River's Bend

by JoAnn Ross

  As soon as Cooper entered the building, a harried looking man in his fifties, sporting a crew cut and wearing a brown, ill-fitting suit, came marching toward him.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Mel Skinner complained without preamble.

  “Nice to see you, too, Mel,” Cooper said. “I came as soon as I got the call.”

  “Well, it wasn’t soon enough. You’ll never guess what the damn fool’s threatening to do this time.”

  “You know I’ve never been much for guessing games. Why don’t you just calm down and tell me why you felt the need to take me away from helping River’s Bend’s newest resident settle into her rental house?”

  His news stopped Mel Skinner in his tracks. “The widow’s staying?”

  “She’s considering it.”

  “Does she know about this morning’s fire?”

  “She does.”

  “And she didn’t take off running?”

  “Nope. My guess is that she’ll stay.”

  The older man shook his head. “She’s either crazy or a glutton for punishment.”

  “She didn’t seem crazy.”

  A paradox, perhaps. Her stoic reaction to the disaster that had awaited her had proved her strength. The confusion in her wide eyes as his gaze had involuntarily settled on her lips had hinted at softness Cooper would like to explore further.

  “Well, if she does decide to reopen the restaurant, she’ll probably make it. Lord knows, she can’t be any worse cook than Johnny, and he’s always done okay,” Skinner decided. “Of course it doesn’t hurt that the New Chance is the only restaurant in town.”

  “That did tend to give Johnny a captive clientele,” Cooper agreed. “So, getting back to my reason for leaving a pretty young widow in the lurch—”

  “Young?” Skinner interrupted. “Nobody said anything about her being young.”

  “Well, she is.”

  “How young?”

  “Early to mid thirties, I suppose. About Jake—”

  “Good looking?”

  Cooper thought back to Rachel’s shiny raven hair and mist gray eyes and skin that reminded him of the porcelain dolls his three-times-great-grandmother had insisted on bringing across the country in their covered wagon. The dolls that, against all odds, had survived the journey intact and were now in the River’s Bend historical museum.

  “Pretty enough, I suppose,” he said noncommittally.

  He knew that were he to tell the truth about finding her more than a little appealing, not only would he replace his dad as the hot new topic of conversation down at Harry’s Barber Shop, the River’s Bend grapevine would have him head over heels in love by lunchtime, engaged by dinner, and married before the week was out.

  “Now, about Jake,” he tried again.

  “The damn drunken fool’s threatening to take a baseball bat to my computer!” Skinner’s Adam’s apple bobbed above the turquoise and silver slide of the bolo tie he’d started wearing after a vacation trip to Arizona last winter. “You have to stop him, Cooper. Without that computer, we might as well close up shop and go home.”

  “Maybe that’s what Jake has in mind,” Cooper suggested as he walked down the hallway to the Farm Services Agency’s offices on the first floor.

  It wasn’t the first time Jake Buchanan’s feud with the government had garnered official attention. Ever since losing his land to foreclosure, Jake had been waging an ongoing, but futile war against the system as the eviction clock ticked down. As much as Cooper felt for Jake, and all the other small landowners who’d gone under in the past few years, as sheriff of River County, it was his job to maintain the peace.

  “That computer is the property of the United States Government,” Skinner reminded him tartly. “If anything happens to it, I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”

  The unmistakable sound of Jake’s swearing filtered down the hall. “Why me?” Cooper hoped he’d be able to calm the older man down before things got out of hand.

  “Because you should have arrested him last week. After he threw that beer bottle at my car when I drove up to his house.”

  “The bottle was empty. And he missed.”

  “That’s not the point. That just happens to be an official government car. Do you have any idea how many forms I would have had to fill out if he’d put a dent in it? Or even worse, broken a window?”

  “Knowing the federal government, probably quite a few,” Cooper said.

  “I want Buchanan arrested, Cooper. I don’t care if he is your father-in-law. That’s no excuse for favoritism.”

