“Well, understand that I haven’t been here for one in a few years but… yeah, this is pretty well how I remember them.”
He lowered his head and locked eyes with her. The lopsided smile gracing her beautiful face told him that while she found the situation pretty amusing, it was also true. He groaned. “I guess I better get to those guys before they do any damage.”
She motioned toward the opposite side of the square. “I don’t think you’ll have far to go.”
Sure enough, Bronson turned in time to see not two, but three race-ready riding lawnmowers bouncing along the barrier fence of hay bales that marked the racetrack down Second Street, one of them almost creaming the stop sign near Missy’s Soaps and Sundries. He turned back to Heather. “I think that’s my cue.”
“I’ll save you some supper.” She gave him a little finger wave, turned, and made her way toward the café.
Tugging his hat back down on his head, Bronson turned and walked to the overenthusiastic racers. His buddies from the academy would never believe this.
****
By the time the evening rush finally waned, Heather was ready to drop from exhaustion. Between the spectators, the racers, and their entourage, The Pickle had been hopping for the past four hours, seemingly nonstop. All she wanted to do right now was go upstairs, take a long hot shower, and climb into bed.
After she saw Bronson, of course.
Erma poked her head past the swinging door into the kitchen. “All’s clear up here. Sheriff’s not here yet. Want me to lock up when I leave?”
“No, that’s okay. You go get some rest. I’ll lock up.” Heather waved to the aging waitress and placed two large slices of meatloaf on a plate along with a healthy heap of creamy potatoes and green beans. “Besides, it’s meatloaf night. Bronson never misses it.”
“Alright. Night, hon.” The swinging door swooshed lightly as Erma pulled back.
No sooner had the front door closed behind Erma than the phone rang. Setting the plate of food to the side, Heather wiped her hands on a dishtowel and picked up the receiver of the old rotary dial phone. “Fried Pickle.”
“Evenin’.”
There was no need to ask who was calling. The honey-and-whiskey voice drifted through the dated artifact and washed over her like a warm summer breeze. “Evenin’, Sheriff. You’re late for supper.”
“Yeah, I know, but something came up across town, and I got hung up.”
Heather laughed. “Another brawl at the Burro?” The local watering hole was the only bar in a fifty-mile radius and tended to get a little rowdy on payday when the cowboys came in from the local ranches. “Or was it a case of overzealous racers pitting their man-mowers against each other in a drag race down Connors Avenue?”
“Uh, no, not tonight.” Silence hung thick on the line between them. “This is actually more of an official call.”
“Oh. What’s going on?” Her nerves stretched tight. There was nothing in the world that she could think of that would garner a call from the police. Since she lived above The Pickle, she didn’t drive her car. She didn’t own a house in town. She didn’t even have any family left since Granny Joy had passed. The only thing that she could think of was…
“We need to talk about Gus.”
Heather groaned and dropped her head to the cool stainless counter. “What’s he done now?”
“Well, he got away from Billy tonight and went callin’ over to Mrs. Pearson’s. She caught him peeking through her living room window, and when she went out to run him off… well, he relieved himself on her front walkway. It appears that he’s the mysterious prowler we’ve been huntin’ for.”
“Mmm...” Great. Just great. “Where is he now?”
“I’ve got him locked up over at the station.”
Heather straightened and patted her jeans pockets for the keys to the front door of the café. “I’ll be right over.” Without waiting for a reply, she dropped the phone in its cradle, wrapped Bronson’s dinner plate in plastic wrap, and bolted through the front door.
A quick jog up First Street, and she was pushing through the front door of the police station. Bronson sat at one of the two desks that occupied the small front room. Four cells were located down a short hallway that ran the center of the building. They didn’t really need much space since crime in the area was usually limited to cow tipping and bar room beefs that were as good as forgotten by morning.
He glanced up from the papers before him as she entered the room.
Her heart battered the inside of her chest, and she fought to remain calm. It wasn’t just her worry over Gus, but she had been getting butterflies lately any time she got around Bronson. Well, that and the fact that she’d never been in a police station for anything other than the occasional supper delivery or cookie drop-off.
His felt cowboy hat lay upturned on the desk. A tangle of dark locks faintly retained the impression of his hatband. Dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones, and a strong jaw gave him a rugged, dangerous look that rivaled any cowboy movie star she had ever seen on screen.
“I brought you dinner.” She set the plate down near the corner of his desk.
He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Thank you.”
Heather shoved her hands into the front pockets of her worn jeans. “I guess he’s in the back?”
Bronson leaned back in his chair and nodded slowly.
“Can I take him home?”
“Home where?” Bronson eyed her. “I know he doesn’t live with you. Far as I can tell, he just moves around and stays with anyone who will put up with him for awhile.”
Her heart sank. “That’s not fair, Bronson.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ve gotta understand where I’m comin’ from.” With a deep sigh, he sat up and braced his elbows on the desk. “How long are you going to try and keep this up? Tarnation, in the few months that I’ve been here, I’ve had at least a half-dozen calls about him, and he doesn’t stay in any one place for more than a week or so. Aren’t you runnin’ out of places to stash him?”
