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almost like he’d never left the joint. It was time to get home. He should have asked Wilma for an extra piece of pie to have tomorrow. “My dog’s waiting for me, Officer. Have a safe night.”
    He didn’t wait for Win’s response. He got in his truck and headed home.

C HAPTER S EVEN
     
     
    W IN THOUGHT about calling in. Things at the office had been fucking tense, and he wanted to go fishing or something. He could plead the plague. Maybe tuberculosis.
    His phone rang and he grabbed it. “’lo?”
    “Win? Win, this is Wilma from the diner, honey. I need a favor.”
    “Anything, lady.” He got up, figuring he’d have to head to the diner.
    “Can you pop over to the Reddings’ and check on everybody? Sage hasn’t been in for four days, and he never missed once, not since he came home. Me and Bulldog, we’re worried, but my stubborn shit of a husband says he ain’t got reason to stop in.” Her voice rose, heading toward shrill. “He’s a bit of a pansyass, my old man.”
    Right. Pansyass. Bulldog. Still, it might stress Mr. Redding right the fuck out to see Bulldog on his big hog pulling down the drive. Old cowboys and bikers weren’t the most natural of bedfellows. Shit. He sure hoped nothing had happened to Sage. “Sure thing, Wilma. I’ll stop by.” Hell, he’d even do it in street clothes.
    “Thanks, honey. We miss him.”
    “I’ll tell him.” He’d make sure Sage’s momma didn’t need anything too.
    Win phoned in, let Grace know he was on a call, and got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He’d take his truck too. No reason to stress folks out. Win tried hard not to worry that his family had gone and done something incredibly stupid, but it was tough to get out of his head. The whole thing sucked—Sage Redding seemed to be a decent guy. Scared, at best. PTSD at worst, but decent.
    He headed across town, out into BFE, and stopped at the gate, and gave the main house a ring to warn them he was coming.
    “’lo?” Ellen sounded out of breath.
    “Um, Mrs. Redding? This is Adam Winchester. Win. Doing a welfare check.”
    “Pardon me? A what?”
    “A welfare check, ma’am. Wilma down to the diner called, worried about your son.”
    “Sage? Sage is at the barn, working the colts.”
    “Would you mind if I went on down? I’m not harassing him, I promise.”
    “Sure. I got biscuits and gravy and sausage. Y’all want some after, come up to the house.”
    “Thank you.” Win felt absurdly pleased that she trusted him enough not to tell him to go to hell. He opened the gate, then made sure it closed after he went through.
    The main house looked better than the last time he’d seen it, when someone had vandalized the horse barn—the sagging front porch was put back to rights and the carport freshly painted. That was a damned good sign. He’d have to put in a good word with Sage’s parole officer.
    He headed down to the barn, strangely eager to see Sage.
    The pocket cowboy was in the ring training a beautiful little filly, encouraging her to move around and around. Every time she tossed her head and pranced sideways, Sage stopped, murmuring to her and stroking her nose when she turned to him for encouragement.
    Finally, Sage chuckled and whistled, and a fine mare trotted up to the fence. “Come on, you. Go run with your momma and rest. You did good work.” He opened the little gate and out she danced, shaking out her mane.
    “Those are some pretty girls you’ve got there,” Win said.
    Sage started and looked at him with wide hazel eyes. “Officer. Howdy. Yessir. What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing. Nothing. My name is Win.” Okay, that was stupid, but he was caught in Sage’s gaze, those eyes a fascinating mix of green and gold and gray.
    Said eyes stayed on Win a long moment before Sage blinked. “Now I remember you. Your name is Adam. We were in Ms. Daughtry’s Spanish class together.”
    Was that a smile?
    “We were.” Win hoped that was a good sign. “Went military, after