Night of Mercy: Sweet, Small Town Romantic Suspense by Jo Grafford

Author:Jo Grafford [Grafford, Jo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JG PRESS
Published: 2024-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7: STRANGE SCENTS

Fridays were quickly becoming Shep’s favorite day of the week. Unlike the nine-to-five crowd, it wasn’t because he was finally off duty for the rest of the weekend, because he wasn’t. He still pulled Saturday, Sunday, nightly, and holiday patrols on a rotational basis. However, Friday evenings were usually when he and Prim met for search and rescue training.

He had a surprise planned for her this evening, one he would’ve never been able to pull off without his uncle’s assistance. They’d essentially turned their backyard into a customized search and rescue training park. It had taken weeks of planning and building. He couldn’t wait to unveil it to her in…eh, roughly ten minutes, per a glance at his watch.

Shep cruised down the highway leading away from downtown Heart Lake. To fill the silence, he dialed his uncle to get a status on the final set of balance beams he was constructing.

Uncle Caleb’s gravelly voice rose from the speakerphone. “You on your way home, son?”

“Yep. How are the balance beams coming along?” He’d been hoping to leave work early to help move them from the garage and set them in place. Unfortunately, he’d gotten delayed putting out a last-minute fire.

“All set up and ready for the dogs to play on,” Uncle Caleb informed him cheerfully. “There’s⁠—”

“It’s not playing,” Shep interrupted with a snort. “It’s training.”

“If you say so. I also have the scent cans out and all that crud you brought home ready to dump in ‘em, but⁠—”

“All the specimens are still sealed, right?” What his uncle was calling crud had taken Shep no small amount of time and money to gather. He had bottles containing scent samples of everything from explosives, to fire accelerants, to cadavers, to controlled substances. His mantra was “train the way you work.” Since he wanted his dogs prepared to tackle real emergencies, he preferred to train using real-life props.

“Of course,” Caleb Whitaker grumbled. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” He meant that literally. Thanks to a bull riding accident years ago, he’d been dragging a bum knee around ever since. “If you’ll just⁠—”

“Thanks. I’m almost home.” He reached their mailbox and turned on to the hard-packed dirt road leading to their cabin. Rounding the final bend in the road, his gaze fell on the white police cruiser parked in their driveway. It was from the rez, so it was out of jurisdiction. Both its lights and sirens were turned off. “Uh…what’s going on?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” His uncle sounded exasperated. “We have company.”

By company, he was referring to Sheriff Adriel Montana. Shep would recognize his wiry frame and mane of sleek black hair anywhere. He wore it as long and as proud as their shared Comanche heritage.

Shep pulled his truck to the side of the driveway and parked behind the cruiser. “What’s he doing here?”

“Didn’t say, so I’m gonna assume it’s one of those need-to-know sorts of things.”

“Guess I’m about to find out.” It probably had something to do with the Paddocks.

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