"I'm sorry, Miss Fleming," Gretchen Latrell said, turning her back on me. "I can't talk to you."

"Deputy," I growled between clenched teeth, doing my best not to let my redheaded temper out into the light while it begged me for freedom. "Deputy Fleming."

The facility manager shrugged, circling her desk and heading for her chair, her small but well-appointed office cluttered with files, riding gear and heavy with the scent of saddle soap and horses. "Doctor," she said, ...