Colorado's Finest

by Lynn, Sheryl

  “Sorry, you’re too old for me.”

  “Ha!” She fluffed hair against her palm and batted her eyelashes. “You know what Ben Franklin says about older women. Not only experienced, but grateful.”

  He nearly spewed coffee all over his papers. He coughed and thumped his chest. “Don’t say things like that when my mouth is full!”

  She leaned her arms on the bar and lowered her head so she peered up at him. A look both sexy and disconcerting. “I’ve seen how you look at me.”

  That sounded way too serious. And way too true. He pretended they still continued the lighthearted banter. “Hate to break it to you, Red, but you aren’t my type.”

  An eyebrow lifted in a skeptical arch. “I’ve seen the women you’ve fooled yourself into thinking are your type.”

  “Then you know you aren’t it.”

  “Tourists, here today, gone tomorrow. Or those high-maintenance women you wine and dine. They genuinely like you because you’re a nice guy. Only it doesn’t take long for them to figure out that you work sixteen-hour days, and you always have too much important stuff to do. Then, when they get too close, you convince yourself they’re being unreasonably demanding. So when you dump them, it isn’t your fault.”

  She wasn’t funny anymore.

  She shook a finger. “You deliberately pick a type that’s absolutely wrong for you. You won’t risk anyone getting close enough to look at that big hole in your heart.”

  Rippling back muscles accompanied the tightening of his diaphragm. Diana Dover was an insightful woman. He wasn’t the only one who’d noticed her double dose of feminine intuition. Some folks went so far as to call her psychic. The last place he wanted her was inside his head. “I pay you to waitress, not psychoanalyze me.”

  “It’s about time somebody did. It’s pathetic. You live alone behind a bar and you’re determined to work yourself into an early grave.” She leaned in close enough for him to catch the scent of honey that always surrounded her. It was as if she bathed in the stuff. Her voice lowered, as smooth and smoky as her mesmerizing eyes. “Unless you acknowledge your grief, give it voice, it’s never going to heal.”

  Lost in the depths of her eyes, he wanted to tell her all about his wife and how he’d let her down and how it wasn’t grief that gnawed his guts, it was guilt. Or maybe grief and guilt. Or maybe he was just a lousy human being who’d forfeited his right to pursue happiness.

  He never talked about that with anybody. Ever. Period.

  He jerked back so roughly he nearly slipped off the stool. “You’re full of crap, Red. My only problem is where I’m going to get the five hundred bucks I need for payroll.”

  She straightened. Her smile bugged the dickens out of him. Planting a big, wet kiss on her would wipe that knowing grin right off her smug face. He’d show her sexual tension.

  “All prayers are answered,” she said. She swiped a finger diagonally across her chest. “Honest.”

  “So I raise my hands to heaven.” He did so, his fingers splayed. He forced his features into a pious expression. “God, gimme five hundred bucks so I can make payroll.”

  “You’re lucky the universe forgives sarcasm. But yes, that’s all there is to it. And don’t forget to say thank you.”

  “You make me nuts,” he muttered.

  “We all have a purpose in life.” She reached behind her to untie her apron. “I have to run home and check on my kids. I’ll be back in an hour. Can you manage without me?”

  Kids? She kept bees, chickens and a horse, but other than that he’d been under the impression that she lived alone. “You took in foster kids or something?”

  “When I say kids, I am speaking literally. I bought a flock of goats. Young wethers. They’re adorable.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Fiber. Cashmere comes from goats. I’m going to learn to spin and weave wool. Pretty cool, huh? I’m thinking about getting a llama, too.”

  He stacked paperwork. “You’re a laugh a minute.”

  Sheriff Gil Vance entered the bar. He swept off his big Stetson hat and slid onto the stool next to Tate’s.

  “Hello, sheriff,” Diana said. “Coffee?”

  “To go. One cream, three sugars.”

  “Did you bring your cup?”

  “Just make him a coffee to go,” Tate said.