Anger bubbled deep in her stomach. “What am I supposed to do? Wash my hands of him? Let someone else deal with him?” She sliced a hand through the air, punctuating her point. “Forget about him and just let him slip through the cracks?” Heather shook her head. “I can’t. Granny Joy would want me to look after him the same way she would have.”
“I understand that, but your granny wouldn’t have wanted you to be runnin’ yourself ragged trying to find someone, anyone, who’s willing to take him in for a spell.” Bronson scrubbed a hand over his face, the rasp of his whiskers against his palm echoing in the silent room. “The only reason nobody’s pushed the issue is because they know what it means to you to look after him. You mean a lot to this town and the folks in it, but this has got to come to an end.”
With a deep sigh, Bronson stood. “I’ll give you a week to find him a permanent place, then as the sheriff, I’m gonna have to step in.”
“Fine.” Heather crossed her arms over her chest and gazed past him down the hall. “Can we leave?”
“You can, but I think it’s best if Gus stays here until you have someplace to take him.” He moved around the desk to stand in front of her. “I’m sorry, but I can’t risk anyone getting hurt.”
Her anger fizzled a bit. He was right. She would never forgive herself if someone got hurt because Gus was out and about when he shouldn’t be. Bronson was right, it was his job and responsibility to make sure everyone was safe. It ruffled her feathers that he was putting down his foot and giving her a time limit, but the rational part of her knew it was nothing personal. “I’d still like to see him before I leave.”
With a nod, Bronson led the way down the dim hall toward the back of the building. At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a steel door that led into a courtyard at the rear of the small jail, which at times doubled as the impound lot.
Heather glanced around the space until her gaze landed on the cause for so much of the mischief in he
r life. There, near the far corner of the chain-link enclosed yard, stood the twenty-six-year-old gelding, Gus. His once-gleaming russet coat was now liberally dusted with grey. His head drooped a bit and his back sagged. Once-pert ears now reclined almost permanently, unless of course he thought there might be a yummy treat around.
Silently, he stood dozing, swaying ever so faintly as his horsey dreams probably took him to distant memories of younger, more carefree days. Well, at least that’s what Granny Joy had always said old horses dreamed about. She had claimed that old horses couldn’t be that much different than old people. Dreams were made for reliving the glory days.
A lone tear slid down her cheek as she watched the old guy. His long life had been filled with hard work on a cattle ranch. Granny Joy had always said it was a shame that such loyal animals hadn’t been loved nearly enough in their lives.
When his owner died, the county had taken the small ranch due to back property taxes. It had been the only home Gus had ever known. He had no one. Heather had done everything she could to try and find him a home, but the weeks had slipped by and no one in town had been willing to keep another mouth around for long. The deep drought had driven the price of feed and hay through the roof. Locals had a hard enough time keeping their own stock fed, let alone a horse that didn’t belong to them. Granted, Heather had paid for most of his feed and hay, but that still meant someone had to be willing to house him, and the list of willing folks was getting pretty slim. Most folks weren’t real keen on having a horse around that might die any time.
At times like this, she wished she had more of the spunk Granny Joy had been known for. Her scathingly brilliant ideas had come in almost every fashion, from helping to boost the Historical Society fundraisers to giving marriage advice to those who had come looking for answers. She’d been a wiz with problems and had had a knack for charming folks and getting them to help out when they’d been on the fence about whatever issue the grapevine had been currently buzzing about. It had helped that everyone in town adored her.
This would have been a snap for Granny.
“A week, you said?” Heather swiped the tear from her cheek and turned to face Bronson.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll figure something out.” She turned and made her way back through the police department toward the front door with Bronson following close on her heels. It was getting late, and if she only had a week to find a home for Gus, that meant the coming days were going to be busier than normal for her. Big Creek Days or not, she was going to have to make time to find a permanent solution.
“Heather, I’d be happy to help in any way that I can.” Bronson stepped around her and gave the front door a nudge, swinging it open.
“Thanks, but I’m sure I can manage.” She shook her head. “You’ve got more important things to deal with than worrying about finding an old horse a home.”
Bronson gave her a sad smile and nodded. “The offer stands.”
Her heart fluttered. Sexy. Even though she was a bit irritated at him for locking Gus up, she understood his point. He could probably give her an animal-at-large citation, and she would still want to grab him and kiss the fire out of him. “I appreciate it.”
Bronson stepped closer, his right arm still extended, keeping the front door open. Heat radiated off his body, scorching her through layers of clothes. His scent wrapped around her, velvety and smooth with a hint of earthiness. She bit back a moan.
“Um… Heather…” He cleared his throat.
Oh no. This was it. The moment that she had been waiting for. She had seen him like this about a dozen times in the past couple months, and she was sure she knew what was coming. Leave it to a man to pick the worst possible time to ask a girl out on a date. She needed to say something before he did. Not that she didn’t want him to ask, but this was so not the right time. Do it. Say something witty. Sweet. “Chicken fried steak tomorrow.” Yeah, that was a real winner.
