Mason resisted the urge to run for cover, not believing Camaya could find him in the wilderness. The engine belonged to Kelly's maroon, middle-aged Chevy pickup. She swung the truck in a tight arc, braking so that the Chevy's nose was pointed downhill. She climbed out, took four brisk strides to the porch, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at him. The dust hadn't settled around the truck tires. She was ready to pick up where she'd left off last night when Blues opened the cabin door. He was wearing a ratty T-shirt and boxer shorts and was engaged in the male morning scratching ritual when Kelly turned her high-intensity eyes on him. "Morning, Sheriff," he said. "Glad you could join us for breakfast—hope you brought enough for everybody." With an easy stretch and a wide yawn, he pivoted half a turn and slid back inside. "Well, you can take the cop out of the country but you can't take the country—" "Save it, Counselor! It's going to take a lot more than smart-ass punch lines to clean up this mess." Kelly was back in uniform, body and soul.
