Plea bargains would be a lot more like it, Joanna thought. With that she threw the Blazer into gear. In the process of driving away from Scorsby's yard, she caused the speeding Blazer to leave behind a rooster tail of fine red dust that powdered the man's spotless white tennis outfit. The last glimpse she had of him in the mirror was of his arms flailing in a futile attempt to brush himself clean.

"Pardon my dust," Joanna muttered to herself.

Despite that little bit of deliberate revenge, she was still seething from the encounter with Scorsby some twenty minutes later when she drove up the entrance to Alton Hosfield's Triple C Ranch. She stopped long enough to read an almost billboard-sized sign that had been erected next to the cattle guard marking the boundary line.

PRIVATE PROPERTY, the sign announced in no uncertain terms. ENTRANCE IS PERMITTED TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC, BUT THAT PERMISSION MAY BE WITHDRAWN AT ANY TIME. NO SMOKING. NO HUNTING. NO FISHING. NO TRESPASSING IS ALLOWED FOR EMPLOYEES OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, SUBCONTRACTORS OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, OR ANYONE GIVING INFORMATION TO THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT. NO EXCEPTIONS.

At the last meeting of the Arizona Sheriffs' Association, several of the law enforcement officers gathered there had spoken of hairy encounters with their own particular jurisdiction's version of the tax-and-government-protesting Free-men Movement. Most of the run-ins with Randy Weaver wannabes had ended peacefully, but that wasn't always the case. Especially not when the protestors had weapons readily available.

At the time of the meeting, Joanna had been only too happy to have nothing to report in that regard. Now, though, seeing the sign, and in light of all the weapons missing from Clyde Philips' gun shop, she wondered how much longer that would be the case.

She reread the sign once more, paying particular attention to the places where it referred to the federal government. Maybe Dick Voland was right, she thought. Maybe the best thing for all concerned is to leave the ATF out of this.

The dirt road leading onto the Triple C Ranch was almost as badly washboarded as the one leading to Martin Scorsby's Pecan Plantation, but compared to the Scorsbys' almost palatial digs, Alton Hosfield's house was far more modest. The gingerbread-frame construction topped by a steep tin roof had Joanna wondering if this larger house and her turn-of-the-century bungalow on High Lonesome Ranch weren't closely related cousins. As she studied the exterior, it seemed to her that, like hers, this was a mail-order Sears Roebuck kit-house that had been shipped west from Chicago by train. Some assembly required.

The woman who came to the gate to meet Joanna's Blazer was a plain-faced blonde with streaks of blatantly untinted gray showing in a utilitarian ponytail. She looked to be in her late forties or early fifties, but under a ruffled apron was a youthfully trim figure in a pair of snugly fitting jeans. Her single best feature-bright blue eyes-sparkled out of a face lined as much by laughter as by the sun.

She smiled, holding out a hand in welcome. "I'm Sonja Hosfield," she said. "Can I help you?"

The woman's firm handshake as well as the unfeigned friendliness in her welcome immediately put Joanna at ease. She held up her badge. "I'm Sheriff Brady," she said. "Joanna Brady. I was hoping to speak to your husband."

"He and my stepson are still out working in one of the fields," Sonja said. "They're cutting hay. It's dry right now, and they need to get it cut, baled, and stacked before it rains again, but it's just about time for them to come in to supper. If you don't mind waiting, I could send my son to tell Alton you're here. I'm sure he'll want to speak to you."

Sonja pulled open the gate. "Come on in," she said. "We can have some iced tea while we wait."

Inside the house, she went to the bottom of a flight of stairs. "Jake?" she called. "Are you up there?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm here."

"Come down, then," she said. "Somebody's here to see your dad. I need you to go get him for me."

Sonja Hosfield was old enough for Joanna to expect a hulking twenty something son to come down the creaking stairway. Instead, the red-haired boy who bounded down into the entryway was scarcely older than Joanna's Jenny. He started to dart straight past them and out through the front door, but Sonja stopped him.

"Just a minute, young man," she said. "Where are your manners?"

Jake Hosfield stopped in mid-flight, turned, and skulked back into the house, blushing sheepishly as he came. "This is Sheriff Brady, Jake," his mother said.

Flushing to the roots of hair that was almost as red as Joanna's, he wiped one hand on his pant leg, then reached out awkwardly to shake hands. "Glad to meetcha, ma'am," he said.

"I'm glad to meet you, too," Joanna returned.

With the obligatory handshake over, Jake stool for an awkward moment or two and then backed away. "I've gotta go now," he said. "See you later."

"That's better," Sonja called after him. "Hurry, now. Tell your father supper's almost ready, too."

She turned back to Joanna. "He's a little shy," she said. "That's what happens when you raise kids out in the country. Now, I hope you don't mind sitting in the kitchen. You caught me right in the middle of cooking dinner. I was just chopping up some tomatoes and onions to put in the salsa."

As they started away from the entry, Joanna heard the whine of what sounded like a motorcycle starting up outside. "Don't worry," Sonja said over her shoulder. "That's only Jake's ATV. He prefers that to horses, and he only rides it when he's on our property. As far as helmets go, believe me, he knows that if he doesn't wear one, I'll kill him."

Following Sonja Hosfield into her warm and fragrant kitchen, Joanna found the combination of smells utterly tantalizing. There was no mistaking what was for dinner-roast beef, a vat of simmering pinto beans, and a slab of freshly baked corn bread cooling in a thirteen-inch cast-iron skillet.

"Sit right here," Sonja said, shifting aside one of the four place settings already laid out on a pillared round table made of solid, well-worn oak. "Help yourself. The tea's right there in the pitcher," she added, "and here's a glass with ice. Supper isn't going to be anything fancy, but you're welcome to join us if you like."

Gratefully sipping her tea, Joanna couldn't help comparing Sonja Hosfield's openhanded hospitality with Martin Scorsby's lack of same. Much as she would have loved to sample some of Sonja's cooking, Joanna knew that in order to maintain a sense of impartiality between the two families, she would have to decline the invitation. Only belatedly did she remember that she also had a date for dinner-with Butch.

"Thanks just the same," she said. "I'm sure I won't be able to stay that long. I happened to be in the neighborhood and wanted to stop by to assure you and Mr. Hosfield that we're taking last night's shooting incident very seriously. My department is doing everything it can to find the culprit. The last thing any of us wants is for this situation to escalate out of hand."

"Isn't that the truth!" Sonja exclaimed. "I know exactly what you mean. When Alton saw that wrecked pump this morning, I thought he was going to come unglued. By the way, Sheriff Brady, call him Alton. If you call him Mr. Hosfield to his face, he'll blush deep purple, the same as Jake. Like father, like son, I guess. The two of them are two peas in a pod, although I tease Alton that his forehead seems to be getting longer these days."

She laughed then-in a gust of straightforward, bell-like laughter-that made Joanna want to laugh right along with her. Moments later, Sonja had to pause in her chopping long enough to dab at her eyes with one corner of the ruffled apron.