The next day came too early for the young man. He shifted carefully, smoothing back the swing of dark hair that fell to cover her face as he eased away from her.
It caused something akin to physical pain to disentangle himself from her.
Some of this morning's regret came from knowing what faced him.
His work was challenging, rewarding to a great degree, and usually well within his ability. He'd never sought the job title he bore now and had been pleased to simply be an officer. Acting as chief put the weight of responsibility on his shoulders and that weight sometimes chaffed. Butting heads with the local sheriff- - who bore that responsibility with seeming ease and assurance- - was salt in the wounds.
Mathias washed and dressed and took one last glance at the sleeping form in his bed before taking firm, steady footsteps down the hall toward what the day would bring him.
At the other end of the house another man's boots stomped an unending tattoo on his porch. As he neared the screen door and recognized the silhouetted figure Mathias sighed. It was inevitable.
"Help you, Sherriff?" he asked as he pushed the door open and let it slap closed behind him.
He pulled the same stunt on the father that he had on the daughter the night before; he spat out his short words, then kept on walking.
"Yeah, you can." Walt Longmire paused, considered his options. The younger man was- - at heart- - a good and decent cop. He'd been rough around the edges as a kid and had hung with a crowd of troublemakers from the res. His bloodline was impeccably pure and as a teenager he'd been vocally proud of that fact. Walt's hat slapped his thigh as he took in his daughter's dusty jeep pulled up beside the house. Mathias threw something in the back of his truck, then opened his driver's side door.
"You want to do this here or at the station?" he finally asked.
"Whose station?"
"Either."
It was a small concession. He had to talk to the young man, had to clear as many facts about his investigation as possible. And like it or not, this man knew his people. He'd be the likely source of the insight the lawman needed.
"Do you have the crime scene images with you?" At Longmire's nod the young man shook his head. "Amber has not gotten them from me. I'd rather she not wake up to those pictures." There was a pregnant pause. Walt waited it out.
"I'd like to see Michael Raven Stone," Mathias said at last. "Unless there is something in my records that you think will aid us in clearing the boy's name."
"I'll meet you in town, then," Walt conceded, stepping down to swing into his own truck. "If you think of something we can have it faxed over or come back for it later."
The northern branch of Absaroka County's Sherriff's Department had once been the library. Macawi hated that he loved that history. His time in libraries was limited to time spent with Amber. Good, happy, innocent times when she had the power over him to make him do anything, go anywhere. He'd discovered his love of books waiting for her to finish browsing the dark, dim, quiet spaces here in town. In college she'd helped him through research papers and difficult assignments seated at the big, sturdy tables. Both facilities had housed artwork as well… sculpture and paintings and intricate rugs. If now he preferred to download his reading material onto one of the devices in his arsenal he could freely admit that his love of libraries hadn't dimmed over the past decade.
Longmire's bootsteps interrupted his introspection. The white officer had wisely kept his speed down on the reservation, knowing full well that every time he stepped foot over that line there were those who hoped to catch him breaking their laws.
"May I speak with Michael first?" Macawi asked.
Longmire nodded, then gestured. "You know the way…"
Surprise showed on the faces of those who looked up at their entry. Michael Raven Stone lay disconsolate on the bunk to the right of the door. Ruby's sweet, grandmotherly form kept sentry at her desk just opposite.
"Ma'am," Mathias said respectfully, ducking his head. The deputies in the room he largely ignored as he stepped to the cage in which one of his people was trapped. He greeted the young man in the native tongue.
"Michael. How are you?"
"Vic, open it up, please," Longmire requested as he shrugged out of his coat.
Surprise wasn't quite the word for the glances he received from his team. Luckily no one questioned the order.
"Is my mother all right?"
"Yes," Mathias answered almost automatically. He amended his words. "She frets over her children now."
"I didn't do it, I promise," Michael Raven Stone swore as he stood and met the man at the bars while the door was unlocked. His face was pale and drawn but his eyes met Macawi's steadily. The past thirty hours had robbed those eyes of any boyhood left; it was a man's face that he looked into.
"I know. We will find who did."
"I'm not sorry he's dead. But I didn't kill him," Michael continued as he stepped through the door Vic held open for him. "I don't think Katherine did, either. We were raised better."