one of the ranches; then she’d spent most of the day patrolling her sector. She hadn’t written any speeding tickets, which was unusual. Even the traffic seemed to be enjoying a case of spring fever.

      Maybe she would light the barbecue tonight and make some hamburgers. Sophie, her seven-year-old daughter, loved grilled hamburgers beyond everything, and loved the opportunity to eat outside at their porch table almost as much. Of course, the evenings could still get chilly, but a sweater would do.

      The idea pleased her, and she began to hum a lilting melody. A semi passed her from the opposite direction and flashed his lights in a friendly manner. Connie flashed back, her smile broadening. Some days it felt good just to be alive.

      Another mile down the road, she spotted a man standing on the shoulder, thumb out. At once she put on her roof lights, gave one whoop of her siren and pulled over until he was square in the view of her dash camera. He dropped his arm and waited for her.

      A couple of cars passed as she radioed dispatch with her position and the reason for her stop.

      “Got it, Connie,” Velma said, her smoke-frogged voice cracking. “You be careful, hear?”

      “I always am.”

      Glancing over to make sure she wouldn’t be opening her door into traffic, Connie climbed out and approached the man.

      As she drew closer, she realized he looked scruffy and exotic all at once. Native American, she registered instantly. Long black hair with a streak of gray fell to his shoulders. He also had a beard, unusually thick for someone of his genetic background. Dark eyes looked back at her. The thousand-yard stare. She’d seen it before.

      For an instant she wondered if he was mentally ill; then her mind pieced together the conglomeration of clothing he wore, and she identified him as a soldier, or maybe a veteran. His pants were made of the new digitized camouflage fabric, but his jacket was the old olive drab. As she approached, he let a backpack slip from his shoulder to the ground, revealing the collar of his cammie shirt, and she saw the black oak leaf of a major.

      At once some of her tension eased. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said courteously, “but hitchhiking is illegal.”

      He nodded, his gaze leaving her and scanning the surrounding countryside. “Sorry, I forgot. Been out of the country.”

      “I guessed that. Whereabouts?”

      His inky gaze returned to her. “Afghanistan. I’ll just keep walking.”

      “No,” she said impulsively, breaking all the rules in an instant. “I’ll drive you to town. How come you don’t have a car?”

      Something like amusement, just a hint, flickered swiftly across his face. “I need to be home a while longer before I’ll be comfortable behind the wheel.”

      She let that go, sensing the story behind it wasn’t something he was about to share. “Well, hop in. I’m going off shift, so unless something happens, I’ll have you in town in twenty minutes.”

      “Thanks.”

      He hefted his backpack and followed her to the car. Breaking more rules, she let him sit in front with her, rather than in the safer backseat cage. Even in the large SUVs the department preferred, he seemed too big. Over six feet, easily, and sturdily built.

      She reached for her microphone and called the dispatcher. “I’m back on the road, Velma, on my way in. I’m giving someone a ride.”

      Velma tutted loudly. “You know you shouldn’t.”

      “It’s a special case.”

      “Whatever.” Velma sounded disgusted in the way of a woman used to having her good advice ignored.

      Connie signed off and smiled at her passenger. “Velma is the department’s mother.”

      He nodded, saying nothing. A few seconds later they were back on the road, heading down the highway toward town. They passed a herd of cattle on a gentle slope, grazing amicably alongside a group of deer. In places the barbed-wire fences were totally hidden in a tangle of tumbleweed. Indian paintbrush dotted the roadside with scarlet and orange, as if the colors had been scattered by a giant hand.

      “It’s beautiful country,” Connie remarked. “Are you staying or just passing through?”

      “A bit of both.”

      “You have friends here?”

      “Sort