Big Sky Country

by Linda Lael Miller

  Joslyn grinned. “Is that why you danced with Hutch Carmody?” she asked lightly.

  “Probably,” Kendra replied, her tone rueful, though a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. “What’s your excuse?”

  “For dancing with Hutch?”

  “For dancing with Slade,” Kendra said.

  “I’m a sucker for punishment,” Joslyn answered cheerfully. “There’s something about him—”

  “Raw sexual magnetism, maybe?” Kendra prompted, beginning to perk up as the caffeine hit her bloodstream.

  “You noticed,” Joslyn joked.

  “It’s hard not to,” Kendra replied. “I think God was showing off a little when He decided to throw Slade Barlow together.”

  “Amen,” agreed Joslyn.

  Kendra chuckled. “And then there’s Hutch.”

  Joslyn waited.

  Kendra stared off into a distance that wasn’t visible to Joslyn. “We dated for a while,” she said, very quietly. “Hutch and I, that is.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Joslyn said almost accusingly. She’d known, of course, that Kendra was holding things back, just as she was. “What happened?”

  “I met my husband,” Kendra replied, after a long time. “Jeffrey.”

  “Oh,” Joslyn said. “Love at first sight?”

  “Hardly,” Kendra said, avoiding Joslyn’s gaze. “Hutch and I had had a fight—it was over something stupid, I can’t even remember what—and we broke up. Even then, I thought it was temporary, but I hadn’t counted on Hutch Carmody’s thick skull or his pride. Things got out of control, fast, and the next thing I knew, I was getting married—hoping right up until the ‘I do’s’ that Hutch would storm in and stop the wedding.” She paused, let out a shaky breath. “He didn’t, obviously.”

  “But the other day, you said—”

  “That I blamed my husband for destroying my faith in love,” Kendra interrupted quietly. “That’s what I wanted you to believe—wanted myself to believe, but the truth is, Jeffrey didn’t break my heart—I did. With some help from Hutch.”

  Joslyn took that in, sighed and finally nodded. People did crazy things when they were in love.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SUNDAY WAS A WORKDAY for Slade, and he was in his office bright and early, dismissing the night deputy and brewing himself a pot of strong coffee. Things were quiet, the jail cells empty except for the local derelict, Lyle Hoskins, who’d needed a place to sleep the night before and was now snoring away with all the delicacy of a dull buzz saw. When Lyle woke up, Slade would tell him to make use of the prisoners’ shower and give him a county voucher for breakfast over at the Butter Biscuit Café. In the meantime, Slade accepted with resignation, he’d just have to put up with the racket.

  He’d been checking APBs on his computer for the last little while, but now he looked down at Jasper, who was resting on the floor at his feet, brown eyes rolled up toward him. The effect was one of comical curiosity.

  “You sound almost that bad when you’re really zonked out,” he told the dog companionably, referring to Lyle’s resonant snoring.

  Jasper whimpered slightly, but didn’t raise his muzzle from his outstretched forelegs. He was just getting comfortable, according to his body language, and if Slade would just shut up and let him get some shut-eye, all would be right in his little dog world.

  Slade looked around when the office door swung open and Deputy Treat McQuillan swaggered in, wearing a fresh uniform and a grudging expression.

  Slade wasn’t surprised to see McQuillan, since he’d summoned the man by radio soon after arriving at work half an hour before, but the deputy’s attitude took him somewhat aback. Treat McQuillan lacked for a lot of things, but brass wasn’t one of them.

  “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?” McQuillan asked, almost snarling the question. He was short, his body lean and lanky, and he had a beaked nose and bright, birdlike eyes that seemed lidless, since he so rarely blinked. Always on the lookout for a slight, that was McQuillan.

  Why anybody, including a loving mother, would dub the guy “Treat,” even as a baby, was a mystery to Slade. He must have looked like a California condor right from the first.

  Maybe it was a family name. Or maybe it came out of a magazine, like “Slade,” he thought, with a brief touch of amusement.

  “I’m glad you could make it in,” Slade responded, his tone deliberately mild. McQuillan got under his hide just by breathing, and that wasn’t right. Where was all that self-control people credited him with? “Since you seem to have a challenge turning up for your regular shifts on time and all.”

