“Is that a . . . ?” Anders begins.

He doesn’t finish, but I know what he was going to say. It looks like a wolf—the size, the build, the ears, the muzzle shape, and the white and gray fur. But there are brown spots in that gray, and its face is freckled.

“Wolf-dog,” I murmur.

“Shit,” Anders says.

It’s the dog part that worries me. I hear wolves almost every night, but I’ve only spotted them deep in the forest, as they catch wind of us and disappear like ghosts. Dogs are another matter. They’re feral, descended from those either released or escaped from Rockton, back in a time when pets were allowed. Those canines don’t always slip away like wolves. Even a few generations removed, they retain their fearlessness around humans.

I aim my gun. I don’t want to. But this is Dalton’s rule. If a feral dog makes an aggressive move, we must shoot to kill.

I can’t tell with this one. It’s watching me just as carefully as I’m watching it.

“Got your gun ready?” I ask Anders.

“I do.”

“Count of three. Three, two, one—”

I lunge at the wolf-dog and let out a snarl. I’m hoping it’ll run. It doesn’t. Nor does it attack. It just hunkers down and snarls back, fur bristling. Anders curses some more, and I agree. We like our decisions cut-and-dry, and the universe isn’t complying these days, not even with a damned dog.

“Protocol is to shoot,” Anders says. “If it doesn’t back down, we put it down.”

I notice he doesn’t actually shoot. He’s waiting for me to say yes, that’s what we have to do. When I say, “Wait,” he exhales in relief.

I hunker to crouch.

“Good idea,” Anders says. “Submissive pose. See if it attacks.”

Which isn’t what I’m doing at all. I’m taking a closer look at something I’ve spotted.

“She’s nursing,” I say. “Her cubs must be nearby.”

“Right. Okay. So we leave her.”

“As long as she doesn’t attack, yes. I’m going to pick up the rifle, and we’ll back off slowly.”

The wolf-dog stands her ground, allowing me to get the gun and start backing up. Then she follows, stiff-legged.

“Making sure we leave?” Anders says.

“I hope so.”

When we’ve made it about halfway to the others, I call, “Eric?”

“Here.”

“Our shooter is gone. He left his gun. But we’ve got a wolf-dog backing us off. It’s a nursing mother.”

“Fuck.”

I don’t ask if he wants us to shoot. If he does, he’ll say so. Instead, he calls, “Jacob?”

There’s a murmur of voices. Jacob appears. He ducks to peer under a branch and gets a look at the canine.

“That’s Freckles,” he says. “She’s not usually a problem. It’s the cubs making her defensive.”

I don’t comment on him “naming” the wolf-dog. That’s not what he’s done. It’s just a way to identify her, the same way people name ponds and hills and other landmarks.

Jacob tells us to keep backing away. When the canine continues to follow, he lunges and growls, and she freezes. There’s a five-second stare-down. Then the wolf-dog snorts and stays where she is, letting us retreat.

“You need to be more intimidating, Case,” Anders says.

“Nah,” Jacob says. “You just need to learn the stare . . . and know which animals you can use it on. Do that to a boar grizzly, and you’re dead where you stand. She was just making sure you got away from her litter.”

We return to the others. Anders and I go straight to Dalton. That’s when our sheriff sees the rifle.

“Fuck, no,” he say.

“Fuck, yes,” Anders says. “Now give me that arm.”

“We need to—”

“Arm. Now.”

Dalton lifts his arm for Anders to examine. Residents joke about Dalton being the alpha dog in Rockton. He is, and no one disputes that. But people aren’t animals, and the idea of one person being in charge, at all times, in all situations, is bullshit. This winter, when Dalton contracted the flu in Dawson City, Anders happily turned to me and said, “You’re up.” You play sheriff for a few days. He didn’t want the job. Yet all he has to do is adopt this tone, and Dalton shuts up and listens.

As Anders examines him, Dalton shoots glances my way. He’s trying not to look at the rifle. Trying not to tip off Brady, who’s watching us intently. He’s also trying to hide the worry in his eyes.

“Does it matter?” I say. “Threat-wise? Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

Brady’s brows furrow. Dalton nods. He understands my verbal shorthand. This gun is from Rockton. That suggests our shooter is also from Rockton. On the surface, that’s alarming, but what’s the alternative? An external sniper would mean someone sent to kill Brady. Someone who came from Brady’s world.

The two situations are equally dangerous.

Most pressing right now is Dalton’s arm. Jacob and I are both hovering as Anders works. I see Brady watching, and I want to pull back, tug Jacob with me, but that’s pointless. One glance at Jacob, and Brady can tell he’s Dalton’s brother. And if Brady hasn’t figured out that Dalton and I are lovers, he’s going to soon.

Dalton’s injury isn’t as serious as I feared, but it’s still a bullet wound. It will be temporarily debilitating. Or so it will seem to a guy who agreed to stay in bed with the flu only when we warned he could infect others. It’s his left arm, which is a problem.

When I say, “Good thing you’re right-handed,” there isn’t even a moment of confusion. Instead, Dalton exhales, and says, “Yeah,” and Anders agrees. Jacob looks up but covers his surprise fast. Having our prisoner realize that our sheriff has lost the full use of his dominant arm is the last thing we need. It really is.

* * *

In town, Dalton strides straight for Val’s place. I catch his good arm. My gaze shoots to the station. He hesitates but nods, and we follow Anders and Nicole with Brady. When they head inside, though, we veer off to the supply shed.

The shed isn’t part of the station—our building is too small to have the militia tramping in and out all day. Inside the supply building is a secure gun locker, which I examine for signs of tampering. There are none.

We have two sets of keys for this locker. Dalton carries one. Anders has the other. The militia use handguns on patrol, and they typically just pass their weapon on to whoever takes over their shift. Otherwise, they need Anders to open the locker. He never just hands over his key. Neither does Dalton.

Dalton reaches into his pocket with his left hand—force of habit—and then winces. With that wince comes a growl of frustration.

“As tempting as it is to play the tough guy,” I say, “please remember that every time you do that, you pull at the wound, and it’s going to take that much longer to heal. I’m going to suggest—strongly suggest—that you let me put your arm in a sling, if only to remind you to keep it still.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes, but it’ll heal faster.”

He nods. Then he switches his key to his right hand. When he fumbles to get it into the hole, I resist the urge to do it for him. The key goes in, and the cabinet opens, and sure enough, one of our rifles is missing.

I read the log. “It hasn’t been checked out since last weekend, when we took the rifles for hunting.”

“It was here yesterday, when I had to grab a gun for Kenny. So how the hell—?”

“Someone picked the lock,” Anders says as he walks in. “That’s the only explanation.”

“Agreed,” I say. “But it’s not a standard lock. Whoever did this has some serious skills.”

“So we go to the council and demand . . .” Dalton begins, and then trails off, grumbling under his breath.

“Yeah,” Anders says. “You can demand to know if we have any thieves in town, but they aren’t going to tell us.”

“Do you know, for a fact, that there are only two keys?” I ask. “I’m guessing you didn’t install that locker yourself.”

Dalton shakes his head.

“So there could be a third key floating around . . . or the council has always had one.”

Anders looks at me. “You think the council brought in a sniper?”

“I’m afraid to even start considering the possibilities. We’ll need to report the attempt, but I’m going to suggest we don’t mention finding the gun or realizing it’s missing. If the council is responsible, their sniper could have brought his own weapon. Using ours suggests they wanted to frame us. By admitting it was ours, we set ourselves up to take responsibility if they succeed next time.”