“Since you’re out of the public sector,” the man stated abruptly.

No, Zach would never qualify to be any kind of a cop again.

“I know a guy in Denver, a private investigator,” the sheriff said.

Zach’s lip lifted and his nostrils widened, a reflex as if he’d smelled a dead skunk. He was a public servant, damn it. One who didn’t take money to look at a particular case with a particular slant. “I don’t think—

“I gave him your name and number, vouched for you. He’s a good guy, one who thinks like us. Tony Rickman of Rickman Security and Investigations.” The sheriff bulldozed right over Zach, glaring until Zach took the card and the paper and put them in his wallet.

Chin stubborn, Sheriff Walder said, “I’ll text you the info and e-mail your private account, so you have the data in both places, can’t ignore it as easily. Could be good for you, Zach; don’t blow it off.” A long pause, and then the sheriff shook his head, stood, and came around the desk again, once more offering his hand. “Damn shame you’re not with us anymore. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” Zach levered himself up and left, walking as slowly and precisely as he’d come, pausing a little after he opened the door. “Good working with you, sir.”

“Same goes,” Walder said.

And then Margo was right there, holding his recertification form, looking sad despite her brightly colored maternity clothes. He stuck the form in his wallet, pulled out a gift card envelope, and handed it to her. “For you and the baby.”

She looked surprised and her eyes went all too wet. “Oh, Zach . . .” She hugged him awkwardly, hurried to her desk and tissues, and Zach picked up his pace and escaped.

Once outside the County Hall he had to watch every step on the stairs down to the street, cursing under his breath all the way, to the car he’d bought that morning. He should have bought a truck, but the price on this car was right, the owner was home so he could do the transaction immediately, and he could stand the newish sedan long enough to get him to Colorado. It was wheels.

An hour and a half later, Zach drove into the gray block of shade at the side of his favorite diner, close to the southern county line. Heat rose from the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, surrounded by scruffy yellow prairie grass. Low, bare brown hills looked equally hot.

He’d overestimated his stamina, this first day he’d graduated to a cane. No damn institutional-type metal cane, either, but a good one to fit his six-foot-four-inch height with a nice wooden Derby handle. With a rubber tip, dammit, to keep him walking silently and from slipping.

Still, he needed a couple of minutes before he went in for lunch. One last good-bye to his favorite cook and waitress, one last meal in the county, and he’d get out of Montana and on with his life.

He opened the car door to the heat, positioned his cane in his left hand, and pushed up. His bad leg was stiff, and despite an orthopedic shoe, his foot still drooped a little. He set his jaw and got out. Turned and saw the sheriff’s vehicle, a Chevy Impala, that he used to drive. Inside were his ex-partner and another deputy. Both stared at him.

TWO

GREAT. A SOUR taste coated Zach’s tongue as he glanced at his ex-partner and the other deputy. Leaning as little as he could on his cane, he pushed his vehicle door shut, then locked it with the fob.

His ex-partner, Lauren, stepped out of the passenger side of the vehicle, followed by another deputy, bigger and beefier and older—Larry—whom Zach had never gotten along with since Zach had taken the job three years ago: personality clash.

Zach straightened and stared unemotionally at the young woman who’d been his partner, who’d made a mistake that he hadn’t corrected. An error that had gotten him wounded and nearly gotten him killed. Lauren was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes and a round face.

She’d visited him in the hospital, when he was in a wheelchair, during physical therapy—where she didn’t look at his leg. Always came with someone else and always apologized but never saying much of anything else, wanting him to give her benediction or something. The best he’d been able to do was, “We both made a mistake.”

Apparently, she still needed more.

Guess word had gotten around that he was leaving.

Her breathing quickened as she walked up to him. Must have needed to bring along Larry to help her out. Might always need someone else to help her out. A really bad quality in a cop. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m sure you are,” Zach said.

She looked aside. Larry had angled their vehicle near, like they’d be ready to chase if Zach gave them any reason. Acid burned in his gut. Nope, he’d never truly been considered one of them, only an outsider.

Not that he minded being an outsider, but the Montana job, his third as a deputy sheriff, had seemed like a good fit.

Only seemed. None of his previous departments would have treated him like this. He had been a valued colleague, friend, then.

Too bad, so sad, get over it.

“You’re leaving?” Lauren asked.

“So?” he said.

She swallowed, and Larry took over the questioning. Cops were always nosy.

“Where are you going?” Larry asked.

“Look, ass—” Zach stopped himself. Larry was baiting him, would expect cursing, maybe even a swing. Better to mess with his head, to give him little reaction at all. Just that easily, Zach regained his calm. He rolled a shoulder in a contemptuous shrug. “You’re not worth even talking to.” He focused on his previous partner. “And I’m sorry it took you so long to get the guts to talk to me.”

Lauren flushed red.

“You asshole,” Larry said.

“Truthful guy, that’s me,” Zach said. He curled his lip.

Larry crowded him. “Where are you going?”

Zach smiled, with teeth. Because he knew it would make Lauren feel uncomfortable, he said, “None of your damn business, but since you don’t have the fortitude to ignore an itch to know, I’m going to visit my mother in Boulder, Colorado.” Even before he’d joined the department, the deputies he worked with knew his background. Everyone knew his mother was fragile.

Every cop Zach had ever worked with had seen how unsolved murders shattered families.

That had been true of Zach’s. His older brother, Jim, had died in an unexplained drive-by shooting when Zach was twelve and Jim was sixteen.

Now his mother lived in an expensive mental health complex that Zach helped his father pay for, though Zach figured his father, the General, used the funds his mother had inherited.

His mother couldn’t come to see him when he’d been in the hospital, and his father hadn’t. Zach had heard that the General had inquired if the wound was life-threatening, and, later, in the one terse conversation Zach had had with his father, the General had laid out that Zach had done a damn stupid thing, as usual.

“Oh, going to see your mother,” Lauren repeated, shifting her balance. Maybe the reporters were right, maybe she did need better training. Well, he didn’t have to do it, and for that he was grateful.

Larry reached into his pocket and pulled out a toothpick, all the while meeting Zach’s eyes. “Jackson Zachary Slade,” he said, using Zach’s full name before sticking the grungy bit of wood in his mouth where the toothpick attached to his lower lip.

Not again.

Ever since someone had told Larry about the Old West gunman called Jack Slade, Larry-the-asshole had poked Zach about that man, making “witty” comments at Zach’s expense.