by Stacy Finz
Other than Jake, she didn’t have any friends here. Connie had reached out, but Sloane was leery of getting too close to anyone in the department. That left Brady. She still couldn’t figure out whether he was seeing anyone. There’d been no signs of female life on his side of the duplex, though a couple of nights he’d gone out until late. Not that she was keeping track.
She dragged herself into the kitchen, turned on the coffeemaker, and went to take a quick shower. After dressing, she assessed the stack of boxes that still lined her living room wall and decided to stay home and finish unpacking. Later, she’d go to Reno and buy paint. And groceries. At least sandwich meats for lunches, and dinner meals she could pop in the microwave.
She’d just poured herself a cup of coffee when someone knocked. She grabbed her weapon off the kitchen counter and made her way to the front door. Through the peephole stood a dark-haired woman about Sloane’s age and a dog. Some kind of an Australian shepherd mix.
Sloane tucked the gun in the back waistband of her jeans, covered it with her baggy sweatshirt, and opened the door. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m Harlee Roberts. I live just over the hill in the big log cabin house.”
Sloane had probably driven past the house during patrol. “Would you like to come in?”
Harlee told the dog—Max—to stay on the porch and followed Sloane into the living room.
“Sorry about the mess. I haven’t had time to completely unpack or organize.” Sloane cleared off the couch so Harlee could sit. “You want something to drink?” In LA, neighbors never came over to introduce themselves. Sloane had begun to think it was only a Midwestern thing.
“Some coffee if you have it made.” Harlee probably could smell the fresh-brewed pot. It was a small place, scent traveled.
“Sure. You want cream and sugar?”
“Just a little cream.”
Sloane went to the kitchen to fill a mug for Harlee and grab her own.
“You have really nice stuff,” Harlee said on Sloane’s return, and took the cup from her. “My mom owns a store in the Bay Area that sells a lot of things like yours. You’d like it. She also carries some of my husband’s pieces.”
“Your husband wouldn’t by any chance be the guy who made Brady’s rocking chair and swing?” She couldn’t remember his name off the top of her head. Something Irish.
“Yep. He also made the rockers at the Lumber Baron, the planters in the square, and the tables and benches at Lucky’s cowboy camp.”
“Brady said his studio was nearby. I’d love to come over sometime and get one.” She wondered if they were very expensive.
“Anytime,” Harlee said. “His studio is right behind our house. He built that too.”
“Have you guys lived here long?”
“Colin, about four years. I met him here when I moved into my family’s vacation cabin last fall. But I’ve been coming up since I was a kid. So you’re from LA, huh?”
“Chicago, originally.”
“Welcome. It’s a really nice town. Do you like to bowl? The reason I ask is that Darla . . . she runs the barbershop with her dad, Owen . . . and I are always looking for young, single people to come to our bowling parties. When we started, both Darla and I were single. Now she’s engaged to Wyatt Lambert.”
“Wyatt from Nugget PD?” Uh, duh. How many Wyatt Lamberts could there be in this town? Sloane had liked him instantly.
“Uh-huh. And Connie too. We’ve been trying to get Brady to come, but he says he hates bowling.”
Sloane wondered if that meant Brady was single. “I’ll come,” she said, thinking that it would be a good way to meet people.
“Great.” Harlee smiled. “Griffin, of the Gas and Go, and his mechanic, Rico, come. And Tawny Wade and Lucky Rodriguez recently joined the group.”
“Sounds like fun. Although I have to warn you, I’m not much of a bowler.”
Harlee laughed. “Neither are we. We mostly use it as an excuse to drink beer and socialize.”
That worked for Sloane. “When’s the next one?”
“I’ll talk to Darla. We’ll try to do it on a night both you and Wyatt aren’t on duty.”
“Sounds great,” Sloane said. “So do you work with your husband in his furniture business?”
“Occasionally I’ll pitch in with some of the office work. But I have my hands full with the Nugget Tribune. I own it, run it, and pretty much write all the stories.”
