Her answer felt incomplete. The duffel on the floor caught his attention. “You’re already packed?”

Her lips twisted. “They packed for me—well, they tried to pack for me. I have a few more alterations to make.”

He understood. No one knew better than Mercy what she must have with her at all times.

“Jeff and Eddie packed for you?”

She hesitated. “No, this assignment is out of Portland.”

“I see.” No, I don’t see. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“Radio silence.”

His chest caught another blow. “You can’t call or email?”

“Nothing.” Distress flashed in her eyes again.

He moved away from the counter and ran a hand through his hair as he walked in a small circle. “Two weeks of no communication? I understand it—doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You can always contact Jeff if you need to get a message to me.”

He stopped, taking in the lines between her brows. No wonder she had looked at him earlier as if she was memorizing his face. She had known it’d be a long time.

She was preoccupied with the assignment; she didn’t need to worry about his concern too.

He rounded the counter and slipped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head. “We can handle two weeks. I suspect it will go a lot faster for you than me. Good thing Rose’s wedding was last weekend.”

“I thought the same.”

He felt her shoulders relax under his arms. He had been right. She was more concerned about his reaction than about the assignment. “Go. Get it over with. We’ll finish the wedding plans when you get back.”

His mind raced ahead. It had been difficult to plan her surprise wedding present. If she was gone for two weeks, he would have time to finish it. The gift was to be delivered to the cabin tomorrow, and he’d worried she’d discover the present before he had time to assemble it.

It was a very thin silver lining to her news.

Neither of them was in charge of planning their Christmas wedding. Mercy’s older sister, Pearl, had smoothly taken over with their blessing. Pearl had organized the majority of Rose’s wedding, so it’d been easy for her to assist Mercy at the same time.

Truman smiled, remembering how his heart had stopped at the sight of Mercy in a lavender dress as she walked down the aisle at Rose’s wedding. He’d been a groomsman and stood at the front of the church with Nick Walker. Mercy had carried Rose’s infant son, Henry, and held him throughout the ceremony as she and Pearl stood by Rose.

The wedding had stirred soul-deep emotions Truman hadn’t known he possessed. He and Mercy were already bound at the heart, but he deeply craved the legal attachment that proved to the world they were committed.

He’d given up trying to understand his need. All that mattered was that they wanted to be together.

Two weeks apart would make no difference.

“I don’t know if I can ask my dad . . . ,” Mercy said, resting her head against his chest.

To walk her down the aisle.

Truman wasn’t surprised. Karl Kilpatrick had proudly escorted Rose at her wedding, but he’d severed his relationship with Mercy fifteen years earlier. In the year since Mercy had returned to Eagle’s Nest, she and her father had experienced more downs than ups.

Truman had hope that Karl would do it even though the man was a dinosaur, mired in beliefs that kept him at odds with his youngest daughter. Mercy pretended not to care, but Truman knew it hurt. He’d considered and discarded a dozen plans for approaching Karl on the sly about the topic.

This was Mercy’s battle. She’d ask if she wanted help.

“Don’t worry about that now. You’ve got plenty of time to talk to him after your return.”

“Argh.” She took a deep drink of the red wine. “Can’t wait for that discussion. Do you think he’ll laugh at me or tell me to fuck off?”

“He’d never say that to you. Your mom can help you talk to him.”

“No. I need to do this on my own. No mediators.”

“When you get back,” Truman reiterated.

“When I get back,” she repeated. She picked up a fork and attacked her enchilada. The slam of a car door turned both their heads. “Kids are here.”

“Ollie will drive home to my house after he raids your refrigerator. I’ll stay here tonight.”

“Yes, you will,” she said, giving him a seductive stare as she put a melty, cheesy bite in her mouth.

Feet stomped on the stairs, and Kaylie’s giggle sounded outside. Affection for the two teens filled him.

Truman had acquired an unusual family over the last twelve months. Two stray cats, a teenage male orphan with a dog, and two female Kilpatricks.

Blood doesn’t make family; love does.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

FOUR

“Why does Mercy’s cell phone keep transferring me to her office?”

Sitting at his desk the next morning, Truman frowned into his phone at the caller’s blunt question. Britta Vale hadn’t even greeted him before throwing out her inquiry. He wasn’t surprised; Britta didn’t do small talk.

“That FBI receptionist won’t tell me when I can talk to Mercy.” Anxiety laced Britta’s voice.

“What’s wrong?” Truman could be blunt too.

Silence filled the line.

“Mercy’s out of town for the next two weeks,” Truman explained. Britta and Mercy had an unusual friendship that had developed in spite of Britta’s distrust of every single human being. As a child, Britta had barely survived the attack that had murdered her family. Mercy had earned her trust when she’d shot a man intent on killing Britta last spring.

Britta confided in no one else.

She muttered something that Truman couldn’t understand. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

“You better come out here.”

“Is this police business or personal?”

“Police.”

“You’re in Deschutes County’s juri—”

“No. You.”

Her emphatic tone implied she’d accept no other officer. The fact that she’d called him after trying to reach Mercy was huge. Britta was independent and a loner. Reaching out for help wasn’t something she did lightly. Something big must have happened.

“Are you safe?” Truman asked.

“Yes. This is about . . . someone else. You need to see it.”

“I’ll be there in a half hour.”

As soon as Truman turned onto Britta’s long country driveway, he spotted her in a field of tall grass hay off to his left, waving her arms. He pulled over and parked. The morning chill surrounded him as he opened his door and inhaled the sweet smell of the hay. Skies were blue and clear, and the temperature would hit the seventies that day. Fall in Central Oregon. Cold enough to freeze at night but warm enough to swim during the day.

It was nearly nine in the morning, and Mercy had been picked up at six as promised. Their goodbye had been brief; they’d spent hours saying goodbye during the night.

A black Lab bounded toward him, her tail wagging in excitement. Truman rubbed Zara’s head, her eyes ecstatic. I must be moving up in Britta’s world. Usually her dog never left her side. The dog was an emotional support animal for Britta’s anxiety and also a protector.

Britta strode up, dressed head to toe in black as usual. He knew she was a blonde, but she dyed her long hair a flat black. Today the bottom two inches were a brilliant blue. He blinked in surprise. She never wore color.

Her face was grim. Her pale-blue eyes devoid of emotion.

“What happened?” he asked in greeting.

She jerked her head in the direction from which she’d come, and he caught a glimpse of the tall tattoo that wrapped around her neck. She turned and marched away, the hay crunching under her steps, Zara immediately at her side.

Truman didn’t take the action personally as he started to follow.

Fifty yards later, they came upon a body.

The man was curled up on his side, as if he were cold, but the gray skin and bloating stomach stated he was long dead. His hair was salt and pepper with a deep widow’s peak, and his mouth was open, exposing a dark tongue and several silver fillings. Plenty of his gray skin was on display because he was naked except for sagging plaid boxers.

Shock froze Truman midstride. “Jesus, Britta. You could have told me on the phone that it was a dead body. Or when I arrived.” His breakfast threatened to reappear.

She crossed her arms. “I don’t know who might be listening.”

“No one is around for miles,” he muttered as he squatted a few feet from the dead man and swallowed hard. Britta’s home was in the rural countryside. Perfect for someone like her who preferred to avoid people at all costs.

Anger swamped Truman as he studied the corpse, hating the indignity someone had forced upon the man in addition to his death. Why take his clothes? Humiliation was the only answer he could come up with.

“How’d you find him?”