.

giving shots, poking pills down resistant throats, instructing Collin on the next phase of care.

      At the horses’ pen, she nodded her approval and pushed a tube of medication down each scrawny throat. “They’re more alert. See how this one lifts her head now to watch us? That’s a very good sign.”

      One of the mares, Daisy, leaned her velvety nose against Collin’s shirtfront and snuffled. In return for her affection, he stroked her neck, relishing the warm, soft feel against his fingers.

      The first few days after the horses had arrived, Collin had come out to the barn every four hours to follow the strict refeeding program Doc had put them on. Seeing the horses slowly come back from the brink of death made the sleepless nights and interrupted days worth the effort.

      Sometimes the local Future Farmers of America kids helped out. The other cops occasionally did the same. Most of the time, Collin preferred to work alone.

      At the raccoon’s hutch, Paige declared the hissing creature fit and ready to release. And finally, she stood at the fence and watched the young buck limp listlessly around the pen.

      “He’s depressed.”

      “Deer get depressed?”

      “Mmm. Trauma, pain, fear lead to depression in any species.” She squinted into the gathering darkness, intelligent eyes studying every move the deer made. “The wound looks good though.”

      “You do good work.”

      Some bow hunter had shot the buck. He had escaped with an arrow protruding from his hip, finally collapsing near enough to a house that dogs had alerted the owner. Paige had operated on the badly infected hip.

      “I do, don’t I?” The vet smiled smugly before sobering. “Only time will tell if enough muscle remains for him to survive in the wild, though.”

      She turned and started back around the barn to her truck. Collin took her bag and followed.

      Headlights sliced the dusk and came steadily toward them, the hum of a motor loud against the quiet country evening.

      Collin tensed. “Company,” he said.

      “Who is it?”

      “My favorite neighbor,” he said, sarcasm thicker than the cloud of dust billowing around the car. “Cecil Slokum.”

      Collin and his farm were located a half mile from the nearest house, but Slokum harassed him on a regular basis with some complaint about the animals.

      The late-model brown sedan pulled to a stop. A man the size and shape of Danny DeVito put the engine in Park and rolled down a window. His face was red with anger.

      “I’m not putting up with this anymore, Grace.”

      The sixth sense that made Collin a good cop kicked in. He made a quick survey of the car’s interior, saw no weapons and relaxed a little.

      “What’s the problem, Mr. Slokum?” He sounded way more polite than he felt.

      “One of them dogs of yours took down my daughter’s prize ewe last night.”

      “Didn’t happen.” All his animals were sick and in pens.

      “Just ’cause you’re a big shot cop don’t make you right. I know what I saw.”

      “Wasn’t one of mine.”

      “Tell it to the judge.” The man shoved a brown envelope out the window.

      Collin took it, puzzled. “What is this?”

      “See for yourself.” With that, Slokum crammed the car into gear and backed out, disappearing down the gravel road much more quickly than he’d come.

      Collin stared down at the envelope.

      “Might as well open it,” Doc said.

      With a shrug, Collin tore the seal, pulled out a legal-looking sheet of vellum and read. When he finished, he slammed a fist against the offending form.

      Just what he needed right now. Someone else besides the annoying social worker on his back.

      “Collin?” Doc said.

      Jaw rigid, he handed her the paper and said, “Nothing like good neighbors. The jerk is suing me for damages.”

      Chapter Three

      Mia perched on a high kitchen stool, swiveling back and forth, her mind a million miles away from her mother’s noisy kitchen as she sliced boiled zucchini for stuffing.

      At the stove, Grandma Maria Celestina stirred her special marinara sauce while Mama prepared the sausages for baked ziti.

      The rich scents of tomato and basil and sausages had the whole family prowling in and out of the kitchen.

      “Church was good today, huh, Mia?”

      “Good, Mama.”

      At fifty-six, Rosalie Carano was still a pretty woman. People said Mia favored her and she hoped so. She’d always thought Mama looked like Sophia Loren. Flowered apron around her generous hips, Rosalie sailed around the large family kitchen with the efficient energy that had successfully raised five kids.

      The whole clan gathered every Sunday after church for a late-afternoon meal of Mama’s traditional Italian cooking, which always included breads and pastries from the family bakery. In the living room, her dad, Leo, argued basketball with her eldest brother Gabe and Grandpa Salvatore. Gabe’s wife, Abby, had taken their two kids outside to swim in the above-ground pool accompanied by Mia’s pregnant sister, Anna Maria. The other brothers, Adam and Nic, roamed in and out of the kitchen like starving ten-year-olds.

      Mia was blessed with a good family. Not perfect by any means, but close and caring. She appreciated that, especially on days like today when she felt inexplicably down in the dumps. Even church service, which usually buoyed her spirits, had left her uncharacteristically quiet.

      Collin Grace had not returned one of her phone calls in the past three days, and she’d practically promised Mitchell that he would. She disliked pulling in favors, tried not to use her eldest brother’s influence as a city councilman, but Sergeant Grace was a tough nut to crack.

      Nic, her baby brother, snitched a handful of grated mozzarella from the bowl at her elbow. Out of habit, she whacked his hand then listened to the expected howl of protest.

      “Go away,” she muttered.

      His grin was unrepentant. At twenty, dark and athletic Nic was a chick magnet. He knew his charms, though they had never worked on either of his sisters.

      “You’re grumpy.”

      Brother Adam hooked an elbow around her neck and yanked back. She tilted her head to look up at him. Adam Carano, dark and tall, was eleven months older than Mia. From childhood, they’d been best friends, and he could read her like the Sunday comics.

      “What’s eating you, sis? You’re too quiet. It scares me.” He usually complained that she talked too much.

      Gabe stuck his head around the edge of the door. “Last time she was quiet, Nic and Adam ended up with strange new haircuts.”

      Mia rolled her eyes. “I was eight.”

      “And we’ve not had a moment of peace and quiet from you since,” Adam joked.

      “And I,” Nic put in, “was scarred for life at the ripe old age of one.”

      “I should have cut off your tongue.”

      “Mom,” Nic called in a whiney little-boy voice. “Mia’s picking on me.”

      Mia ignored him and set to work stuffing the zucchini boats.

      “What is it, Mia?” Mama asked. “Adam’s right. You are not yourself.”

      “It’s a kid,” Adam replied before