“Seriously?” After Brady told her about it, Sloane had gotten a subscription and scanned the online newspaper every day. The website had everything from national wire stories to local news. Even birth, wedding, and death announcements, recipes, a ranching column, and a fish report. “It’s a great newspaper.”
Harlee looked surprised. “Thanks. I don’t get that too often. The Nugget Mafia likes to say that if it was a ‘real newspaper’ ”—she made finger quotes in the air—“they could at least use it to wrap their steelhead in.”
Sloane knew the Nugget Mafia included the mayor, barber, and a bunch of other old guys who hung out either at the barbershop or the gas station, playing cards. They liked to call her “Blondie” and tell her how to do her job. The chief had told her to ignore them.
“The Nugget Tribune is the other reason I came,” Harlee continued. “I wanted to do a profile on you since you’re the newest addition to our police department.”
Caught off guard, Sloane sputtered. “Uh . . . I’d have to check with the chief.” The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself.
“Rhys won’t care,” Harlee assured her.
Sloane shrugged and tried to sound apologetic. “In LA we always had to go through the public information office to talk to the media. I’d feel better if I checked with him first.”
She didn’t want to seem difficult, she really didn’t. In this town, she got the sense that more than half the job was public outreach. But she didn’t want a reporter dredging up what had happened in Los Angeles and slapping it on the front page with a banner headline. She’d been lucky to have escaped the press in LA, especially after they found Sweeney dead.
The scandal had been mostly confined to the department. There was a slight chance that if the story had been leaked to the media, she would’ve had protection from the ceaseless threats, the awful phone calls in the middle of the night, and the dead rodents in her locker. Maybe she would’ve been transferred to a unit that had her back, instead of being stuck with the same detectives who nearly got her killed. But Sloane was more inclined to think that media attention would’ve made things worse. Much worse. And it had only been a matter of time before the LA Times or the Daily News had started sniffing around.
“Okay.” Harlee took another sip of her coffee and smiled like she was onto Sloane. “Brady didn’t want to do it either. Some people are shy about being in the paper. I get it. It took me a while to get Emily Mathews to do a cooking column, given how the press treated her when her daughter went missing.”
Sloane hadn’t met Emily Mathews, just knew she was a famous cookbook author and was married to the chief’s best friend, a cattle rancher. “What happened with her daughter?”
“She was kidnapped several years ago from Emily’s backyard in the Bay Area. The police and FBI never found her or the culprit.”
“Ah, Jesus,” Sloane said. “I remember reading about that case. The father was some big Silicon Valley lawyer, right?” Harlee nodded. “I had no idea she lived here now. Gosh, that’s just terrible.”
“Yeah. But you must see a lot of terrible things in your line of work.”
Why did Sloane get the feeling that Harlee was interviewing her? “I’m sure you do too.”
“When I worked for the San Francisco Call, yeah, all kinds of horrible crime and tragedies. Not here, though. I thought I’d miss the big stories, but not so much.”
Maybe Harlee didn’t, but Sloane knew she’d miss it after a while. She’d gotten into law enforcement to make a difference. How much o
f a difference could she make in a town where the bulk of the job required directing traffic and minding a wayward bear?
“She’s remarried, huh?” Sloane couldn’t stop thinking about Emily Mathews.
“To Clay McCreedy. He’s a former naval fighter pilot and the town hottie.”
Since Harlee had brought it up, Sloane asked, “About that: Does there seem to be a freakishly large number of good-looking men in this town? I mean, I lived in LA, land of beautiful people, but I’d say per capita Nugget has it beat. Am I crazy?”
Harlee busted out laughing. “You’re not crazy. It’s something about this mountain air. Although we have our fair share of nut jobs. Have you met the Addisons yet?”
“No. Who are they?”
“They own the Beary Quaint, that motor lodge outside of town with all the chainsaw bears and the swimming pool.” She made the cuckoo sign. “They wear creepy matching bear hoodies and are constantly accusing people of breaking the law. Don’t worry, you’ll get to know them.”
