The body was found at dawn, which is when all the worst shit happens in Cimarron Ford County.

I got the call at 5:47 AM—Deputy Martinez, voice tight as barbed wire, telling me to get my ass to Redstone Ranch. Now. Someone important was dead, he said. Someone who mattered. Which in this county meant someone with land, money, or both.

I took my coffee black and my truck faster than the speed limit allowed, watching the sun bleed red over the scrubland like the sky was warning me. Should've listened.

The scene was already crawling with deputies when I pulled up, dust from their vehicles hanging in the air like guilt. I spotted Martinez first—kid's good, but green. He looked like he might puke in the sagebrush.

"Sheriff Earp." He swallowed hard. "It's bad."

"It's always bad, Martinez. That's why they pay us."

Except they barely paid us, and the dead man lying face-down in the dirt behind the old stockyard fence was Wesley Chambers—oil money, county commissioner, mean son of a bitch who'd been threatening to run against me in the next election. Now he wouldn't be running anywhere.

Single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Execution style. Professional.

I crouched down, careful not to disturb the scene, studying the way his expensive boots were still shined despite the dust. The way his Rolex caught the early light. Whoever killed him wanted him dead, not robbed.

"State police been called?" I asked, knowing the answer, hating it already.

Martinez shifted his weight. "Dispatcher said they're sending... uh, someone federal, Sheriff."

'Course they were. Because a county commissioner dying in my jurisdiction wasn't just a murder—it was political. It was messy. It was the kind of case that ended careers.

Mine, probably.

I spent the next three hours processing the scene, taking statements from ranch hands who saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. That's how it worked out here. Loyalty ran deeper than law, and everyone knew Chambers had enemies. Hell, I'd been one of them.

Which is why, when the black SUV with government plates rolled up at 9:15 AM, I knew my day was about to get a whole lot worse.

She stepped out like she owned the place—pressed suit, sharp eyes hidden behind aviators, and the kind of posture that screamed federal training. FBI. Had to be. She moved like someone who'd never walked through real dust, never spent a night in a holding cell wondering if justice and the law were even distant cousins.

She was also beautiful in that don't-even-think-about-it way that made my teeth clench.

"Sheriff Earp?" Her voice was crisp, professional. East Coast, maybe. Definitely not Texas.

"That's what the badge says."

She extended a hand. I looked at it like it might bite.

"Special Agent—"

"Don't care." I turned back toward the crime scene tape, dismissing her. "This is county jurisdiction. State police can observe, but this is my case."

I heard her exhale—not quite a sigh, but close. "Actually, Sheriff, given the victim's political connections and the—shall we say—complexity of the situation, the Bureau has been asked to assist."

Assist. That was federal-speak for take over while pretending not to.

I faced her again, letting my pale blue eyes do what they did best—unsettle people. "This county doesn't need assistance from someone who probably can't tell a longhorn from a Hereford."

She removed her sunglasses, and Christ, that was a mistake on my part. Her eyes were sharp enough to gut me. "What this county needs, Sheriff Earp, is someone without a personal vendetta against the victim. Multiple witnesses have already mentioned your public altercation with Commissioner Chambers last month. So perhaps we can skip the territorial posturing and focus on catching a killer?"

Direct. Smart. Infuriating.

Also right, which made it worse.

"Fine." I bit the word off. "But you follow my lead. This is my town, my county, my people. You're a guest here, Special Agent {{user}}. Act like it."