Hutch grinned. “Two daughters,” he repeated good-naturedly. “Madison and Shannon.”
“And more on the way, unless I miss my guess,” Susan chattered. She filled Slade’s cup and Boone’s. She focused on him then. “Least Hutch and Slade are carrying on their family names. That’s more than I can say for the sheriff, here.”
Susan meant well, they knew that. She just lived to interfere, that was all. She mothered the whole damn town, and wasn’t above nagging.
“Last time I checked,” Boone retorted, “I had two sons. No doubt they’ll both grow up and start making babies of their own, when the time is right.”
Susan shook a finger at him. “You need a wife,” she insisted. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject!”
“Fat chance,” Boone muttered, reaching for his coffee cup.
Susan sashayed away, giving other customers a good-natured ration of guff as she passed, headed back to the kitchen.
“She’s right, of course,” Hutch observed moderately.
“Yep,” Slade agreed, favoring Boone with a lopsided grin as they all got out their wallets to divvy up the check and contribute to Susan’s tip. “You definitely need a wife.”
Even though Boone had already come to that conclusion himself, he didn’t appreciate the reminder.
“You’ll take over for me on concert night?” he asked, pushing back his chair and rising. “Joslyn won’t mind?”
“She’ll understand,” Slade said. And what he didn’t say registered just as clearly. Joslyn would probably have pinned on the sheriff’s badge for concert night herself, if there was any chance of Tara and Boone getting together.
Boone nodded, not quite able to manage a thank-you, and left the restaurant, walking back to the courthouse, where he’d left his cruiser. Scamp had been holding down the office, along with Becky, the clerk/dispatcher who worked whenever her busy social schedule permitted.
Becky had worked for Slade and, before that, for Sheriff McQuillan. She took a lot of cruises, dyed her hair a different color every other week, and was almost as nosy as Susan over at the Butter Biscuit.
“The mayor’s on his way over,” she said the moment Boone stepped through the door and greeted his deputy-dog.
“Great,” Boone replied grimly. “Did he say why?”
Becky shook her head. She was a redhead this time around, and her blue polyester pantsuit looked like it was struggling to contain her. “There’s talk, though.”
“Of course there’s talk,” Boone said. He walked to the coffeemaker, started to pour himself a mug of joe, and decided against it. He was nervous enough as it was. “Mind filling me in on some of the details?”
Becky never minded filling anybody in on anything. “My brother-in-law is on the town council,” she said, in an oddly reverent tone, “and there was an emergency meeting last night, over at Mr. Hale’s house. According to Dixie—that’s my sister—”
“I know Dixie is your sister, Becky,” Boone said, tight-jawed.
Becky prattled right on, as though he hadn’t said anything, though she clearly disapproved of the interruption. “According to Dixie,” she repeated, “there are some big doings under way—”
Before she could finish, she was interrupted again, though this time it was the mayor’s fault, not Boone’s.
“It’s time this town had its own police force,” Hannibal Hale blustered, as he whooshed through the doorway. “And I’ve hired Treat McQuillan to head it up.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SINCE HE KNEW the mayor’s big news was meant to annoy him, Boone struggled hard not to grin, punch the air with one fist and yell, YES!
He’d been looking for an excuse to fire Treat McQuillan since the day he’d taken office, and now the matter had been taken out of his hands by the gods of municipal government. Of course, McQuillan might turn out to be a bigger pain in the ass as police chief than he’d ever been as a sheriff’s deputy.
“Well,” Boone drawled, finding it extra difficult to maintain his straight face and, for that reason, not daring to glance in Becky’s direction, “I reckon that was bound to happen sooner or later. Is this going to be a one-man operation?”
Hale looked a mite let down at Boone’s reaction, or lack thereof. The old man loved a good ruckus, which tended to make for some lively town council meetings. “We’re starting out small,” the mayor said, bending to pat Scamp on the head and thus proving that even cantankerous curmudgeons have some good in them.
“How small?” Boone asked mildly. McQuillan with no backup would be worse, in terms of law enforcement efficiency, than no Parable Police Department at all.
