Free Sinister by Lisa Jackson, Nancy Bush, Rosalind Noonan Page B

building housing the sheriff’s department. The smell of floor wax and burnt coffee greeted him, and he hadn’t stepped five feet into the common lunch area when Naomi Simmons, a secretary for the department, chased him down.
    “The furnace is on the fritz again,” she said, perpetual scowl in place. “All the front offices are freezing.” She was bundled in her down jacket and scarf and dabbed at her red nose with her tissue.
    “Call maintenance and—”
    “I did. You know what Mel told me? ‘I’ll get to it.’ You know what that means. When will he get to it? That’s what I’d like to know. Hopefully sometime before the New Year!” She was really getting worked up now, and Sam figured the influx of adrenaline might be just what she needed to get her blood flowing again.
    Gary Rodriguez, one of the deputies, was seated at a round table, immersed in the newspaper, but he looked up at Naomi, then looked down again quickly, as if he wanted to make sure he stayed out of the line of fire.
    “You want me to talk to Mel?” Sam asked.
    “Like that’ll do any good, but yes.”
    “Get him, or someone from maintenance, on the line for me,” he agreed. The last thing he needed was to handle this detail himself, but he couldn’t have the staff freezing, either. He needed a little patience here, a trait the Shoshone were known for, though Sam often felt he’d been shortchanged in that department.
    Naomi stormed to the coffee counter, tried to fill a cup from the carafe marked HOT WATER and found it empty. “Fan. Tas. Tic.” Jaw set, she filled her cup at the sink and slid it into the microwave. As her mug twirled to the right temperature, she scoured the basket of tea bags and grumbled about there not being any peppermint.
    Sam grabbed a cup of black coffee and wound his way through the rabbit warren of hallways to his office, the largest in the building, but by no means plush.
    He’d barely sat down when his phone rang and Naomi connected him to the lackluster Mel Gervais who promised to “get right on it.”
    “Sheriff?” he heard as he was hanging up.
    He glanced up.
    Katrina Starr, Prairie Creek’s youngest detective, stood in the doorway to his office. Petite, barely five-foot-three, she was an intense woman, who was far too serious for her twenty-eight years. “That detective from Sacramento called back while you were gone.”
    “Any word on Amber Barstow?”
    “He got a call from her parents this morning, and they filed a missing person’s report.” Katrina frowned. “Amber Barstow is officially missing.”
     
     
    Colton zipped his duffel bag closed and told himself he was making a big mistake. Despite all his vows to the contrary, he’d decided to return to Wyoming, not for the wedding, but to try and connect with the son he’d never officially met. He couldn’t imagine how Rourke would respond to a face-to-face with the absentee father who’d sired him. Probably not well. In fact, if Colton had been told that he wasn’t Ira’s son, but the progeny of a love ’em and leave ’em cowboy, he probably would have spit on the pretender.
    The old man had taken off yesterday on the private plane he’d hired, but Colton had decided against flying with him. The quarters would be too damned tight, and he’d needed to square things up before he headed south. He left Jenkins in charge of the stock and there were plenty of ranch hands available to help out. Jenkins had also agreed to put out food and water for Montana, who now followed his every step. That dog did not like the sight of a duffel bag.
    “You’ll be okay,” he said, kneeling down to scratch the shepherd behind his ears. “I won’t be gone long.” Montana whined and looked up at him with accusations in his dark eyes. The dog knew Colton was lying. Whining, wagging his tail, he begged to be let in on the adventure.
    “Now don’t look so pathetic,” Colton said, then caved. “Okay, you’re right. This might take a