  McQuillan glared at him. The nephew of the late, great Wilkes McQuillan, who’d served as the sheriff of Parable County for over thirty years and been a very popular man throughout his tenure, Treat had expected to take over the job when his uncle died suddenly of a heart attack and left the office up for grabs. Treat had made no secret of the fact that he felt out-and-out entitled to the badge and everything that came with it, as if there was some kind of divine-right-of-kings thing going.

  Treat had barely made it onto the ballot, though, and Slade’s landslide victory still stuck in his craw, even after five-plus years. That much was obvious.

  “Boone’s been complaining about me again, hasn’t he?” Treat demanded. His two front teeth overlapped slightly, and his eyes were set too close together, giving him a mean look that, unfortunately, tallied with his behavior.

  Slade leaned back in his desk chair and reached down to scratch Jasper’s ear when the dog somewhat belatedly got to all four feet and growled.

  “We’re not talking about Boone,” Slade pointed out. “We’re talking about you.”

  In a perfect world, McQuillan wouldn’t stand a chance of getting elected sheriff if Slade stepped down—everybody knew he was a petty hothead with too many imaginary scores to settle—but it wasn’t a perfect world now, was it? The plain truth was, nobody else wanted the job, with its long hours, famously low pay and almost constant tedium, so McQuillan would probably run unopposed.

  And he’d make one lousy sheriff.

  “You’d like to get rid of me, wouldn’t you?” McQuillan challenged, clenching his fists at his sides. His size didn’t do a hell of a lot for his self-esteem, Slade supposed. Treat was what Callie called a “banty rooster,” always strutting around, hoping to run into trouble and willing to create some if he didn’t. Yes, sir, Treat’s whole life, it seemed to Slade, was about proving things.

  Must have been exhausting.

  Treat seemed to get angrier when Slade didn’t respond to the accusation. “I’ll tell you what your problem is, Barlow. I remind you too much of my uncle—the best sheriff this county ever had.”

  Slade sighed and left off scratching Jasper’s ear to cup both hands behind his head, lean back in his chair and regard his deputy long and hard before he spoke again. “Don’t flatter yourself, McQuillan,” he said flatly. “Yes, Wilkes was a first-class sheriff and a good man. But all you have in common with him is your last name.”

  McQuillan reddened at that, tightened his fists so the knuckles showed white.

  Bring it, Slade thought silently. Come right over this desk and go for my throat, because that would give me the dual pleasures of firing your worthless ass and kicking it for good measure.

  Treat didn’t bite, but he was still seething. “You’ve lost your edge, Sheriff,” he taunted. “Everybody knows you hate this job, that you’d rather dig post holes and drive cattle like some throwback to the Old West, so why don’t you just resign and be done with it?”

  “You’re on thin ice here, Treat,” Slade said without raising his voice.

  Treat braced his hands on the edge of Slade’s desk and leaned in. “You’ve even got money,” he ranted, his ears going a dull red and sort of glowing, as if they were lit up from the inside, “now that old John Carmody took pity on you and left you what should have gone to Hutch. You know why John did that, Slade?”

  Slade r
ose slowly to his full height. He was letting McQuillan get to him again, and he knew it, but knowing didn’t make it better.

  Treat McQuillan backed off a step or two, but he wasn’t through running his mouth. “It wasn’t because the old man finally decided to claim you, after all those years,” he continued. “It was because he and Hutch never got along. Not from day one. Carmody wanted to get under Hutch’s hide, pay him back for all the grief he caused, that’s all, and what better way to do it than to practically disown him and make damn sure the whole county knew the story?”

  Slade could feel a vein pulsing under his right temple, and he saw red at the periphery of his vision.

  His voice came out gravel-rough. “Get out,” he said. “And don’t come back until I put your name on the duty roster.”

  Jasper must have been as fed up with McQuillan as Slade was, because he growled in earnest now and made a move to round the desk.

  Swiftly, Slade bent to grab hold of the dog’s collar and restrain him.

  “That dog makes a move on me,” Treat sputtered, already heading for the door, “and I’ll shoot him.”