Hale forgot about the dog, nodded tersely to Becky, who was, after all, a voter, and replied, “I’ve given Treat leave to hire three men, all of them part-time, at least at the beginning.” He paused to swell up a little, like a rooster smack in the middle of a flock of hens. “Unlike many communities—or even the U.S. government, I dare say—Parable’s budget boasts a sizable surplus. Our first priority is to build a facility, and a committee will be duly appointed to oversee construction.”
Boone hoped the mayor wasn’t fixing to ask if the new police department could share his office and jail cells in the interim, for two reasons. First, it would suck, bumping shoulders with Treat McQuillan all day every day and, second, because this was the county courthouse, not the town hall. “You have a site picked out?” he asked, idly tapping a file folder against the palm of his left hand.
“We do,” Hale replied, looking pride-swollen again. “Thanks to those damn vandals who tore down the water tower—and don’t think I’m going to let that go, Boone, because I’m not—we’re all set. Groundbreaking will be within a month.”
“And in the meantime...?” Boone ventured. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Becky sitting up very straight in her office chair, ears practically perked forward, she was listening so carefully.
“Treat and the others can work out of my study until their own building is ready,” Hale said. He paused and looked Boone straight in the eye, as if daring him to counter what he meant to say next. “In the event someone requires detainment, we’ve asked the county commissioner for permission to borrow one of your empty cells.” Another pause. “They’re empty most of the time, anyhow.”
Boone’s jaw tightened a little, for he knew what the old coot was implying: that there were all kinds of criminals running loose in Parable County, courtesy of the sheriff’s department’s—his—low arrest rate. He’d be a fool to take the bait, though, and since the mayor already had the county commissioner on his side, there was no real point in arguing.
It galled him, though, to know that McQuillan, that pompous ass, would soon be swaggering around town, flashing his badge and locking up everybody who jaywalked or spit on the sidewalk, and right here in his jail.
“Parable County has a very low crime rate,” Becky put in snappishly, rising to Boone’s defense. She was undependable and not all that efficient in her office skills, but at least she was loyal. “Thanks to Sheriff Boone Taylor and his deputies.”
Boone made a mental note to send Becky flowers on Secretary’s Day—whenever that was. His office assistant usually just skipped the middleman—Boone himself—and ordered her own bouquet at county expense.
“Of course I’ll have to replace Deputy McQuillan,” he said, all business. As if the local paperboy couldn’t have done a better job than good ole Treat. “When can I post the employment notice on the county website?”
Boone hoped he hadn’t sounded too eager; it would be just like Hannibal Hale to prolong McQuillan’s hiring process just to spite his favorite adversary.
“I’m sure you’ll want Deputy McQuillan to give at least two weeks’ notice,” Hale said. For the first time since he’d blown into Boone’s office like a dust devil off the prairie, he didn’t seem all that confident.
“I wouldn’t want to hold up the process,” Boone said generously, at last allowing himself to
grin. “Your Honor, Treat McQuillan is all yours, with my compliments.”
And my sympathies.
* * *
“IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE I used to live here, isn’t it?” Kendra said with a slight smile as she and Joslyn and Tara pulled up in front of Casey Elder’s mansion in Tara’s vehicle just before noon. Shea, having the day off from her job at the community center’s day care facility, had taken Elle and Erin over to Three Trees to have lunch and see a movie, while the Carmodys’ new nanny, Bella, looked after Madison and little Shannon out at Whisper Creek Ranch.
Joslyn smiled, a little wistfully, Tara thought. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about myself,” she said.
Tara shut off the SUV and gave both of them a look. Joslyn had grown up in the elegant monstrosity, still known as the Rossiter house back then, and Kendra and her first husband, Jeffrey, had eventually purchased the place and moved in. “Guess that makes me odd woman out,” Tara teased, pretending to envy the others. “I’m the only woman in our friendly foursome who’s never lived in this house.”