  “Styrofoam is hard on the environment. If everyone brought in cups, we wouldn’t contribute so much to pollution.”

  Gil chuckled at the ongoing argument. He was half Southern Ute, and his face was round, almost childishly soft. People who believed him soft quickly learned the error of their ways. “She’s right, Tate. I’ll make sure I bring a cup next time.”

  “Thank you.” She tossed Tate a snotty smile and rummaged under the counter for a to-go cup.

  “I got a problem,” Gil said. “Hate to spring it on you like this, but Bill Yarrow came down with shingles.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Heck if I know.”

  Diana placed a large styrofoam cup of coffee in front of the sheriff. “Chicken pox,” she said. Both men turned to her. “It’s the same virus that causes chicken pox. Sometimes it flares up in adults, affecting nerves. It’s extremely painful, and can be quite debilitating.”

  “Oh,” Gil said. His face creased in a broad smile. “Ever thought about going on Jeopardy?”

  “I don’t believe competition is good for the soul.”

  “So, anyway,” Tate said, interrupting what could turn into a long discussion, “Bill has chicken pox.”

  “Shingles. And he says he can’t even wear trousers, much less a gun belt. I know it’s your week off, but I’ve got no one else who can pull night patrol.”

  Tate worked part-time for the sheriff, one week on, and one week off. Pulling the night shift meant screwing up his sleep. Plus he had a thousand and one small chores to do around the bar.

  “I’d do it myself, but I’m already pulling double shifts. And you know I can’t put a volunteer deputy in a cruiser.”

  Tate waved a hand. “All right, all right. I can do it. Ten tonight?”

  Gil hopped off the stool and clapped a hand against Tate’s back. “If it wasn’t the start of summer, I’d forget regular night patrol. But you know how it is.”

  Tate did. The Maya Valley’s year-round population was around ten thousand people, tops. The sheriff’s budget was tight, his staff small. He depended heavily on part-time deputies and volunteers. When the weather warmed and tourists poured into the Rocky Mountains to hike, fish, camp and mountain climb, the sheriff’s resources were stretched to the limits.

  After Gil left, Tate rested his face in his hands. He had to reseat the toilet in the ladies’ room, climb onto the roof and find the source of a leak, clean out the drain trap in the kitchen—the list went on and on. Plus he had a meeting with a real estate agent to discuss how to price the business and how to market it.

  Diana touched his arm. She had her jacket on and a backpack hanging from one shoulder. “Not to be nosy or anything, but how much do you get paid for a week of night patrol?”

  “That is nosy.” He grinned ruefully. “After Uncle Sam takes his pound of flesh, I clear about five-fifty. Why do you ask?” Then he knew why she asked. He stared openmouthed at the stack of bills. He’d just made payroll.

  “Don’t forget to say thank you,” she said breezily and headed for the door. Her hair bounced against her shoulders, catching fluorescent light, sparking red and gold.

  He watched her go and wondered how it was she so easily got under his skin and why her observations bugged him. He liked his life. He wasn’t looking for change.

  “Sexual tension,” he muttered and rolled his eyes. Maybe if Diana were a cool blonde instead of a nutty redhead who couldn’t keep her opinions to herself, he’d follow up on the flirtation.

  Him and Diana? Ha! Not in a million years.

  Chapter Two

  Yawning and scratching, Tate wandered into the kitchen. He inhale
d the aromas of braised pork, roasted green chilies and fried batter. He was going to miss the smell of this place.

  He’d spent an uneventful night on patrol. Two speeding tickets, a minor accident involving a car and an elk—in which the animal suffered less damage than the car—and two DUIs. A stint in the Marine Corps had taught him how to fall asleep at any time, under any circumstances, but he disliked daytime sleep. It gave him outrageous dreams. This morning he’d dreamed Diana had been naked in a murky pond, urging him to jump into the water with her.

  The cook turned from the sink. Soapsuds dripped off her rubber gloves. Consuela had been cooking at the Shack for close to thirty years. Tate had inherited her when he bought the place. She scared the hell out of him, but made up for it by working magic in the kitchen.

