The New Deputy in Town. B.J. Daniels
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circled the chicken coop, feeling like a fool. He’d never tracked anything in his life. This was nothing like chasing a convenience-store robber down an alley and over a couple of fences.
To his surprise, he found some tracks that looked out of place. He squatted down next to one of the prints. The sun had already baked the surface of the yard. The print was that of a boot. A small one. A kid’s.
Nick walked around to where Mrs. Miller was hanging sheets and towels on a clothesline.
“Who all lives here?” he asked.
“Me and my husband. He’s out cutting hay. Why?”
“You have any grandchildren, any children who have been over to visit in the last day or so?”
“No. What does that have to do with my chickens?”
“No neighbors with kids?” he asked.
Alice Miller wrinkled her brow. “There is that boy, his aunt and uncle are renting the farm next door.”
Nick pulled out his notebook and pencil. “What do these chickens look like?” He glanced up when she didn’t answer and saw her expression. “Okay, would you be able to recognize them if you saw them again?”
“Just find my chickens,” she said and went back to hanging up her wash.
Nick followed the boy’s tracks, wondering how the kid had pulled it off. Nineteen chickens were a lot. Wouldn’t they have caused a ruckus that could be heard up at the house?
He could envision Mrs. Miller with a shotgun coming out in her flannel nightgown, blood in her eye. So why hadn’t that happened?
He glanced up at the sound of a dog growling and realized he’d reached the farm closest to the Millers’.
“Hello!” he called and eyed the dog. It wasn’t a blue heeler, but some kind of mutt, large and hairy. “Hello!” He feared the dog would key on the fear in his voice and attack. Easy, Cujo.
“The chickens aren’t hurt,” said a young voice from the back steps of the house. The kid was twelve tops, lanky with sandy-blond hair and big ears.
“That’s good,” Nick said. “Could you call off your dog?”
“Prince, no,” the boy said. The dog eyed Nick for a moment, then ambled over to the kid and sat down.
“I’m Deputy Sheriff Nick Rogers.” He’d taken the Rogers from an old western he’d seen on television the night he’d left town. “What’s your name?”
“Chaz. It’s actually Charles, but that’s what everyone calls me,” the boy said. “My aunt and uncle are in town if you’re going to arrest me. I’m not sure when they’ll be back.”
“Where are Mrs. Miller’s chickens?”
He pointed toward a shed at the back of the property. “I was going to return them. Really.”
“Why’d you take them in the first place?” Nick asked, glancing toward the house. “You need the food?”
“No,” Chaz said indignantly as they walked back to the shed. A ruckus was coming from inside. “I got plenty to eat and I didn’t take anyone’s chickens.”
Right. That was why Nick had just followed the kid’s boot prints to his house straight from the chicken coop.
At the shed, Chaz opened the door a crack so Nick could see that all nineteen chickens were there. The chickens looked a little funny to him, their feathers kind of glued to them, but what did he know about chickens other than buying cut-up fryers in plastic wrap at the grocery?
“We need to get the chickens back to Mrs. Miller,” Nick said.
“I know. I was thinking about how to get them to her,” the boy said.
“Why not take them back the same way you stole them?”
“I told you, I didn’t steal them.”
“Right.”
Just then one of the chickens made a beeline for the door, slipping through to take off at a run across the yard.
Before Nick could react, Prince darted after the chicken. “No!” Nick called to the dog. Too late. In an instant, Prince had the chicken clutched in his jaws and was prancing back toward them looking like the cat that ate the canary.
To Nick’s astonishment, the dog dropped the slobber-coated bird at Chaz’s feet, the chicken jerking to its feet unhurt. The boy grabbed the bird and tossed it back in the shed.
“See the problem?” Chaz said. “I took one back when Prince brought it home. I didn’t know he was going back last night to get them all.”
Nick stared at the dog. “Are you trying to tell me that Prince stole the chickens?”
Chaz nodded. “I told him not to, but Prince likes to collect things.” The boy shrugged. “It’s his only bad habit. Other than that, he’s a really good dog.”
Prince was leaning against the boy’s leg, looking up at him. Chaz patted the dog’s big head. The dog’s tongue lolled. He could have been smiling.
Nick swore, pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to tell you. I don’t know much about transporting chickens. I’d consider any idea you might have on how to get them back in Mrs. Miller’s chicken coop.”
“I’ve been thinking on it,” Chaz said. “I might have an idea.”
TWO HOURS LATER, ALL NINETEEN chickens were safely back in Mrs. Miller’s chicken coop. Nick left Chaz on the Millers’ porch eating fresh-baked apple pie and sipping a large glass of milk, Prince at his feet. Chaz had promised to keep a closer eye on his dog.
Nick was feeling good. He’d solved his first mystery in Montana. With a little help from a kid and a dog.
Back at his office, he was hoping the rest of his shift would be as uneventful when he looked up and saw a young reddish-blond woman get out of her car. As she started toward his office, another car raced up, tires screeching as the driver came to a stop and rolled down his window.
The woman turned. Clearly, the two knew each other. Nick watched from his window, not liking the change in the woman’s demeanor when she saw the young man behind the wheel. Nick had covered enough domestic-violence cases to recognize one on the street.
The woman said something to the man, who appeared to be about her age, no more than twenty, then she turned and started walking toward the sheriff’s department again.
The man threw open his door and went after her, grabbing her arm and swinging her around to face him.
Nick shot out of his chair, hitting the door at a run. As he exited the courthouse building, he heard the raised voices.
“Let go of her,” Nick said in his calm cop voice.
“This isn’t any of your business,” the young man said. He had brown hair, brown eyes, classic good looks.
“Let go of her,” Nick repeated.
The young man did, but with obvious reluctance and definitely an attitude. “I’m not breaking any law.”
“Domestic abuse is against the law,” Nick said.
“Domestic abuse?” The young man scoffed at that. “My girlfri—fiancée and I were just having a little private disagreement.”
The young woman was rubbing her arm where the man had grabbed her. “He’s right. It’s nothing.”
“Why don’t you step inside and we can talk about it,” Nick said to the woman.
She shook her head, eyes wide. “It’s nothing, really.”
“You were headed for my office. There