  “Don’t even think about doing that,” Slade said. All his life, he could have said what he’d do in any given situation. He was all about self-control, balance, calm consideration of every angle. But here, in McQuillan, was the exception.

  Under certain circumstances, Slade knew, he could hurt this guy.

  Maybe McQuillan saw that disturbing truth rise in Slade’s eyes, or maybe he just sensed it. In any case, he finally figured out that he ought to leave and stalked out of the office, slamming the door so hard behind him that the glass panel bearing Slade’s name and title rattled in its frame.

  Now that there was no immediate threat of mayhem, Slade let go of Jasper’s collar and sank back into his chair, closing his eyes. He felt sick to his stomach, and that twitch in his temple was a hammering beat now, pounding a headache into the side of his brain.

  He took slow, deep breaths.

  His stepdaughter was on her way to Parable, he reminded himself. And she needed a father—not a maniac.

  Lyle, no doubt awakened by the confrontation just past, rattled the bars of the holding cell just then and called out in a charitable tone, “You can let me out now, Sheriff. Once I grab a shower, I’ll be good to go.”

  Slade smiled at the crazy normality of the moment and pushed back his chair, stood up and took the cell keys from a drawer in his desk.

  Lyle was all gray bristle, from his almost nonexistent buzz cut to his beard. He was probably in his sixties, though it was hard to tell, since Slade couldn’t recall him ever looking any other way than he did right now, and he seemed to consider being Parable’s most eccentric citizen as his moral duty. Lyle didn’t drink, but sometimes he didn’t take his medications, either, and when that happened, all bets were off.

  He might take a notion to strip off all his clothes and walk the white line on the highway like a tightrope, for example. Or decide to live in the town park, like a homeless person.

  Once, when he’d been missing for several days, a thing that often happened with Lyle, Slade and Boone Taylor had searched for him, from one end of the county to the other, and finally found him hiding out in a culvert just outside of town. He’d been absolutely certain that civil war had broken out between Montana and Idaho, and the bombs were about to start falling at any moment.

  “Spud missiles,” Boone had cracked at the time. “The worst kind.”

  They’d taken Lyle to a mental hospital in Great Falls that day, in the backseat of Slade’s truck. Soon as his medications had had time to build up in his system, Lyle had been released, and he’d caught the first bus back home.

  “You hungry?” Slade asked, opening the cell door. The shower set aside for the use of inmates was down the hallway—it wasn’t as if this was maximum security or anything.

  Lyle scurried past him and picked up the paper bag he usually had with him when he visited the county jail. From experience, Slade knew it contained fresh clothes, a bath towel from home, toothpaste and a brush. “Only if you’re going to give me one of them meal tickets you always seem to have handy,” he replied. “I spent the last of my allowance on an LED-powered hair-growing helmet I saw on TV, and they cut off my credit over at the Butter Biscuit months ago. Why, Essie won’t even trust me for a slice of pie!”

  Slade quelled a grin. “Of course you’ll get your voucher,” he said. “Go take your shower and I’ll have it made out by the time you get back.”

  Clutching his paper bag, Lyle went off to do as he’d been told.

  When he returned, ten minutes later, he glowed pink from a thorough scrubbing, and he had his eye peeled for the promised voucher.

  To Lyle, a free meal was serious business—since his wealthy sister controlled the purse strings—and so, for some inexplicable reason, was growing a head of hair.

  Lyle rubbed his stubby little hands together, probably anticipating his usual order of bacon, eggs and biscuits. He wore overalls, an old pair of high-tops with the laces broken off and a flannel shirt that wasn’t fit for the average rag bag. “Hand over the coupon, Sheriff,” he said. “I’m so starved, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”

  Slade studied Lyle’s grizzled pate, frowning a little, as he held out the voucher.

  “Did it work?” he asked finally.

  “Did what work?” Lyle countered, snatching the slip of paper from Slade’s hand.

  “The hair-growing gizmo you mentioned,” Slade said, careful to keep a straight face.

  Lyle looked self-conscious for a moment and ran a hand over his nearly bald head. “It hasn’t got here yet,” he explained, aggrieved. “Delivery takes four to six weeks, unless you pay extra for the special shipping and handling.”