  Her eyes glittered like shards of obsidian.

  “What did I do now?” he asked warily.

  She tossed her head, sweeping glossy black hair off her shoulders. She had dozens of grandchildren, but seemed to have stopped aging around twenty-five. Tate never had figured out how old she was and never dared to ask.

  “Not you,” she said, “Diana.”

  He looked uneasily at the batwing doors separating the kitchen from the dining room. If Diana had missed work, and Consuela had to take care of the lunch crowd by herself, he’d never hear the end of it. “What did she do?”

  Consuela shook a gloved finger. “You! What did you do to her, eh?”

  “Nothing, I swear.”

  Diana pushed backward through the doors. She lugged a bus tray piled high with dishes and glassware. She gave Tate a feeble smile and carried the dirty dishes to the sink.

  “Good afternoon, Red,” he said.

  “Hi,” she murmured and returned to the dining room.

  “See!” Consuela exclaimed. “All day she’s been like that. Sad as a mama that lost her babes. And I want—” The words turned into a stream of rapid Spanish. Tate couldn’t interpret the speech, but understood the sentiment. He beat it out of the kitchen.

  Three elderly men, dressed like triplets in dusty jeans, snap-front shirts straining over pot bellies and grimy baseball caps marked with the local feed store logo, occupied a table. Tate lifted a hand in greeting.

  Shattering crockery made him jump.

  Diana stood rigidly, head down, fists clenched. She stared at broken plates.

  An uneasy feeling told Tate she was about to burst into tears. He grabbed a broom and dust pan.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You can take it out of my pay.” She crouched to pick up the larger pieces.

  “Accidents happen.” He crouched next to her. “What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head.

  In the year he’d known her, he’d never seen her worried or upset. “Don’t lie to me.”

  She lifted her face. Her normally serene eyes were strained. “I’m okay.”

  “If you’re sick or something, scoot out of here. I can handle the place.”

  “Hey, Red,” a customer called. “Got my change, honey?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She jumped up, and knocked a chair with her hip. Tate shot out an arm to steady her. Usually she seemed to float rather than walk, so her clumsiness baffled him. She hurried to the table, and dug into the pockets of her apron. She handed over a fistful of money.

  He waved a bill. “I gave you a ten, Red. Don’t need a twenty in change.”

  She groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she muttered and exchanged the twenty-dollar bill for a one-dollar bill.

  “Hey, Tate,” the man called. “Give this poor girl a vacation. You’re working her near to death.”

  Tate finished cleaning up the broken dishes. After the customers left, he asked Diana again what was wrong.

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

  He didn’t know how to stop worrying. Especially when on the following day, she was even more distracted and upset than the day before. After the lunch crowd cleared out, he snagged her by the elbow. He took a wash rag out of her hand and urged her to sit at a table. He swung a chair around backward and sat on it, facing her. The old vinyl seat creaked beneath his weight.

  She hung her head. Hair draped over her face.

  He used a finger to part the coppery curtain. “Aside from the fact that I’m a cop and I know when people are lying, I’m your friend. So if you don’t want me interrogating you, tell me what’s the matter.”

  She cocked her head as if listening to Consuela bustling around in the kitchen. “It’s not your concern.”

  “It is when my dishes get broken.”

  Her lips twitched as if she tried to smile, but couldn’t quite make it. She sighed heavily and averted her gaze. “Well, hypothetically speaking then.”

  He hated it when people spoke “hypothetically.” It generally denoted very bad news. Eyebrows raised, she stared wide-eyed, pleading silently for understanding. He shoved down his impatience. “Okay, hypothetically, what’s your problem?”

  “Let’s suppose,” she began, “a person has a family member. Let’s say, a sister. And this person hasn’t seen the sister in many years. Mostly because the sister is really bad news.”

  He didn’t know she had a sister. Then again, he didn’t know much about Diana Dover outside of the bar. “How bad?”