  Cooper stopped in his tracks and looked down at the man, a dark storm threatening in his normally friendly eyes. “Favoritism is a serious charge, Mel,” he said quietly, folding his arms. “If I were you, I’d be sure of my facts before you began spreading that accusation all over town.”

  The challenge hummed in the air between the two men.

  “Just stop the damn fool from smashing my computer,” Skinner said finally.

  Cooper nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  Damn. The scene that greeted Cooper was not encouraging. A covey of secretaries hovered around the open door, staring into the office with a mixture of fascination and dismay. Papers and manila files had been swept off desks, coffee cups along with them, leaving dark brown trails on the industrial carpeting.

  In the center of the chaos stood a small, wiry man wearing a green John Deere baseball cap, a red-and-gray plaid wool shirt, jeans, and a pair of scuffed Justin work boots. He was carrying a Louisville Slugger.

  “Hey, Jake.” Cooper’s voice was calm, steady.

  From the way Jake Buchanan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, it was obvious that he’d been expecting a harsher greeting. “Coop.”

  Cooper pulled a bright red pack from his shirt pocket. “Want some gum?”

  Buchanan shook his head. His eyes remained watchful. Wary.

  “Suit yourself.” Taking a stick from the pack, Cooper took a long time unwrapping it. “Nice day, isn’t it?” He leaned back against a metal desk and crossed his legs at the ankles, frowning at the smudges of ash that still darkened the toes of his new boots. “Gotta love Indian Summer.”

  “Sheriff,” Skinner interjected impatiently. “Are you going to arrest this man or not?”

  Cooper ignored the bristling bureaucrat. “Of course, it’s been so warm this year, the folks up at the Modoc Mountain ski bowl are probably biting their fingernails down to the quick, worrying whether they’re going to get enough snow for their Thanksgiving weekend opening.”

  Buchanan didn’t answer, but his fingers relaxed imperceptibly on the baseball bat.

  “Looks as if you’ve been busy,” Cooper said, glancing around the office.

  “I came to get my land back,” Jake growled. The sweet, pungent scent of Jack Daniels floated on his breath.

  “It isn’t your land any longer,” Mel Skinner said. “It belongs to the United States Government.”

  Buchanan’s answering oath was brief and harsh.

  “Sheriff, I want this man arrested,” Skinner insisted. “For disturbing the peace, destruction of official government property, along with assault and battery.”

  “Hell, I haven’t assaulted anyone,” Buchanan shot back. “Leastwise not yet.”

  “And that’s just how I’d like to keep it,” Cooper said mildly. “You know this isn’t the way to handle things, Jake.”

  “You want to tell me what I should do? This damn squint-eyed little weasel of a bureaucrat steals my land—land that’s been in the Buchanan family for four generations—and I’m supposed to just roll over and take it?”

  “That’s it!” Mel Skinner slapped his hand down onto a desk. “I’m getting damned sick and tired of you telling anyone fool enough to listen to your alcoholic rants that I’m a worse thief than Bad Bill Barkley.”

  “If the boot fits. You might not rob trains, but you’re even more of an outlaw,” Jake Buchanan shot back.

  “Sh
eriff, I insist you add libel to the rest of those charges.”

  “Mel,” Cooper drawled, “I came here to do my job. Now if you don’t leave this office right now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to haul you in for obstructing justice.”

  “Obstructing justice?” Skinner asked disbelievingly. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you’re getting in my way.”

  “You’re also pissing me off,” Buchanan said, waving the bat and weaving drunkenly.

  Skinner’s angry gaze moved from Cooper to Buchanan to Cooper again. “You’re going to regret this, come election time.”

  Amused, Cooper raised a brow. “Is that a threat, Mel?”

  “Dammit,” Buchanan complained, “if you’re going to arrest me, Coop, would you just do it now and get it over with? I’m tired of holding this damn thing up in the air.” He’d begun swaying dangerously.