From Harlee’s description, Sloane couldn’t wait. She desperately wanted to ask about Brady’s status, but couldn’t find a casual way to slip it into the conversation. Harlee stayed another twenty minutes, regaling Sloane with stories about the town and its characters. By the time she left, Sloane felt like she’d made a new friend. She’d been invited to join Harlee, Darla, and a woman named Sam—one of Brady’s bosses—to the Ponderosa for happy hour. As long as Sloane didn’t have to work, she planned to take Harlee up on the offer.
This may not be my dream job, but I may as well enjoy myself while I’m here. She took her and Harlee’s mugs into the kitchen, did the dishes, and spent much of the afternoon unpacking and decorating the apartment with her pictures, knickknacks, pillows and rugs. It was too late to go to Reno for paint, but she’d make it next on her agenda. She was just leaving to go to the Nugget Market when Brady pulled up.
He got out of his van, looking ruggedly windblown. From the backpack he lugged with him, it looked like he’d been hiking.
“Hey.” He nudged his head at her, sat on the porch rocker, and removed his hiking boots. “You have the day off?”
“Yep. Spent it unpacking.”
“Where you headed?”
“To the grocery store,” she said. “You need anything?”
“I’m good.” He had that right. “See you later.”
Sloane would’ve invited him over later for a bite, in reciprocation for the pie and frittata he’d fixed for lunch the other day. But she felt intimidated cooking for him. Her best dish was spaghetti carbonara, which was neither original nor particularly good. But it was fast, and fed an end-of-the-day carb craving. Maybe she’d call her mother and get a few good recipes from the McBride family repertoire. She needed to check in anyway.
The market was nearly empty. Ethel, the nice lady who owned it with her husband, Stu, gave her a warm welcome. While on patrol she stopped by a few times a day and usually bought a bottle of water or a pack of gum. According to Jake, a couple of years ago the place had been held up by some strung-out guy. Weeks later, the robber took the chief’s wife hostage at the inn and Rhys shot him. Because they didn’t get much crime like that in Nugget, people were still talking about it. That, and the recent shooting and drug bust at a local ranch on the outskirts of town. It was the one everyone called a cowboy camp, which as far as Sloane could tell was a dude ranch. The owner was that Lucky Rodriguez guy who Harlee had mentioned was a member of the single bowlers group. According to Jake, he was also a world famous bull rider.
“You off today?” Ethel asked her.
“I am. It’s quiet, huh?”
“It got busy around two.”
Sloane grabbed a cart. “I’m stocking up.”
“You let me know if there is anything you can’t find, dear.”
“Thanks, Ethel.”
Healthy eaters always said you were supposed to shop the perimeter of the grocery store. Produce, dairy, meats—the fresh foods. Sloane always headed straight to the middle, where they kept the boxed and canned goods, then over to the frozen section. Today, she cruised each aisle, checking out the selection. It was a nice little store. No Trader Joe’s, but it carried all the necessities.
She filled her cart with her usual provisions, grabbed a couple of packaged meats from the deli section, and headed to the condiment shelves. On her way to the cash register, she perused the magazines. “Twenty Ways to Get Your Man.” She tossed the Cosmo into her cart.
After checking out, she went home. Brady’s van was gone again. Maybe he’d gone out to dinner. She unloaded, put her groceries away, and called her parents before it got too late with the two-hour time difference. Afterward, she warmed a can of tomato soup on the stovetop and made herself a grilled cheese. Good comfort food on a cold night. She listened for Brady’s van, thinking that if she timed it right she could bump into him while taking out the garbage.
But when ten o’clock rolled around, she gave up, changed into her pajamas, and crawled under her down comforter with her Cosmo. Sometime around midnight she heard movement next door, turned over, and went back to sleep.
Chapter 5
Nice of Lina to tell him that she’d moved back to Nugget, or at least was spending the bulk of her time here, now that she’d been accepted to the University of Nevada. Instead, he’d had to hear it from Owen, who’d found out about it from Darla, who’d gotten the story from Maddy while cutting her hair at the barbershop.
