LITMIR.BIZ

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window next to his desk. He kept meticulous files, a trait McLaren had not shared and not one Jenkins seemed inclined to pick up. He’d had to go into the bottom three drawers repeatedly to refile whatever he’d given to Jenkins. It was as if the boy had never been introduced to the alphabet.

      But the top drawer he’d left alone. It had been two years since he’d opened it and pulled out the worn leather notebook. Years earlier, he’d gone over its contents six ways from Sunday, reread every word he’d put into it in the vain hope they would reveal whatever it was he was missing. They hadn’t, and so he’d stuck it in the drawer and tried his best to wash his hands of it.

       Dig deeper...the trial...syndicate...

      The words had confused him at the time and haunted him ever since.

      Sheriff McLaren had been like a father figure to him, more so than his own father ever had. In the wake of his death, Hunter had done his best to look at Abbott Connolly’s trial from every direction. But in the end, it was what it was. A straightforward case of cattle rustling with one alleged accomplice saying he was there and another claiming he wasn’t. If they hadn’t found a few of the stolen cattle on Abbott’s small piece of property perhaps the trial would have had a different outcome, but they had found the cattle, and in the end, it was all the jury needed to convict.

      Hunter walked over to the cabinet and pulled at the top drawer. It stuck, as if telling him what he already knew. He was wasting his time. No amount of digging on his part had revealed any great secret or explained what Sheriff McLaren had meant by syndicate. His dying declaration remained a mystery and Hunter had been forced to accept the fact it meant nothing. Likely the fatal wound he’d suffered had left him confused in his last moments of life and he’d simply been rambling. Doc Whyte said that could happen.

      Still...

      The memory of that day continued to trouble him. He’d come upon the scene too late. McLaren had been coming back from a routine checkup on old Mrs. Dunlop when he was gunned down by two men in cold blood. Hunter had heard the shots and come running. The shooters had taken off, no reason or explanation given for the attack, and McLaren lay dying in the street. He gripped Hunter’s wrist when he reached him and his eyes, though filled with pain, were sharp and alert. The man knew he was dying. He’d gathered what was left of his strength and pushed out the words with the last beats of his heart.

      It had to mean something! But what? And why? If Abbott knew, he wasn’t talking. No one was.

      He gave the drawer another yank, harder this time. It opened with reticence, the leather notebook exactly where he’d left it two years ago. He reached in and fingered the twine wrapped around it. He didn’t need to look inside. He’d long since memorized every note he’d written. It wasn’t much.

      Outside, the steady chink of chains and boots moving in tandem on the planked walkway heralded the prisoner’s return. Hunter slammed the drawer shut and turned toward the door as Yucton crossed the threshold, Jenkins close on his heels. Kincaid was nowhere to be seen.

      As if reading his mind, Jenkins hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Kincaid stopped on the way back for a drink. But we got the stink washed off ole Bill here and he’s clean as a whistle. Willie gave him a change of clothes jus’ while his own are gettin’ laundered.”

      Hunter ground his teeth together, his mood souring by the minute. He wanted to continue his conversation with Kincaid. The man knew more than he was saying. Hunter had sent Meredith away once before for her own safety. If there was any kind of a threat being resurrected by Yucton’s trial, he needed to know. He’d be damned if he let any harm come to her after what he’d given up to secure her safety in the first place.

      “Much obliged for the bath,” Yucton said, reaching up with both hands to tip the brim of his hat, but the chains prevented him from reaching. He inclined his head instead, as if they’d done him a favor.

      “Wasn’t doing it for you, Yucton. Quite frankly, I was getting tired of smelling you.”

      A low rumble emanated from Yucton’s chest as Jenkins opened the middle cell door and waited for him to walk inside before he reached through the bars to unlock the shackles. Despite his best efforts, Hunter had yet to get a rise out of his prisoner or to figure out why he’d willingly returned to Salvation Falls.

      Jenkins walked over to the hook next to the woodstove and hung the shackles on it. “Heard you paid Meredith a visit yesterday.”

      Hunter scowled. News in this town moved with the swiftness of a wildfire caught in the wind.

      “I did.” He didn’t bother mentioning it had been a disaster. He preferred to keep his private business just that—private.

      Jenkins, on the other hand, had no such compunction. “Heard it didn’t go so good?”

      “And where did you hear that?”

      “Mrs. Bancroft mentioned it to Eunice at the pie shop who told Saul over at the bakery and when I went past he told me. Said Mrs. Bancroft claimed she’d run into you in the hallway at the Klein and it looked like the two of you were exchanging words. Said you had your foot stuck in her doorway so she couldn’t close it.”

      Fantastic. That’s all he needed—people jawing about him and Meredith. It had created enough of a stir the first time around, given their family histories.

      “This town needs to mind its own business. Now go find Kincaid and make sure he isn’t so far into the whiskey he’s passed out by noon.” He barked the last order harsher than he needed to.

      “Sure thing, boss,” Jenkins said, his affable manner never showing any signs of the rebuke he’d just received. His deputy was so good-natured Hunter worried he’d never develop what it took to take over as Sheriff. Hunter was tough on him, maybe tougher than he needed to be, but he knew what this job required, what it could take out of you. Oftentimes, you had to make hard choices. Jenkins needed to be prepared for that.

      He wished he had been.

      “That Abbott Connolly’s girl you’re talkin’ about?”

      Hunter turned and stared into the middle cell. Yucton leaned forward, his arms resting against the crossbar. He’d pushed the hat back from his face revealing the plethora of lines beaten into it from a lifetime of hard living.

      “It might be.” He eyed Yucton with caution.

      “Real shame about what happened to that family.” His expression remained unchanged, but something in the prisoner’s tone had changed. Hardened. “Ain’t it, Sheriff?”

      The small hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickled. “You got something you want to say about it?”

      “Believe I just did.”

      Hunter gave Yucton a fierce glare but the man didn’t flinch. He was a cool customer. Hunter was both irritated and impressed.

      “Given you’re being tried for the same crime Connolly committed, I’d think you’d be a bit more concerned about yourself and not his kin. Especially given how things ended up for him.”

      “I’ll worry about myself. You just worry about Abbott’s girl.”

      The hairs on his neck now stood at full attention. “Why would I do that?”

      “You ever hear tell of a group called the Syndicate?”

      Hunter froze. “No. What does this Syndicate have to do with Meredith?”

      Yucton stared at him for a long, silent moment. “You just make sure you keep her safe. Believe you made promises in that regard. Am I right?”

      Hunter’s throat closed and his heart pounded deep inside his chest. “What do you know about it?”

      “Maybe Abbott trusted you, but I haven’t made up my mind about that. You’re still a Donovan, after all.”

      Hunter took a step closer to the cell. “What’s that supposed to

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