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“I can see why,” I nodded. “That sounds like a lot for one man to handle.”

“It is.” He looked up at me, letting out another sigh. “Which is why I need somebody I can trust to help me get ahead of it. Settin’ up barricades, workin’ the parkin’ lots, keepin’ an eye on the crowd, that kind of thing. Nothin’ too complicated, but it’s long hours, and it don’t stop for heat or rain. And you’re gonna be on the phone for the next three weeks probably gettin’ it all set up.”

“I can do long hours,” I said. “Done plenty of that on the ranch.”

Something flickered across his face at the mention of the ranch. I wondered if he already knew the whole story, or just Mr. Gilderoy’s version of it, and whether it was going to matter to him one way or the other.

“I heard about what happened out there,” he said carefully. “Wasn’t right, what those boys did to you.”

“No, sir. Wasn’t right what Mr. Gilderoy did either, firin’ me over it. But that’s neither here nor there now.” I kept my voice even, didn’t let anything creep into it that I didn’t want him seeing. “I appreciate the work, is all. Been havin’ a hard time findin’ anybody willin’ to hire me since.”

“Folks around here can be small-minded,” Marcus said, and there was something in the way he said it, quiet and a little bitter, that made me look at him a second longer than I meant to. “Smaller than they oughta be, sometimes.”

I didn’t know what to make of that, not yet, so I just nodded and let it sit there between us.

He pulled out a stack of paperwork next, sliding it across the desk toward me. “This is just the standard stuff, tax forms and the like. Pay ain’t much, but it’s steady, and if you do good work, I might be able to keep you on past the fair doin’ odd jobs around town. Filin’, runnin’ errands, that sort of thing. Mrs. Baxter is determined to be a good grandmother, so I’m not gonna have her around much for a while.”

“I’d be happy to help,” I said, meaning it more than I let on. “You got a pen?”

Marcus leaned back and opened his desk drawer, fishing out a pen from the mess of office supplies inside. The moment he handed it over to me, the phone rang.

“Excuse me,” he said, lifting the receiver to his ear. “Sheriff Webb.”

I sat there a minute, pretending to look over the paperwork while I listened to his half of the conversation, the pen still uncapped in my hand. Whoever was on the line was talking loud enough that I could hear the tinny edge of their voice even from across the desk, though I couldn’t make out the words.

“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” Marcus said, his voice gone patient in that particular way that told me this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation. “No, ma’am, we haven’t recovered your things yet, but I promise you we’re workin’ on it.” A pause. The voice on the other end got louder, sharper. Marcus rubbed at his temple with his free hand. “I hear you. I do. I know it’s been three weeks now. I ain’t forgot about it. I got a whole mess of people missin’ things right now, same as you.”

I kept my eyes on the tax form in front of me, filling in my name, my social, careful to keep my hand steady even though my heart had started up a slow, uneasy thump against my ribs. I knew she was asking about the thefts that had been plaguing Sagebrush for months now. There was nothing else it could be.

“I’m gonna do everything I can to get this figured out soon,” Marcus said. “You have my word on that.” Another pause, longer this time, and his jaw tightened up in a way that told me whatever she said next hadn’t been kind. “Yes, ma’am. Y’all have a good afternoon.”

He set the receiver back down slow, like it weighed more than it should have, and blew out a long breath through his nose.

“Everythin’ alright?” I asked, because it seemed like the thing a person was supposed to ask, even though some part of me already knew I didn’t want the answer.

“Mrs. Miller,” he said, like that explained everything. “Somebody’s been runnin’ around town liftin’ things outta people’s houses for months now. Small stuff mostly. Tools, cash, a couple pieces of jewelry, odds and ends. It didn’t seem like much at first, maybe somethin’ a few kids were takin’ to make some quick cash. But it’s addin’ up, and folks are gettin’ antsy about it.” He leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since I’d walked in, he looked less like a sheriff and more like a tired man carrying something much heavier than his badge. “I got maybe two solid leads in two months, and neither one of ‘em panned out to shit. Election’s comin’ up next year too, and I got a feelin’ if I don’t crack this before then, it’s gonna be all anybody talks about at the polls.”

“That’s rough,” I said, and meant it, even as my stomach twisted itself up tighter.

“It ain’t the worst thing that’s ever happened in this town. That tornado was bad, but it brought people together,” Marcus said. “But this… it’s the kind of thing that eats at people. Makes ‘em feel like their own home ain’t safe no more. And once folks start feelin’ that way, they start lookin’ for somebody to blame, and I’m about the easiest target they got.”

I nodded slowly, turning my pen over once in my fingers. “You got any idea who it might be?”

“Not really.” He shook his head, frustration plain on his face. “Whoever it is, they’re careful. Don’t leave much behind. A boot print here, a smudge there, nothin’ that’s led anywhere solid. It calmed down after the tornado and I thought it was done, that whoever had taken those things either ran off or got scared away by the tornado. But then it started up again, and I just can’t seem to catch a break.”

My mouth had gone a little dry, and I made myself take a slow breath before I answered, keeping my voice easy. “Well, I hope you catch ‘em. Can’t be much fun, havin’ that hangin’ over your head on top of everythin’ else you gotta do for the fair.”

“No it ain’t,” he agreed, and then, like he was shaking it off, he nodded toward the papers in front of me. “Anyway. Don’t mean to load all that onto you your first day. Finish signin’ those, and I’ll get the fair map for us to go over. Figure we’ll start you off easy, get you used to the lay of things before I put you on anything serious.”

“Sounds good,” I replied, and bent my head back down over the paperwork, scratching out my signature with a hand that wasn’t quite as steady as I wanted it to be.

I could feel him watching me for a second before he turned back to his own stack of folders, and I told myself it didn’t mean anything, that he was just a man doing his job, sizing up the new hire same as anybody would. But there was a curious sort of quiet in the room now, like something unspoken was sitting there between us, and I couldn’t for the life of me tell if it was just my own guilt talking, or if Marcus Webb was a sharper man than folks around here gave him credit for.

“What size boots you wear?” he asked suddenly, startling me as I scratched down my social security number.

“Eight,” I replied, looking up with a smile. “The ranch hands always made fun of me for it. They said no real man wears anything under a size eleven.” I shook my head, letting my gaze drift to the floor. “But then again, I suppose they were just lookin’ for a reason to tear me down.”

Marcus’s pen stilled over the folder for just a second, so brief I might’ve imagined it if I hadn’t been half-watching him out of the corner of my eye. Then he went right on writing, easy as you please, and I told myself I was reading things into a man just doing paperwork.