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the microwave with chili, cheese, and chopped onion and feel as if he'd slaved over a four-star dinner. Sandwiches were easier.
    Taking another bite of his sandwich, he picked up the local paper that had been lying on the table and began to read. It was pretty boring and since he was with the sheriff's department, he already knew all the interesting pieces that hadn't been printed. Reduced to reading the classified ads, the banging on his front door followed by his brother's voice was a welcome diversion.
    “I'm in the family room,” he yelled. “Come on back.”
    Garbed in a khaki shirt and pants, a man who bore a strong resemblance to Jeb wandered into the room a moment later. Pushing forty, Mingo Delaney wasn't quite as tall as Jeb, or quite as big. They shared the same crop of unruly black hair, the same tawny complexion, and the same knowing black eyes. The ladies in the area were divided as to which one of the Delaney brothers was the handsomest. Mingo had his supporters and Jeb his. One thing was certain; the Delaney brothers were about two of the most attractive single men for miles around. The fact that they came from one of the leading families in the valley—their father was a retired judge—and were both unmarried caused all sorts of excited pleasure in the hearts of every unattached woman under the age of fifty in the county…and maybe, beyond.
    Walking over to the refrigerator, Mingo helped himself to a beer and dragged out the makings for a sandwich. It was clear he was very familiar with his brother's house and comfortable in it.
    When his sandwich was fixed to his satisfaction, he popped open the freezer and grabbed a bag of potato chips. Taking the chair across from Jeb, he took a big bite of his sandwich.
    Amusement glimmered in Jeb's eyes. “You're welcome.”
    Mingo looked confused. Then he grinned. “Hey, I just bypassed all unnecessary chatter. You know you'd have told me to get myself something to eat. I just anticipated you.”
    Jeb shook his head and took a bite of his own sandwich. “So what are you doing out here? Weren't you supposed to be doing something in the backcountry today? Checking culverts or something like that?”
    Mingo worked for the Department of Forestry and was attached to the small substation just outside of St. Galen's. His range of territory was in the Mendocino National Forest that lay to the east and about ten miles beyond the valley in the mountains. “Yep. And I did that already. Was up and checking out the various sites by daybreak. Even though it's cooler in the mountains, I didn't want to be clambering all over in this heat. Besides, it's lunchtime.”
    They ate in silence a moment, then Mingo asked, “So? What are you doing on your vacation?”
    The vacation was a sore spot. Jeb loved his job—so much so that he viewed taking time off more as punishment than a pleasure. Because of that, he rarely took time off and it just accumulated and accumulated on the books. It had reached the point where Bob Craddock, the sheriff himself, had ordered Jeb to use some of it up. Grumbling and cursing, Jeb had complied, wondering what in the hell he was going to do for a whole damned month.
    Picking up a potato chip from the pile near Mingo's plate, he said, “Let's see, now. I've rebuilt all the fences—they weren't in bad shape so that didn't take long. I hung a couple of pictures in the living room that I had in the spare room. Changed the oil on the truck. Repainted my bathroom. Oh, and on Monday I finished that stall and rented an airless sprayer and painted the barn—Grecian blue if you're interested. Very exciting stuff. I don't know if my heart can stand much more of it.”
    Mingo winced. “You know, you're not really getting into the spirit of things. You should have gone away somewhere. Like San Francisco. Or LA. Gotten a taste of the big, bad cities.” He winked. “And big, bad women.”
    “A woman is the last thing I need,” Jeb muttered, his eyes