Across a scarred wooden desk, her father slid a folded document toward Sheriff Halvorsen.
The paper made a dry, final sound as it scraped forward.
“I’m square now,” Earl Whitaker muttered.
He did not look at her.
He didn’t even look at the sheriff.
His eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window, where his horse waited, and the pale morning light made everything outside seem like a different world that belonged to other people.
The sheriff’s jaw worked, as if he’d bitten something bitter.
“Earl,” he began, voice low, careful. “This isn’t…”
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