Joslyn made a comical face as she climbed out of the backseat and stood on the sidewalk, looking slender and cool in her summery yellow cotton dress and sleek sandals. Kendra, who was probably a walloping ten pounds overweight, post-baby, wore a pink-and-white-striped caftan that would be too big for her in another week or two.
“Poor Miss Penthouse Overlooking Central Park,” Joslyn joked good-naturedly. “You’ve been so deprived. Stick with us, kiddo, and we’ll show you how the fancy folks roll.”
Tara laughed, though with anyone else, she probably would have retorted that the penthouse had never really been her home—it had always belonged to James. It was still a sore spot, she realized. Before she could think of a comeback, though, Casey appeared on the porch.
Tiny, with cascades of naturally red hair, now pinned up in a bulky ponytail, and impossibly green eyes, the famous singer looked almost ordinary in pressed jeans and a royal-blue silk shirt. Her feet were bare and her two cats, both coal-black and fluffy, curled around her ankles, purring wildly. Part of a litter born to Joslyn’s near-human feline, Lucy-Maude, they bore no resemblance whatsoever to their mother, nor to the three other kittens from the batch, all of whom had gone to loving homes.
Joslyn, in charge of finding families for Lucy-Maude’s thriving offspring, wouldn’t have had it any other way.
“Howdy!” Casey called out, paying the cats no mind. “Come on in, ladies, the coffee’s on and lunch is almost ready!”
With that soft Texas accent of hers, she could have been standing in front of a log cabin or a remote ranch house instead of the fanciest home in Parable County, Montana. Casey’s down-to-earth ways, like her wholesome looks and her staggering talent for music in any form, were part of her charm—and charm was something she had aplenty. Men liked her, and so did women, children and all manner of critters.
Tara, Joslyn and Kendra all waved back, juggling purses and shutting doors, and then stepped through the gate and headed single file up the front walk.
Joslyn was carrying a big bouquet of roses, red and yellow and white, plucked from her garden out at Windfall Ranch. “Opal says hello,” she said, mounting the front steps and handing the flowers to Casey. “Coals to Newcastle,” she added, “since you’ve got one of the most amazing gardens I’ve ever seen.”
Casey waved off the compliment and readily accepted the roses, cradling them in her arms like a beauty queen. “I was hoping Opal could join us,” she said, after taking an appreciative sniff of the bouquet. “And, by the way, there’s no such thing as too many flowers.”
“Opal has a hot date with the Reverend Dr. Walter Beaumont,” Joslyn replied with a twinkle. “Though she claims it’s just business as usual, overseeing choir practice and helping to compile the new church directory.”
Just then, the cats bolted, zipping into the shrubbery near the front door in pursuit of unsuspecting prey, and Casey stepped back, gesturing for her three visitors to precede her inside.
The entryway was massive, with light spilling through magnificent skylights high overhead, but the house might have been a split-level rancher for all the heed Casey seemed to pay to its grandeur.
Three chocolate Labrador retrievers, all adopted, dashed up the spectacular stairway, right behind Casey’s son, twelve-year-old Shane, and her daughter, Clare, who was thirteen. The dogs barked loudly and the kids laughed, egging them on.
“Try to pretend you’re civilized,” Casey called after the stampede with feigned exasperation. “We have company, in case you two haven’t noticed!”
“Sorry, Mom,” Clare shouted over the din, which subsided as the pack reached the second floor and headed for parts unknown.
Casey shook her head. “Those kids,” she said, but she was smiling the whole time, and her eyes were soft with love. “They learned their manners from the roadies and the guys in the band, I guess. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken them on the road with me so often, but, darn, I couldn’t just leave them for weeks at a time.”
“They’re wonderful,” Tara said, meaning it. Shane and Clare were bright, friendly and intelligent, as well as full of mischief, and despite Casey’s remark about their manners, they addressed men as “sir” and women as “ma’am,” among other unusual acts, like opening doors and carrying heavy things without being asked.
