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“I really need that pistol back,” Nicol said. “It belongs to my grandma.”

Hansard said, “The shotgun belongs to my dad. He’d kill me if he found out I lost it.”

“Does anyone have a key to your door besides you?” she asked.

They both shook their heads. Nicol said, “We thought about that. The thing is, as you know, our room is kind of a party room. We leave the door open all the time on Friday night and on the weekends. Sometimes we go to someone else’s room and just leave it open. Everybody knows we always have beer in our fridge, and people just go in and grab one. Anybody could have gone in there and taken them.”

Sheridan closed her eyes and tried to think of what to do besides the obvious: call the campus police. But that might trigger an overreaction. There had already been one all-campus lockdown earlier in the semester when someone reported an untended backpack in the commons. It turned out the backpack was full of textbooks and granola bars.

“What I hope,” Hansard said, “is that we’ve been punked. Maybe one of our friends took them just to watch us flip out.”

“Is that possible?” she asked.

“You don’t know our friends,” he said, rolling his eyes. “One of them shit in Matt’s bed once and he didn’t realize it for two days.”

“Shut up,” Nicol said, red-faced.

“We don’t want to get kicked out,” Hansard said.

“Okay,” Sheridan said. “Here’s what I’m willing to do, but no more. Right now, I’m as guilty as you are since you told me. I’ll give you forty-eight hours to try and find out who took them. Talk to all of your friends. Email them, text them, whatever you have to do. If one of them punked you and fesses up, you can get the guns back and check them where you’re supposed to, and we can forget about this as long as you don’t do it again. But if those guns can’t be found…”

“We’re in the shit,” Hansard said.

“We’re all in the shit,” she said. “It isn’t like somebody stole your iPod.”

* * *

After they’d left, she realized she’d lost her appetite for lunch. She was angry at herself as well. The easy thing would have been to call the police and let the chips fall where they may. But she hated to be responsible for the expulsion of two students. They weren’t bad, just stupid. Like just about every other freshman.

She stared at her phone and contemplated calling her dad for advice. Maybe even her mom, except she’d probably freak out.

Nicol and Hansard were like most of the boys she’d grown up with around Saddlestring. Guns were a fact of life.

And she thought of those two feet under Erik Young’s door.

Sheridan reached over and pressed PLAY on the Pandora window. Chris LeDoux again, with “Hooked on an 8 Second Ride.”

19

Sand Creek Ranch

Late that afternoon, Nate heard another vehicle coming up the mountain toward his line shack. He was installing the final new glass and window frame into the south-side wall — a difficult task because the opening was out of square. He strapped on his shoulder holster before stepping outside to see who it was.

“You again,” he said, as Liv Brannan braked to a stop in the ranch pickup and climbed out. She had a square white envelope in her hand.

She smiled slyly, then it morphed into full beam. She seemed to enjoy antagonizing him, he thought.

“This time I’m here on official business.”

She approached and handed him the envelope. Because the day had warmed, she no longer wore the red down coat she’d covered herself up with earlier. She looked attractive and businesslike in a crisp white button-down shirt with the collar open and a loose string tie. He wished she’d put the coat back on.

He took the envelope, addressed to simply Nate R.

“The lady herself — I call her ‘Herself’ because I don’t know her name yet — is due to arrive tonight on the late flight into Rapid City. Apparently, she’s flying in from overseas, so she’ll need some rest. But Mr. T. wants to have a big ranch welcome dinner for her tomorrow evening, and he’d like for you to be there.”

“So there’s no need opening this, then?” Nate asked.

“You should open it. You can RSVP to me right now in person.”

“What if I’m busy?”

She widened her eyes and blew a puff of air out her mouth as if there had been a bug in it. “Busy doing what?”

“Fixing up my place. Or locating pigeons. I think I have a line on some.”

“Pigeons? Aren’t they urban birds?”

He shook his head. “Not necessarily. Pigeons hang out in old structures, usually in the rafters. I spotted some old buildings on the far end of the ranch — a couple of barns — that look like pigeon heaven.”

“And you want them why?”

“To train my falcons.”

“So the pigeons are targets,” she said flatly.

“Yes.”

“You’ll need a better excuse.”

“What if I don’t want to go?”

She waved that off as if he hadn’t said it. “Remember when he welcomed you here? It’s like that. When a new VIP arrives, he wants everybody there so the VIP can feel like a welcome part of the family.”

Nate grunted.

* * *

He opened the envelope and looked at the card inside.

“I thought we had a deal,” he said.

“This is special. This is for Herself.” She stifled a smile at the word herself. Nate wondered if deep down she was jealous. Not sexually, but because a new woman at the compound might threaten her autonomy and access.

“Do I have to wear a tie?”

“No.”

“Jacket?”

She said, “I’ll find one for you. You don’t have to go out and buy one.”

He shook his head.

Brannan reached out and grasped his arm. “It’s important for you to be there. Mr. T. really wants you there. He said so himself.”

“So it’s nonnegotiable.”

“I’m afraid so. Can I take that as a yes to the RSVP?”

Nate took a deep breath and sighed. She was persuasive. He could feel the warmth of her fingers on his forearm through the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t want her to let go. And that smile…

“Oh,” she said, “Mr. T. would like a few minutes of your time after dinner. Not long — he’s got Herself to entertain, after all. But he specifically asked me to ask you to linger a few minutes after the dinner breaks up.”

“Does he have another assignment for me?” Nate asked.

“I don’t get involved in those things,” she said.

“Right, I believe that.”

Her nostrils flared at being questioned, and she let go of his arm and thrust her face at him with her hands on her hips. “Okay, mister, I may handle details on the back end. Travel arrangements, cash advances, false IDs — that kind of thing. And I’m damned good at it. But I’m not involved with setting up the assignments. Mr. T. handles those all on his own.”

“Okay,” Nate said, holding his palms up. “Back off.”

“You are a frustrating individual,” she said, cooling off. “No one else around here insults me and sticks around very long.”

He almost took her right then. He fought an overwhelming urge to pick her up in his arms and carry her into his line shack. He knew she wouldn’t object. The back-and-forth had been subterfuge — both knew what was sparking. But…

“One thing,” she said over her shoulder, as she sashayed toward the pickup. “Mr. T. said no weapons.”

Nate’s eyebrows arched.

“Mr. Whip will be there,” she said. “I told him the same thing.”