  Lyle enjoyed watching infomercials on TV, between shopping channel marathons, much to his long-suffering sister Myra’s consternation. Myra had never married and, in her opinion, the responsibility for that, at least partially, lay at her brother’s door, him being crazier than a bedbug and all. Fortunately, she and Lyle had inherited a big brick house and a sizable sum of money after both their parents had died of old age, because neither one of them could have earned a living, even when they were young.

  “Well,” Slade drawled, “when it gets here, let me know how it works.”

  Lyle, already on his way out, spared him an exasperated glance. “Why?” he asked. “You thinkin’ of ordering one for yourself? Don’t know why you’d do that, Sheriff—you already got plenty of hair.”

  Slade bit the inside of his lower lip so he wouldn’t grin. “Just curious, that’s all,” he said easily.

  That pleased Lyle. He nodded, clutching his paper bag, which now contained the clothes he’d had on since the day before, if not longer, and headed out to have breakfast as a guest of Parable County.

  * * *

  ONCE KENDRA HAD FINISHED her coffee and gone, Joslyn went inside the guesthouse, took a quick shower and dressed in black shorts and a yellow sun top. She wound her damp hair up into a knot on top of her head, fixed it there with a plastic squeeze clip and fired up her computer.

  As soon as she’d logged on, she ran a search for local lost-pet notices on the animal shelter’s site, just in case someone was looking for Lucy-Maude.

  The grainy photos of half a dozen found cats were posted there, along with several dogs and a couple of ferrets, all awaiting their owners at Parable’s own Paws for Reflection.

  Joslyn’s eyes burned slightly as she studied the images. She wanted to bring them all home, cats, dogs and ferrets, but obviously that wasn’t possible.

  She glanced down at plump Lucy-Maude, sitting imperiously in the center of a hooked rug Opal had made years ago when she’d been on a crafting kick, and wondered where the animal belonged and if anyone missed her.

  With a sigh, Joslyn reached for her purse, rummaged for her smartphone and snapped a picture of Lucy-Maude. Then, still impressed by the wonders of tec
hnology even after all her experience with it, she zapped the photo from her phone to her computer. Adding it to the other Paws posts took two seconds.

  “Found,” she wrote. “Healthy gray cat, age unknown, female, with amber eyes. Expecting babies, soon.”

  If Lucy-Maude’s owners happened to see her picture on the site, they could contact the people at the shelter, who would in turn get in touch with Joslyn. She drew a deep breath, entered her phone numbers in the proper boxes, and then let out a very deep sigh as she clicked on the confirmation button. A part of her hoped that no one would claim Lucy-Maude, because then she could keep her.

  Right, taunted her practical side. Kittens and all.

  She imagined a litter of mewing gray fluff balls frolicking all over the guesthouse and smiled a bit sadly. Instant Crazy Cat Lady, she thought, considering the scene. Just add me.

  Then she got up, crossed to Lucy-Maude and lifted her gently into her arms, nuzzling her silken ruff. “Don’t you worry,” she promised the purring feline. “I’ll find your people—and homes for all your babies, too. Good ones.”

  “Meow,” observed Lucy-Maude, brushing Joslyn’s cheek with her cold little nose and tickly whiskers.

  A knock at the open door off the kitchen, clearly visible from the living room because the whole place was space-challenged, made Joslyn straighten her spine and set the cat down carefully.

  Hutch was standing in the opening, leaning indolently against the door frame, his fine mouth crooked up in a grin. “Hi,” he said. “I just stopped by to see if you were up for some lunch over at the Butter Biscuit and maybe a horseback ride afterward.”

  Recalling what Kendra had told her that morning, Joslyn hesitated. Then she told herself to stop being silly—Hutch was her friend, and there was no disloyalty in accepting at least part of his invitation.

  “Yes to lunch, no to the horseback ride,” she said, glad to see Hutch and, at the same time, grappling with the odd and totally unreasonable wish that the suggestion had come from Slade instead. “You know I’m hopeless with horses, my bogus stint as the Parable County Rodeo Queen notwithstanding.”