It pissed Griffin off.
Just another example of why she was too immature for him. That’s the reason they’d broken up in the first place. He’d wanted to give her space to be a college student and she’d misinterpreted that as him not being into her enough. Ridiculous.
Next month was her twentieth birthday—still too young for a twenty-eight-year-old man. He polished the chrome on the new bike he’d finished building. The owner, a corporate attorney from Reno, was scheduled to pick it up today and drop off a check for the remaining fifty thousand dollars he owed Griff. His custom motorcycle business, repair shop, tow service, and gas station had flourished since he’d bought the Gas and Go. Griffin wished he could say the same for Sierra Heights.
Morris, his financial adviser, had warned him that selling off the million-dollar homes in the gated community would take time. But Griff just wanted to enjoy living there without the hassle and upkeep of the whole development. When he sold most of the houses, the association fees would cover the maintenance and an elected board would enforce the covenants, conditions, and restrictions of the community. Although he could certainly afford to do it on his own, he didn’t want the headache. He’d prefer to have more time to focus on the Gas and Go.
Watching as three vehicles lined up for the automated car wash, Griff thought that had been his best innovation yet. It didn’t make money, but it got people to fill up their tanks for the free wash voucher. He started to head into the garage when he spotted an old International Harvester Scout pull up to one of his gas tanks. Lina’s truck.
He could ignore her or take the bull by the horns. Since it was just a matter of time before they ran into each other, he decided to get it out of the way now, rather than later.
He walked over to the pumps, took the gas nozzle out of her hand, and proceeded to fill the Scout’s tank “Hey. Heard you were back.”
She looked as beautiful as ever bundled up in a ski jacket and knit cap.
“Sort of. I live in Reno now.”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”
She shifted from one leg to the other. “I heard you’re seeing someone. . . I’m glad for you.”
He wasn’t seeing anyone, at least not anymore. Dana was a terrific woman. Smart, beautiful, good at her job. But he just hadn’t felt that zing. They still occasionally got together for a movie or drinks, but just as friends. Griff didn’t say anything, though. Last he’d heard Lina was involved with a student at USF. Someone more age appropriate. Maybe the guy would follow her u
p to Reno.
“I’m looking for a good used car,” she said, and motioned at the Scout. “This thing isn’t very reliable.” Sixteen months ago, when she’d left for college in San Francisco, he’d put a new transmission in for her. “So if you hear of anything, could you let Rhys or Maddy know?”
Not her. God forbid they talk to each other.
“Yeah, sure.” The nozzle clicked. He pulled it out of the tank, hung it back on the pump, and put her gas cap on. “Drive carefully.”
Griff walked away, climbed the stairs above the convenience store to his office, which formerly served as the old owner’s apartment, and buried himself in paperwork. At about four his client showed up with his wife, to pick up the bike. She’d driven him so he could ride the motorcycle home. Good evening for it, Griffin thought. Although the temperature hovered around thirty degrees, nothing but clear skies.
The guy seemed pretty psyched about his new toy.
“Tell your friends,” Griff said.
He decided to hit the Bun Boy on his way home, drove to the square, and parked in front of the fast-food joint. Colin Burke was in line ahead of him.
“How’s Lucky’s house coming along?” Griff asked him. The two had ordered and stood at the take-away window, waiting for their burgers and fries to come out.
“Pretty good so far.” Besides making kick-ass furniture, Colin worked with a local contractor, building homes. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his down jacket. “Just hope the weather holds. I heard Lina Shepard’s back?”
Griff nodded. “Yep.”
“How you doin’ with that?” The winter he and Lina had broken up, Colin had been his sounding board.
“Good,” Griff said, and lifted his shoulders. “Water under the bridge.”
“Yeah, right. Is she old enough to vote yet?”
Griffin pierced his friend with a look. “I’m staying away from her.”