Chapter 3 - The Sheriff’s Shadow
Jacob slipped into the narrow pantry just as Martha’s front door creaked open. Through the gap in the wooden slats, he watched Sheriff Tom Callahan step into the kitchen, bringing the smell of dust and stale tobacco with him. Callahan was a thick-bodied man with heavy shoulders and a permanent scowl that seemed carved into his leather-brown skin.
"Mornin', Martha," Callahan said, tipping his hat back slightly, though his eyes were already scanning the room, landing instantly on the washbasin and the extra coffee cup on the table. "Heard you had a visitor. Looked like Jacob Mercer riding up here like the devil was on his tail."
"Jacob brought me some flour from the mercantile, Tom," Martha said smoothly, not missing a beat as she poured hot water into a fresh cup and slid it across the table. "A body can't bake without supplies, and the roads have been rough since the rain."
Callahan didn't touch the coffee. He walked slowly toward the table, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards, and looked down at the empty chair where Jacob had been sitting a moment before. His gaze lingered on the leather-bound ledger half-hidden beneath a spare dish towel.
"Rough roads," Callahan repeated slowly. "Strange thing, though. Some of the boys out checking the north fence found a dead mare about an hour ago. Jugular cut clean. And tracks leading straight from there into town. Right to your porch."
Martha leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her apron. "People ride into town every day, Tom. If you're looking for stray livestock, you'd better check the livery. Jacob was just stopping by to check on my stovepipe."
Callahan’s eyes flicked up to Martha’s face, studying her with a cold, professional suspicion. He knew Martha Gault didn't scare easily, and he knew Jacob Mercer wasn't the kind of man to ride twelve miles just to talk about stovepipes.
"That north fence belongs to the old Harper tract," Callahan said, his voice dropping an octave. "Bank owns it now, same as they've owned it since Caleb fried himself in his own stable. But things have a way of surfacing when the wind blows right, Martha. People start remembering things they ought to forget."
"Nobody in Dry Mesa has cared about the Harpers in eight years, Tom," Martha said steadily. "Except maybe the men who made sure there wasn't anything left to inherit."
Callahan’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer to the counter, towering over the older woman, but Martha didn't yield an inch.
"You tell Jacob that if he found something out on that prairie—something that doesn't belong to him—he’d do well to hand it over to the county," Callahan said, his voice hard as iron. "A dead horse is one thing. Stirring up old ash is another. People get burned twice that way."
With that, the sheriff turned on his heel, his spurs jingling sharply as he walked out the door and slammed it behind him.
Jacob stepped out of the pantry, his face dark. "He knows."
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"He suspects," Martha corrected, looking down at the baby who had begun to stir again. "Callahan wasn't out checking fence lines. He was tracking you, Jacob. Which means whoever left that baby out there didn't just drop her by accident. They wanted someone to find her—or they wanted to make sure she didn't survive the morning."
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