Page 11 of Final Escape
“I tried, but no dice. I’ll have to find a different place by September, though.”
“Our county sheriff’s department is understaffed and we have a lot of ground to cover. If you do encounter trouble out here, we might not be able to respond as fast as we’d like.”
She nodded, biting her lower lip. “I understand. I still hope my past isn’t going to be an issue. But I’ll let the Bradleys know about it.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Still, a lady living alone like you might want to take a gun safety course and keep a weapon around. There’s other varmints out here besides the two-legged kind.”
“I grew up on a ranch. I’ve had my own shotgun since I was twelve.”
“Is it here?”
“It’s in the back of my SUV.”
He snorted. “Won’t do you much good in there.”
“I didn’t want to bring it in until I had time to install a padlock on my closet. There are families with kids all over this property during the day. If one came upstairs and found it while I wasn’t home...” She shuddered.
He went to the back door of the SUV. “Ma’am, I recommend that you take it upstairs for the rest of the night. Just firing off a warning shot might do a world of good if that prowler comes back. It could take us a long time to get here.”
She could only imagine the deputy’s amusement if he saw her battered 1960s Remington shotgun, a gift from her grandfather.
Years ago, back when she was a teenager, she’d left one of the ranch dogs in her pickup cab while she’d struggled to catch and treat a calf with scours, and the dog had chewed the butt of the wooden stock to splinters. The weapon was old but accurate, and sentiment had kept her from trading it off.
She patted her pockets. “I...don’t have my keys on me.”
He tipped his head toward the front door. “Looks like you have a keypad, though.”
She pulled a face. “It doesn’t work. I can just take care of this tomorrow.”
His gaze sharpened. “Go ahead and get your keys. I don’t mind waiting.”
At the hint of suspicion in his voice she sighed, and dutifully ran upstairs to retrieve her keys from the kitchen table. If he’d misread her hesitation and thought he was going to make headlines by finding stolen loot or a few hundred pounds of pot in her trunk, he was going to be sadly disappointed.
She unlocked the liftgate, opened it and stepped aside while it lifted on its own.
His eyes flared wide when he saw the only contents—the old shotgun and a box of shells. “That’s...it? Does it even work?”
“It actually shoots true, even if it looks a little rough.” The barking from inside the patrol car grew more frantic. “Does your dog need to be let out or something?”
“I just started my shift. He shouldn’t.”
Now, Carrie could hear the sound of its claws scrabbling against the windows. “I’m glad you aren’t letting him loose. He sounds fierce.”
“Ranger’s new to the department, and he’s still erratic.” The deputy scowled toward his vehicle, a thoughtful look spreading across his face. “But he does know his business. Maybe—”
The radio mic at his shoulder crackled with static. A rapid-fire dispatcher’s voice rattled off a series of codes, then an address.
Peterson listened, tapped a button on the mic and muttered a response as he strode to his vehicle and pulled open the front door.
He paused, half-inside, and looked back. “Accident on the highway. I have to leave. But don’t hesitate to call the dispatcher if you have any problems. Believe me, we’d rather answer a false alarm now and then, than have to deal with the aftermath if someone fails to call in time.”
