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strike me as a turn-the-other-cheek kind of guy.’
    Yeah, she had that right. He’d have merrily ground Jim Barrett’s face into the ground when he and his sons had joined the
     fight. But he’d learned over the years to pick his battles. It had happened – shit, it had been almost inevitable, once he’d
     set foot back in town – and he understood the reasons why.
    ‘I figured if swinging a few at me helped Mick Barrett get some long-held anger out, I could deal with an old man’s punches.’
    She switched off the ignition and yanked the keys out. ‘Yes, well it wasn’t just Mick, was it? Were you going to let the four
     of them continue to use you as a punching bag?’
    ‘No. But I read the crowd, just as you did. If I’d fought back it would have been a dozen rather than four. Four I can handle.
     More than that and the odds aren’t great.’
    And as he said the words, he remembered the news he’d heard a couple of years back, and her anger and reaction to what had
     happened suddenly began to make sense. A mob of locals had bashed an old guy to death when they’d thought he was responsible
     for the abduction and murder of the little Sutherland girl. It had been the first in a string of deaths that had haunted the
     place while a killer played his twisted games.
    ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ she muttered, with a soul-weary sigh. ‘Come inside and we’ll do something about your face.’
    She led him not into the station itself, but into the residence behind it. Her personal space. Her home. Flicking on lights
     in the kitchen, she shoved a pile of books and papers on the pine kitchen table to one side and motioned for him to sit at
     the end.
    ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit,’ she murmured and disappeared down a corridor. He took the chance to glance around the room.
     The place was lightly cluttered with the signs of a busy life. The books and papers she’d shoved aside, a small pile of unopened
     mail, a coffee mug with remnant grounds in the bottom, a handful of dishes piled in the drainer.
    One bowl, one plate, one mug, he noticed. If she shared this place with anyone, they didn’t eat much. Like it was any of his
     business, anyway.
    He was only here because … because cooperating with the police made for less trouble, that was why. Not because she’d come
     raging in like some damn Valkyrie to break up the fight, outnumbered but undaunted, dealing with the situation without resorting
     to any of the weapons on her belt. Packing all that power and authority into her slight five-foot-six frame.
    She came back into the room, dropped a police service first-aid kit on the floor beside the table, and rummaged in the freezer
     for an ice-pack. Sliding a chair around in front of him, she sat down and began to check his face.
    She was all professional and impersonal, but underneath her competent composure he sensed she was distracted, on edge,
distant –
as though only her professional self paid any attention to him. He, on the other hand … well, it had beena while since he’d been up close and personal with a woman, and having this one only inches from his face was reminding him
     of that fact, in no uncertain terms.
    Cool, deft fingers swiped antiseptic over the cut on his lip, and under his cheekbone where he’d caught one, hard. The sting
     contrasted sharply with the light intimacy of her touch.
    ‘You said you weren’t staying,’ she said, and he grabbed on to the opening to reel his thoughts away from dangerous ground.
    ‘I didn’t plan on it. The person I came to see is out tonight.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Jeanie Menotti.’
    ‘Oh.’ Surprise registered in the single syllable, as if she’d been expecting him to meet with one of Dungirri’s more dubious
     characters, instead of an elderly widow. She raised a wary eyebrow. ‘She never mentioned you were coming.’
    ‘She isn’t expecting me.’
    ‘Hmmm.’ She finished with his face, and he breathed a little easier when she moved away