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Damn it. He wouldn’t be home in time for dinner.
He activated the SUV’s Bluetooth and called Larissa. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, Dad. What—”
His eighteen-year-old daughter went silent when he blared the siren as he approached an intersection. Once he was safely through, he shut it off again so they could hear each other.
Before he could say anything, she asked, “What is it? How bad?”
She’d been born the same year he was elected sheriff and had grown up surrounded by both the good and bad that came with having a father in law enforcement. She knew most of his deputies well and had celebrated their happiest moments and grieved alongside them through the worst.
Despite being on call around the clock, Grady had always tried to keep at least some separation between his job and home. He’d never kept a scanner in the house to monitor the local law enforcement, EMS, and fire frequencies. If something big happened when he was off duty, the dispatchers knew how to reach him. The last thing he’d wanted was for his late wife, Leah, or Rissa to hear a call come over the scanner involving him or someone else they knew, especially if an officer or deputy had been injured—or worse, killed in the line of duty.
“There’s a report of a serious accident on the interstate. We’re backing up the troopers." He passed several cars that had pulled over for his flashing lights. "I probably won’t be home in time for dinner. Order pizza or Chinese if you want.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out and save you a plate. Stay safe, Dad.”
The tension in her voice had lessened. She’d probably been relieved to hear he wasn’t responding to a domestic violence or shots-fired call where someone might be waiting for him with a weapon.
“Always, sweetheart.”
Chapter Three
Amanda pulled her convertible into her aunt’s driveway, beside a dirty pickup truck at least twenty years old and past its prime. The faded red paint and rusty doors brought back memories of visiting Edith as a child. As far as Amanda could remember, the older woman had always driven pickups, as did most people around here. Obviously, some things never changed.
Clutching the steering wheel, she glared at the tickets resting on the passenger seat beside her purse.
Such bull crap!
She was fuming, angrier than she’d been in a long time. She was behind on work, stuck in this dusty little town while she cared for her elderly aunt, and had no time for this nonsense. Two traffic tickets were just icing on the shit-show cake that was her life for the next few weeks.
If circumstances had been different, she would’ve arranged for Aunt Edith to recover at Amanda’s spacious house just outside Los Angeles. Unfortunately, a long trip by car or plane would’ve been miserable for someone who’d just had hip surgery. That left only one option—Amanda coming to Wyoming until her aunt could manage on her own again.
Snatching up a ticket, she scanned the information until she found the courthouse phone number. She hit the Call button on the radio's screen, rattled off the number when prompted, and waited while it rang.
“Good afternoon, Town of Butterfield Courthouse. This is Janice. How may I help you?”
Somehow, Amanda reined in her temper. This stranger didn’t deserve to be bashed because of her bad mood. “Hello, my name is Amanda Sparks. Sheriff Minor just pulled me over, and I want to file a complaint. He was unnecessarily rude and ticketed me without cause.”
“Well, bless your heart! I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am. You can address all those issues before the judge if you decide to plead not guilty.”
The woman’s tone and subtle digs didn’t exactly reassure Amanda that she’d be heard fairly. Her remaining politeness vanished. “Fine. Mark me down as not guilty or whatever. What’s the soonest I can take care of this?”
Static crackled in her ear, and for a moment, she thought the call had dropped. Then the other woman said, “You’re in luck. We have a light docket next week. Can you be here Monday morning at eight?”
“Yes. I—”
“Great. See you then. Have a good weekend.”
The click of the disconnected call told Amanda she’d probably be fighting an uphill battle against a beloved small-town sheriff.
Shit.
After a few deep breaths, she turned off the engine, shoved her phone back into her tote bag, slung it over her shoulder, and climbed out of the car. The curtains in her aunt’s bedroom had swayed several times—Edith undoubtedly knew she was there.
Her aunt’s house was just as Amanda remembered. The ranch-style home had faded beige siding, dark blue shutters, and a matching door. Hedges and colorful flower beds lined the house on either side of the small porch. It was neat, if a bit shabby. Guilt hit her like a slap to the face. Maybe she wasn’t as close to her aunt as she’d been as a child, but now she could drastically improve the older woman’s living situation, and she hadn’t.
Two weeks ago, the seventy-five-year-old had taken a spill down the porch steps Amanda was currently glaring at, resulting in a fractured hip. After surgery and two nights in the hospital, Edith was sent to a rehab facility for physical therapy. Amanda hadn’t known any of that until a caseworker called to discuss the care Edith would need at home for several more weeks.