Which was not to say Casey’s life, or the lives of her children, were the proverbial open books. Though she was officially a part of their group, Casey had still had her secrets—no small feat, given that the tabloids and stringers from numerous trash TV shows featured her often, showing no particular compunction to tell the truth, and were constantly on the prowl for the next scandal—and those secrets mainly centered around her children.
Though she had never been married, Casey’s name had been romantically linked with various men in the music industry over the years. She’d gone into seclusion for both pregnancies, and she flat-out wasn’t saying who the father or fathers were.
Given that Tara hadn’t shared much of her past until recently, close as she’d been to Kendra and Joslyn, she wasn’t inclined to judge—or pry. Casey would confide in them when and if she was ready, and that was good enough for everybody. Intimacy mattered in their four-way friendship, but so did privacy.
After crossing through the massive and sparkling clean kitchen, Tara saw that the table had been beautifully set on the screened-in sunporch at the back of the house, overlooking glorious gardens and a charming little guesthouse, where Joslyn had lived briefly before her marriage to Slade Barlow. The uniformed housekeeper, Doris, greeted them with a smile and a tray of rolled-up washcloths, steaming hot, cheery as a flight attendant in first class.
Everybody took one, wiped their hands, and set the cloth back on Doris’s tray to be whisked away.
“Have a chair, you all,” Casey commanded warmly. “Let’s get the iced tea—and the girl-talk—flowing.”
The chairs were fashioned of white wrought iron, and the cushions were as brightly colored as the gardens outside, as though someone had captured samples of zinnias and roses, daisies and ferns, and woven them right into the fabric.
They sat, and Tara took a moment to admire the china place settings, each piece rimmed in exquisitely painted morning glories, and the crystal glasses twinkled as if there were tiny fairy lights hidden in their stems.
She sighed with contentment and almost instantly relaxed.
“Everybody in Parable appreciates what you’re doing for the McCullough family, Casey,” Kendra said with quiet sincerity. A cool and classically beautiful blonde, she made an intriguing contrast to her husband’s rough-and-tumble cowboy ways. “Lending them your jet—putting on benefit concerts—you are truly and totally amazing.”
“Here, here,” agreed Joslyn and Tara in unison, lifting their ice-filled glasses in a toast, though the tea hadn’t been poured yet.
Casey blushed slightly. “I’m not the only one helping out,�
�� she said modestly. “Opal’s church is planning at least one event, and some folks from the community center are gearing up to build wheelchair ramps at Patsy’s place, and widen some of the doorways, too.”
“Still,” Tara insisted. “You’re making an incredible contribution, and you deserve some credit.”
Casey’s hand shook a little as she reached for the handle of a crystal pitcher, filled with brown tea and slices of lemon, and her smile wobbled slightly on her full lips. “I’m no stranger to trouble myself,” she said, very quietly, not looking at any of the other women as she filled their glimmering glasses. “Besides, I’ve been so blessed in my life that giving back is the least I can do.”
“You’ve been blessed,” Kendra agreed gently, “but you’ve also worked very, very hard, and you have a great deal of talent.”
Casey seemed to relax a little, putting down the pitcher and sweeping up her guests in a single friendly glance tinged with amusement. “You know what my old granddaddy used to say about talent?” she began. “It’s not worth a heap of rusted bottle caps if you don’t work like hell to develop it.”
Doris reappeared just then, serving them each a luscious salad, sprinkled with fruit and walnuts and dried cranberries, before slipping away again.
Casey called a quiet “thanks” after the middle-aged woman, then picked up her fork and said, “There goes one of my biggest blessings. Doris runs this whole outfit—she’s like a mama to me and a grandmama to the kids. She even fusses over the band and the road guys.”
“Who would have thought there could be two Opals in the world?” Joslyn smiled.
“Amen to that,” Kendra agreed. “If they ever joined forces, it would be the end of war, poverty and tabloid talk shows.”
Everybody laughed, and the conversation turned to the “girl-talk” Casey and the rest of them had been anticipating all along.
There was no agenda—another refreshing thing, to Tara’s mind—and nobody mentioned her “date” with Boone Taylor, which was fine with her.
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