“Possibly.”
“Then I guess we best find it.”
“Anything go on while I was gone?” Hunter closed the office door behind him, shutting out the relentless cold. Snow had started falling, swirling around in tiny whirlpools as the wind caught the flakes and tossed them about.
Jenkins stood and stretched. “Kincaid stopped by.”
“Willingly?”
“More or less.” He nodded toward the far cell where a lump beneath a gray wool blanket snored contentedly.
“Sober?”
“No more than any other day.”
Hunter sighed and shook his head. “All right. Go get yourself some supper. Have them fix something up for our guests, too. I’ll stay here ’til you get back.” He wanted to talk to Yucton. He’d tried to talk Meredith out of digging for the missing evidence but it was like trying to convince a salmon not to swim upstream. It just wasn’t happening. Which left him no other alternative but to find it first.
“Sure thing, Sheriff.” Jenkins left, letting in another burst of cold air. If this kept up, there would be a blanket of white covering the town by morning. He shrugged out of his coat and rested his hat on the peg by the door. Jenkins had thankfully stocked the woodpile inside, saving him having to go out into the cold yet again. He stoked the woodstove and held his hands out over it, warming them and trying not to think about the day. Much as he loved visiting Rachel and Caleb, when he returned to town he couldn’t avoid the inevitable emptiness that came with him. An emptiness only enhanced by the piece of heaven he’d tasted while there.
It had been a huge risk kissing Meredith like that, even if the invitation to do so had come from her. He knew she was caught up in the pull that always occurred whenever they stood too close to one another. To his credit, he had suggested they go inside, knowing she would regret any action she took that didn’t include walking away from him. But he didn’t pat himself on the back. Not as though he fought all that hard when the pull became too great and she was standing so close and, hell, what was a man to do but lean in and—
“Any chance a man can get some coffee?” Hunter had been too deep in his thoughts to notice Kincaid’s snoring had stopped. The bounty hunter had tossed half the blanket off and sat up in the bed rubbing his haggard face. Though he’d pegged the man to be about his own age, he looked far worse for wear, ragged around the edges as if he’d been through a storm and barely made it out alive. Then again, if he kept up the way he was going with the drinking, Hunter figured they’d be digging a hole in the ground for him before he ever made it out of town again.
“You’ve confused this place with the hotel across the street, Kincaid. You want some coffee, get up off your behind and make it yourself.”
Kincaid threw him a scowl but didn’t argue. Though his body appeared to protest the movement, he roused himself out of bed, holding a hand to his head as he stumbled out of the unlocked cell and over to the stove where Hunter stood warming his hands.
“Seems a bit unfair,” Yucton said, “that he gets to just waltz out of his cell whenever he wants to and my door stays locked. Rather inhospitable, I’d say.”
Kincaid grinned, peeling some of the haggard away until what might have been a handsome man appeared beneath. “Well, I haven’t committed any crimes, old timer.”
“That a fact?”
Kincaid picked up the coffeepot and peered inside. “None they’ve arrested me for.”
Yucton chuckled, reset his hat over his face and readjusted his position on the bed. “That sounds a bit more likely.”
Hunter watched the exchange with curiosity. The relationship was an odd one. Kincaid was responsible for Bill’s current incarceration, yet had hired him for reasons unknown. Added to that, the two men seemed to be on rather friendly terms.
“There’s nothing in it.” Kincaid turned the pot over and shot Hunter a glare as if he was somehow responsible. A few drops dripped out of the pot and sizzled when they hit the stove.
“Pump’s out back. Feel free to go fill it up and make some more.”
Kincaid scowled but didn’t argue. He went outside, leaving his coat behind. Hunter walked over to Yucton’s cell and leaned against the bars. “Had an interesting conversation with an old friend of yours today. Foster from out at the Circle S.”
If the news had any impact on his prisoner, he didn’t show it. Then again, between the blanket and the hat, it was difficult to tell what he thought. “That old coot still alive?”
“Alive and chatty as ever. Told me a few things I didn’t know.”