  “You always did have a tendency to choke the bat,” Cooper said. “I’ve tried to tell you that an easy grip makes for a much smoother swing. Helps you hit those long balls.”

  He held out his hand for the bat.

  “And since you brought it up, I suppose I don’t have much choice but to take you in, Jake. Until you sober up.”

  Buchanan’s red-rimmed eyes shone with moisture. “He stole my land, Cooper,” he complained, dropping the Louisville Slugger to his side. He didn’t struggle as Cooper relieved him of the weapon.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Cooper promised soothingly. “For now, let’s get you somewhere you can lie down. Before you fall down.”

  “He stole my land,” Jake Buchanan repeated to the curious crowd gathered outside the office. “I made those payments. Never missed a one . . . Damn bastard stole my ranch.”

  As the two men walked out to the Jeep together, Cooper’s arm around Jake’s shoulder to steady him, tongues clucked, and heads wagged.

  The confrontation was rapidly showing signs of replacing Mitzi and his father as River Bend’s hottest topic of conversation, but Cooper knew that when people found out about the arrival of the enticing widow Hathaway, he and Jake would quickly become yesterday’s news.

  7

  Mitzi Patterson possessed the type of bubbly personality usually reserved for cheerleaders and Miss America contestants. Petite, blond, and indefatigably good humored, she deftly monopolized dinner conversation with entertaining stories of other real estate disasters she’d encountered over the years.

  “When you saw that mess, I’ll bet you wanted to make a big old U-turn and go right back to Connecticut,” Mitzi said knowingly.

  “I considered it.” Rachel took a sip of coffee. It was rich, dark and strong.

  The meal—a pale pastel swirl of squash soup with red pepper cream, succulent pink slices of grilled American Kobe beef raised on the ranch, and crunchy on the outside, steaming on the inside sweet potato fries—had been superbly prepared.

  “This was an amazing dinner,” she told Cooper’s grandmother who’d prepared the meal. Betty and Mike Murphy lived in a small log cabin next door.

  “It’s not hard to cook a decent meal when you’ve got good ingredients,” Betty, a lean, gray-haired woman who appeared to be somewhere in her eighties, said. “The Bar M’s got the best beef in the state. Probably even the country, which is why so many fancy restaurants have taken up cooking with it.” Her pride in the family ranch was obvious. “Why, that famous New York chef who has a restaurant on the coast even came down here to check us out.”

  “After tasting Mom’s prime rib, she became a regular customer,” Dan said.

  “Are you talking about Chef Madeline Durand?” Rachel asked.

  “None other,” Betty answered. “But she’s got herself a new husband now. She’s going by Chef Chaffee. She’s visited a few times. Even worked in my kitchen with me.”

  There’d been a scandal, Rachel vaguely remembered. Something about Madeline Durand’s French chef husband’s adulterous sex video going viral. But having been caught up in her own problems at the time, Rachel hadn’t paid much attention.

  “The Bar M couldn’t run without Mom,” Dan said.

  “Well, the outside would get along well enough,” Betty Murphy allowed. “But you’d probably have starved to death after Julie’s passing.”

  “Julie was my mom,” Cooper told Rachel.

  “She was a fair to middlin’ cook herself,” Betty allowed. “But throwing a hunk of meat on the grill is about the height of my son’s culinary expertise,” she said with a cluck of her tongue. “It’s a pitiful thing when a grown man can’t even feed himself.”

  While Rachel didn’t want to tip her hand regarding her decision regarding the New Chance, she made a mental note to ask Cooper’s grandmother if she’d be willing to share her recipe for the soup.

  “At least he’s never burned water,” Mitzi said.

  “You didn’t burn water,” Dan corrected. “Just the kettle you’d put it in.”

  “I got called out on a listing,” Mitzi explained. “And forgot I’d left the kettle on for tea. Fortunately, though it smelled to high heaven after all the water boiled away, it didn’t burn the kitchen down.”

