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such luck. He let the front legs of his chair hit the hardwood floor and followed orders.
    By the time he got the blankets and made it to the lobby, the man was rattling off a story about how he and his kids were walking the canyon at sunset and came across a body wrapped in what looked like old burlap feed bags.
    Thatcher grew wide-eyed when Brigman glanced at him. “Don’t look at me,” he said in a voice so high Thatcher barely recognized his own words. “I’m just collecting cow chips. I didn’t kill nobody.”
    The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Pass out the blankets, kid.”
    While the man kept talking, Thatcher handed every dripping visitor a blanket. The last one, he opened up and put over the girl who was probably the oldest. She was so wet he could see the outline of her bra.
    He tried his best not to look, but failed miserably. Her breasts might be small, but she was definitely old enough to fill out a bra.
    â€œThank you,” she said when the blanket and his arm went around her.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” he answered as he raised his gaze to the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen.
    Until that moment, if you’d asked Thatcher Jones if he liked girls, he would have sworn he never would as long as he lived. When you’re the poorest and dumbest kid in school, no one has anything nice to say to you and most girls don’t even look your direction. During grade school he’d been kicked out several times for fighting, but now, since he was no longer in grade school, he’d decided to ignore everyone and skip as many classes as possible.
    But this girl just kept smiling at him like nothing was wrong with him.
    He didn’t want to move away. “Did you see the body?” he whispered.
    She shook her head. “I saw the sack. It had brown spots on it. Blood, I think. My dad didn’t let us get too close.”
    Thatcher thought of all the blood he’d seen in his life. He’d killed animals for food since he was six or seven. He’d washed his mother up a few times when one of her “friends” beat her. He’d watched his own blood pour out with every heartbeat once when he’d tumbled out of a tree, but none of that mattered right now.
    â€œI’m sorry you had to see such a thing,” he whispered to the green-eyed girl.
    â€œHe was murdered,” she said so low only he could have heard her.
    â€œHow do you know? He could have committed suicide. Folks have done that before, or died in accidents down there in the canyon.”
    Her eyes swam in tears. “Do people who die from suicide or accident stuff themselves into sacks?”
    Thatcher nodded. “Good point.”
    Then the strangest thing happened. Right in the middle of the sheriff calling in backup and Pearly coming in to take statements, and the storm pounding so hard against the north windows that he feared they’d break...right in the middle of it all, the girl reached out and held his hand.
    As if she needed him .
    As if in all the chaos he was her rock.
    * * *
    A N HOUR LATER , Thatcher stood in the drizzle and watched the sheriff working the crime scene. He’d been told, since he’d insisted on coming along, that he had to hold a big light down the trail toward where they found the body. Nothing else. Just hold the light, as though he was nothing more than a lamppost.
    The county coroner had come in from Lubbock County to pronounce the dead guy dead. Which Thatcher thought was a bit of overkill. He stood thirty feet away and he could tell the guy was dead.
    â€œI’m going to list the cause of death as undetermined,” the coroner shouted loud enough for Thatcher to hear him.
    He thought of yelling down that the huge dent in the burlapped man’s head should be a pretty good hint as to how he died. What was left of his face looked more like the Elephant Man than anyone Thatcher had ever seen.
    â€œGet back in the