  “Oh…” She hummed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Say, going to jail kind of bad? Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “This person knows the sister is involved in something. It’s only right to contact…authorities, but it’s her sister. What would you do in a situation like that?”

  He conjured a mental map of her property, knowing he’d be visiting before this day was over. Her home was five miles north of town, abutting national forest, on land too rocky for either raising cattle or growing hay. “It would depend on a number of factors.”

  “Such as?”

  Her sad expression ate at him, made him want to haul her onto his lap and pet her. A hole in the vinyl chair back gave him something to fiddle with. “If this person has knowledge that the sister is a fugitive, then she is legally obligated to contact the law. Otherwise, she could be charged with accessory after the fact, or hindering prosecution.”

  It didn’t appear to be the answer she was hoping for. “What if this person only suspects something bad is going on?”

  He’d run into this situation too many times to count. Law-abiding people wanted to do the right thing, but it was difficult when it meant blowing the whistle on a loved one. No matter how he hardened himself, he always felt the heartbreak of mothers, fathers, siblings and spouses who gave up fugitive relatives or testified against them in court. He’d often asked himself if it were something he could do. Her misery told him she was struggling hard with her conscience.

  “If it was me, and I only suspected a problem, I’d consider it gossip. No sense passing on gossip without any facts to back it up.”

  She looked relieved.

  “If I had actual knowledge of a crime, it would be my duty to report it to authorities. I might call in an anonymous tip. Or encourage the sister to do the right thing.”

  Her shoulders sagged. She sighed again.

  “Cut the crap,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  She looked at the ceiling, the floor, the table—anywhere but at him. “It’s my sister, Bernie—Bernadette. She’s at my place. I think she’s in some kind of trouble.” She lifted her shoulders. “She’s always in trouble.”

  He tossed a significant look at the telephone hanging on the wall behind the bar. “A deputy can be up there in fifteen minutes.”

  “No! I mean, like you said, if I don’t know any facts then it’s gossip.”

  He checked his watch. “Oscar and Susan are coming on at five. I don’t have to report in to the sheriff until ten. How about I pop over to your place and have a chat with your sister? Low key, no pressure. Then if nothing is going on, you can show me y
our baby goats.”

  A mingling of worry and relief filled her eyes. “You’re a good friend, Tate.”

  He pushed off the chair. “Okay then. So quit breaking my plates.”

  “Deal.”

  He stepped away, then stopped and turned around. “You’re sure it’s your sister bugging you? Sure it isn’t that sexual tension thing? All that unrequited love stuff must be rough on your system.”

  Her mouth bloomed with the first genuine smile he’d seen on her in two days. “You have it backward,” she said. “You’re the one who has the hots for me.”

  “Whatever. Get back to work.”

  ON THE DRIVE HOME from work, Diana made up her mind. The days of enabling her sister to escape the consequences of her actions were past. She would resist Bernie’s charm, ignore the sweet talk, refuse to let emotions override good sense. Bernie had to take responsibility for herself.

  Her chest still ached with guilty anxiety. Guilt she didn’t deserve, but suffered anyway. On the plus side, if Tate did arrest Bernie, she’d get proper medical attention for her gunshot wound.

  Balance, she mused. Good and bad, dark and light, joy and sorrow—none was possible without the other. The universe abhorred imbalance as much as nature abhorred a vacuum. Life had been entirely too placid lately. So the universe gave her Bernadette.

  She parked the pickup inside the shed that served as a garage. Bernie’s car, looking road-weary and neglected, was pulled off to the side of the driveway, untouched since Bernie had arrived.

  Her puppy squirmed from beneath the porch and galloped across the driveway. Wriggling, squirming and whining, the young Border collie let Diana know how much she’d been missed. Diana crouched to love up the dog, cooing, “Sweet Tippy, darling Tippy. Is him a good boy, hmm?” She received an enthusiastic face washing in return.

  With Tippy on her heels, Diana entered the house. She called, “Bernie?” She opened the bedroom door. “Bernadette?”