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and keep it by the back door. Or, better yet, build a section of fence to keep that black monster out of Sammy’s play area. Getting a gun might not be a bad idea, either.
    Meredith reeled to a stop. Dear heaven, what was she thinking? The last time she’d handled a firearm was shortly before she left home to attend college, and since her marriage to Dan, she could barely stand to look at a weapon.
    Enough of this . She could obsess later about ways to keep her daughter safe. Right now, she needed to act calm and help Sammy put the incident behind her.
    “You never did answer me,” Meredith said. “What sounds good for supper?”
    Sammy kept her face pressed against Meredith’s neck. “I don’t care.”
    “You don’t? Wow! Does that mean I can fix”—she searched her mind for the food Sammy detested most—“ beets ?”
    The child shuddered. “Yuck! Not beets, Mommy. I hate ’em.”
    “Well, you did say you didn’t care. I’ve got it! How about okra?”
    “Nasty. It tastes like snot.”
    “And how would you know?” Meredith felt the child’s mouth curve against her neck in a halfhearted smile. “Sammy Kenyon! For shame.”
    “I di’n’t never!” Sammy protested, rearing back to scowl indignantly.
    Moving toward the wobbly dinette set she’d picked up for a song at a thrift shop, Meredith tweaked the child’s button nose. “I’m only teasing you.” The chair rocked as she set Sammy on the yellow plastic cushion and hunkered beside her. “Smiles?”
    The child tried, her forced grin displaying tiny, unevenly spaced front teeth.
    “Bigger,” Meredith ordered with mock sternness. When Sammy grinned more broadly, Meredith tousled the child’s hair. “Now I’ve got my pretty little girl back. How about sandwiches and soup for supper?”
    “The kind with letters?”
    “Soup with letters, coming up.” Meredith pushed herself erect. “Do you think you’ll be able to spell Samantha this time with no mistakes?”
    “Maybe,” Sammy replied solemnly.
    As Meredith rummaged through the cupboard, she heard Sammy nervously swinging her feet, the heel of one small tennis shoe thumping the chair leg. If only her life were as easy to organize as canned goods, Meredith thought wistfully. Soups in one row, vegetables sorted as to type. Aside from a few mouse droppings that had appeared since she’d scrubbed the shelves, there were no surprises here.
    If only she could say the same for Heath Masters. He was everything the newspapers and television proclaimed him to be—big, hard-edged, and intimidating. No wonder a group of parents were circulating a petition to get him recalled. Even less surprising was the fact that his law enforcement tactics had drawn national attention.
    Anyone who let a dog like that run loose was a lunatic .

Chapter 3
    Waiting for someone to answer his call, Heath held the phone to one ear and shoved a heaping spoonful of gooey macaroni into his mouth. The pasta wasn’t quite done and tasted like dirty rubber.
    “Wynema County Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Bailey speakin’. May I help you?”
    Heath gulped. “Hey, Charlie.” He could almost see the deputy, fiftyish and thick at the waist, his bald head gleaming. “I need to ask you a favor. You real busy tonight?”
    “Hell, yes, I’m busy. Scamp Hollister beat the shit out of his old lady again.”
    “Fantastic. Is Cora all right?”
    “Bradford took her to the ER for stitches. The son of a bitch beaned her with a beer bottle. Other than that, I think she’ll live. Scamp’s bellarin’ like a stuck hog about bein’ locked up, though. Bein’ a royal pain in the arse.”
    Heath shoved his bowl of macaroni away and ran a hand over his hair. “Well, I’m glad to hear Cora’s okay. She’s a nice lady.”
    “Too nice for Scamp.” Bailey grew quiet for a moment. “So, what’s the favor?”
    “I need a twelve-seven for the RO, Oregon plate, SAV—235. Can you run it for me?”
    “Son, I can eat acorns and fart oak