Bronson blinked his eyes and stared at her for what seemed like a full minute. Then, slowly he stepped back and nodded. “Sounds good.”
Heat climbed up her neck. Really? College educated and the best thing she could come up with was what was on the special’s menu for the next day? Judging by the slightly confused expression marring Bronson’s handsome face, she would have been better off saying anything but that. “I need to go. Lots to do this week.” She ducked her head and made a beeline back to the café, not even slowing down when he’d called out to her.
She climbed the stairs at the rear of The Pickle and unlocked her apartment door. He probably thought she was stark raving mad. It would serve her right if he never asked her out. And why would he now? No man wanted to date a nut job with a knack for shoving her foot in her mouth and making a total fool of herself.
Wednesday
Bronson couldn’t help but grin as he watched the kids chasing the greased pigs around the makeshift enclosure. Squeals of delight mixed with ones of panic as a dozen or so children all fought to capture the five thirty-pound piglets that had been selected for the event.
Each of the pint-sized swine were greased from head to toe, making the ability to actually maintain a grip on them that much harder. But with the promise of a home-baked pie from the bakery, along with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, the kids were all bound and determined to be one of the winners and end up with a pink porker secure in their arms.
“This is one of my favorite events.”
Bronson turned his head and smiled at the mayor, who offered his hand. “Yeah. Something about watching those youngsters having all that fun makes the smell worthwhile.”
Mayor Higgins chuckled. “Once the bingo game is over, the fire department will hose off the streets.”
“Thank goodness for small favors.”
“We tried holding these two events out at the rodeo grounds once, but it just wasn’t the same. Seems the folks would rather put up with the odor for a half-day than traipse out to the other side of town.” The mayor eyed the corral that currently housed one of the six heifers who were assisting with the bingo game.
The bovine were rotated into the pen one at a time. The asphalt had been marked like a bingo board, complete with all the appropriate numbers. When not in play, the girls were kept in a holding pen that had a large tank of water and plenty of feed, so they were able to “produce” the plops that would end up being called into play for the bingo players to mark off on their cards.
As with the normal game, the first person to mark the pattern and call “COW PLOP” would win. Unlike the regular game, though, there was only one round played, since even cows could only “go” so many times.
Bronson shook his head. Who in the world had ever thought up Cow Patty Bingo? He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to that question.
Letting his gaze roam over the crowd, he smiled. It sure was popular, though. Men and woman alike all mingled in the general area around the big bingo card and its current plopper, chatting and awaiting the next number called.
His eyes stopped when he spotted Heather in the crowd. She was laughing and talking with a few of the local ranchers’ wives. Bronson was constantly amazed with her. No matter the situation, she seemed to handle it with ease. After the doozie she’d been handed last night, he had wondered if she would even be around at the events today.
Guilt gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Maybe he should have handled the whole Gus situation differently. In a million years, Bronson would have never thought he’d be the source of any pain or discomfort for Heather. Quite the opposite, in fact. He always figured that if he played his cards right, maybe he could swoop in and be her hero. From what, he had no idea, but that had been his hope.
Watching her now, he had his doubts she would ever see him as anything but the county fuzz who threw her beloved pet in the clink. “Mayor, what can you tell me about Heather and Gus?”
“Sheriff, that’s a slippery slope, and one that as an elected official yourself, I’m sure you’
ll understand if I tell you I want to stay out of it as much as I can.”
“Is it really that touchy a subject around here?” Bronson turned his attention back to the man beside him.
“Well, yes and no.” Mayor Higgins smiled and glanced around the crowd, nodding at a few folks. “Most of the residents here in town are willing to do just about anything for Heather. Gus makes her happy so…”
Bronson caught his drift. Even if townsfolk didn’t like having an aging equine wandering around their town, no one had the heart to break the news to Heather. “I understand.”
The mayor nodded. “I’m glad you do, son. There might be hope for your future in this town after all.” He smiled and turned to join a group of local businessmen passing by.
Great. It was beginning to look like he had made a mistake locking the old guy up. But town safety had to come first. Right?
He needed to talk to Heather. Needed to clear the air. Even though he had told her his reasons last night, a new day brought about a clearer mind. Maybe he could get her to understand. Maybe they could put their heads together to come up with a good solution for Gus.
Scanning the crowd again, he attempted to locate her in the undulating mass. A bright red head of curls caught his attention. Where there was Beth Ann, Heather was usually close by.
Tugging his hat down securely on his head, he made his way toward her best friend.
She caught sight of him as he drew near, her smile slipping a bit. “Well, if it isn’t our law-abiding Sheriff Andrews. Thrown any more geriatrics in the pokie today?”
Billy nudged her. “Be nice.”
She smiled up at Billy. “Oh, I’m just teasing.” Then she returned her gaze to Bronson, her smile not so warm. “Sorta.”
Bronson cleared his throat and tried his best to smile. “Have you seen Heather?”
The redhead eyed him suspiciously. “You looking to cause more trouble?”
“Now, come on, Beth Ann. The sheriff’s just doin’ his job.” Billy hugged her a little closer.
Fried Pickles and the Fuzz Page 3
