Not a question. Dawson and I were living together. He and I shared the same trepidation about my going to work for the FBI. A lot of secrets, mistrust, and half-truths had existed between Dawson and me from our first meeting. Getting over that hurdle, learning to trust each other, learning to separate our jobs from who we were when the uniforms came off had been a big step in our personal life together. I hated having to withhold information from him, but the fact that he was forced to withhold information from me put us on the same level. Our jobs hadn’t created friction yet, but we were both aware it’d happen at some point.
“He’s bound to’ve heard about this missing girl,” Turnbull offered.
I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He’s got today off.”
“So he’ll have supper waiting when you get home?”
I’d never get used to the rash of shit Turnbull gave me about Dawson, especially since when we’d first crossed paths, I’d denied anything was going on between the sheriff and me. “Why, Agent Turnbull. You sound… jealous.”
He snorted. “Of your hour-long drive to reach home? I’ll be fed, caught up on ESPN, and sweet-talking my most recent hookup into an encore before your truck turns up that bumpy goat path you call a driveway.”
“Enjoy your Hungry Man TV dinner.”
“I’m more of a Lean Cuisine guy.”
I shuddered. Prepackaged dinners reminded me I’d had enough MREs to last a lifetime.
“If you don’t hear from me, we’re on to meet at the tribal police station at oh eight hundred tomorrow,” he reminded me.
“Roger that.” We parted ways in the parking lot.
The drive from Rapid City to the Gunderson Ranch might seem like a dull trek to him, but I loved it. I needed time alone, which had become a rarity in my life, and the hour drive was enough to change a bad mood into one of anticipation.
Dawson and I had gotten into the habit of eating supper one night a week with my sister, Hope, Jake-the ranch foreman who’d officially become Hope’s husband four months ago-and their baby, Joy. My niece crawled as fast as a lightning bug and emitted babbling noises that sounded as if she was having a conversation with herself. I’d embraced being an aunt again, and I tried not to dwell on my morbid fears of how long it’d last this time.
The day had turned chilly, and it was full-on dark when I pulled up to the house. No sign of Dawson’s patrol car. The lights were off in the kitchen, too.
So much for supper being on the table.
Neither Shoonga nor Dawson’s dog, Butch, slunk out of the shadows to greet me with happy tail wags and excited yips.