CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Sheila's boots sank into the cool sand with each step, the grains whispering secrets as they shifted beneath her feet. Beside her, Finn's breathing matched her own, a steady rhythm in the vast silence of the desert night.
She was grateful to have him beside her, grateful that despite all the tension between them, she could still count on him to have her back. She just hoped they'd be able to work together the way they used to, rather than butting heads like they had been recently.
Their flashlight beams danced across the undulating landscape, searching for any hint of the trail they'd been following. Sheila's eyes ached from the strain of constant vigilance, but she dared not blink. Every shadow could be a clue, every ripple in the sand a potential lead.
Suddenly she froze. The tracks they'd been following vanished, as if their quarry had taken flight.
Finn crouched, studying the unmarked sand. "Obliterated," he said, frustration etching lines around his eyes. "Wind's erased every trace."
Sheila surveyed the landscape. The dunes stretched in every direction, a labyrinth of sand and shadow. Where had their quarry gone?
"East," she said, pointing toward a towering dune that seemed to scrape the night sky. "That formation offers the best vantage point and cover. It's where I'd go if I were trying to remain hidden."
Finn stood, brushing sand from his knees. He squinted in the direction she'd indicated, then shook his head. "West makes more tactical sense. It's closer to the restricted area, less chance of accidental discovery. Plus, the wind patterns would cover tracks more effectively there."
Sheila clenched her jaw. Not this again, she thought. Why did they disagree so easily? Was it because they were both opinionated, both strong-willed? Or was it a sign that they really weren't cut out to work together in these roles?
Finn sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. You want to go east, we'll go—"
"No. You're right. We'll go west."
His eyebrows rose, surprise clear on his face even in the pale moonlight. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "I wouldn't want my deputy to think I don't value his advice, would I?"
Finn stared at her for a few moments, as if seeing her for the first time. "No. Wouldn't want that."
They set off westward, walking in silence. They hadn't gone far, however, when Sheila felt the urge to speak.
"Finn," she began in a low voice, "I... I need to tell you something."
He glanced at her, curiosity mingling with concern on his face. "What is it?"
Sheila took a deep breath, the cool desert air filling her lungs. "I'm afraid," she admitted, the words feeling strange on her tongue. "Not just of this case, but... of losing everything."
Finn slowed his pace, giving her his full attention. "What do you mean?"
"This life we've built," Sheila continued, gesturing vaguely around them. "Being Sheriff, living with you and Star. It's more than I ever thought I'd have. And I'm terrified of messing it up."
Understanding dawned on Finn's face. "Is that why you've been so...?"
"Difficult?" Sheila finished with a rueful smile. "Yeah. I thought if I could just do everything perfectly, make all the right calls, I could keep it all together. But I've been pushing you away instead."
Finn was quiet for a moment, absorbing her words. Then he reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder. "Sheila, you don't have to be perfect. Nobody expects that."
"I do," she said softly.
"Well, knock it off," Finn replied, a hint of humor in his voice. "Look, I get it. This job, this life—it's a lot. But you don't have to carry it all alone. That's why you have me, why you have Star. We're a team, remember?"
Sheila hesitated. "Are we? What about the transfer?"
Finn opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He stopped in his tracks. Sheila followed his gaze to where a solitary figure stood silhouetted against the horizon, a dark cutout against the star-speckled sky.
They approached with the caution of seasoned predators, using the dunes for cover. When they were within earshot, Sheila called out, her voice carrying across the empty expanse: "Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. Identify yourself."
The figure turned, and recognition hit Sheila like a physical blow. "Ranger Thorsson?"
Einar Thorsson's weathered face creased with relief as he hurried toward them, his ranger's uniform stark against the pale sand. "Sheriff Stone! Deputy Mercer! Thank the stars, you're here. I was about to call this in. It's Dr. Redfeather—I've found her, but she's unresponsive. I fear she's injured."
Sheila's eyes darted past Einar, seeking confirmation of his words. What she saw sent ice through her veins.
Nora Redfeather's head protruded from the sand, the rest of her body entombed beneath the dune. Her eyes were closed, her skin pale in the starlight.
But then her gaze fell to Einar's feet. He was barefoot. If he had left one set of the tracks they'd been following, then who had left the other?
And why did he look so familiar? Back where Carl Donovan had been killed—the man who had discovered the body. Could this be the same man?
Before she could untangle her thoughts, Einar moved. One moment, he was the kindly old ranger she'd first met. The next, he was a coiled spring releasing, his hand darting out to snatch Finn's weapon from its holster. Finn cried out, but he was too late to stop Einar.
Time seemed to stutter, reality struggling to catch up with this sudden shift. Sheila's own weapon was in her hand before she registered drawing it, muscle memory outpacing conscious thought.
"Lower the gun, Einar," she said, aiming at his chest.
Einar's eyes were wild, flicking between Sheila and Finn like a cornered animal's as he pointed Finn's gun back at Sheila. "You're blind," he said, his voice cracking. "All of you. The dunes speak, but you refuse to listen. They demand protection. Sacrifice."
"Einar," Sheila said, forcing calm into her tone, "this isn't protection. This isn't you. Remember who you are, what you've stood for all these years. Put the gun down. Let's talk this through."
She felt Finn tense beside her, coiled and ready to spring. Einar, however, had retreated several paces. There was no way Finn could get to him without getting shot.
"I am who I've always been," Einar replied, a fevered light in his eyes. "A guardian of the dunes. I just understand now what that truly means. The old ways, the ancient rites—they're the only way to save this place."
"The dunes need protection, Einar, but not like this," Sheila said. She took a careful step forward, sand crunching softly under her boot. "Think of all you've done over the years. The visitors you've inspired, the young rangers you've mentored. That's real protection. That's a legacy."
For a heartbeat, doubt flickered across Einar's face. The gun in his hand wavered, just slightly.
"Sheriff." Finn's voice was low. "Dr. Redfeather. She's stirring."
Sheila's gaze darted to Nora. Indeed, her head was moving, eyelids fluttering as consciousness returned.
Einar noticed, too. His expression hardened, madness overtaking doubt. "No," he growled. "The sacrifice must be completed. The dunes demand it."
He pointed the gun at Nora's exposed head.