  “Unlike the New Chance’s kitchen,” Rachel said.

  A trio of gold bracelets jangled as Mitzi braced her elbows on the table and observed Rachel over linked fingers. Reflected splinters of light from the wagon-wheel chandelier overhead made her steady gaze appear even more intent.

  “Has the fire changed your mind about buying the restaurant, Rachel?” she asked.

  Gone was the cheerleader, and in her place was a fifty-something Realtor who could have been pushing mansions in Greenwich or Beverly Hills.

  “I still haven’t made up my mind.”

  “Cooper mentioned that you’ve moved into the house.”

  “If you call unpacking a few things moving in.” Rachel wasn’t about to admit that after dropping the trailer off at the local gas station that served double duty as a U-Haul rental business, she’d spent the rest of the day settling in.

  “Renting a furnished house isn’t that different from leasing a vacation home,” she pointed out. “We could be out in an hour if we choose to go back to Connecticut.”

  “Is that the decision you’re leaning toward?” If she were worried about losing a potential sale, Mitzi’s friendly tone didn’t reveal it.

  Rachel took another sip of coffee and chose her words carefully. She could feel Scott’s pleading gaze riveted on her face. Although it was extremely difficult, she managed to ignore him.

  “It represents a lot of work. More than just restoring the café to its previous condition. It would have to be completely redecorated,” she answered finally.

  Mitzi nodded her golden head approvingly. “Of course. With the exception of the new stove and hood, Johnny hasn’t redecorated the New Chance since Carter was President. And heaven knows, the seventies weren’t exactly the most fashion forward decade of the last century. It’s understandable that you’d want to put your personal touches on the decor.”

  Personally, Rachel thought that referring to the faded linoleum and torn olive green and orange vinyl booths as decor was stretching the point, but opted not to argue. Not when more important things were at stake.

  “I’d need to gut the interior entirely and begin with a clean slate.”

  Mitzi didn’t argue. There was no point since it was true. “At least the building has good bones. And the exterior’s sound. I made Johnny get a termite inspection before I’d list it.”

  “Place has stood in the same spot for over a century,” Cooper’s grandfather, who’d been quiet during the dinner, spoke up. “Going back to the Wild West days. They say Bad Bill Barkley ate there a lot. Between train and stagecoach robberies.”

  “Bad Bill Barkley?” Scott, who’d been sneaking bits of beef to the Australian shepherd beneath the table, suddenly gained interest in the conversation. Coincidently, Bad Bill was the name of the Gila monster outlaw in Rango, which
along with being her son’s favorite movie, was also his most-played video game. She could tell he was looking forward to a tall tale along the lines of the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

  “He was an outlaw from around these parts,” Mike Murphy said.

  “Dad’s got a good point,” Dan said. “You’d be buying yourself a heap of history.”

  “And along with the history,” Mitzi said, “you’ll also be achieving that new beginning you want so badly.”

  She reached across the table and placed her hand on Rachel’s. “Don’t think I don’t know how it is. Having to start again. To reinvent yourself. I’ve been there, Rachel, though in my case, I was coming off a divorce, and it’s never easy. But it’s worth it. In the long run.”

  “It would take a great deal of work,” Rachel repeated. “Not to mention money.” The latter could be a serious problem.

  “Sure would,” Dan agreed. “But you’d have a volunteer crew of willing workers,” he reminded her.

  “As for the money,” Cooper said, entering the conversation for the first time since it had turned to business, “I’ll bet Johnny’d be willing to cut a few thousand off the purchase price. Wouldn’t you say so, Mitzi?”

  “I’m sure I could convince him to see the wisdom of lowering the price,” Mitzi agreed with a bright, professional smile. “Especially since the fire, while accidental, was his fault. Not to mention the little matter of the lack of insurance.”

  “I’ve no doubt that when you put your mind to it, you could convince a man to do just about anything,” Cooper said approvingly.

  “I’ve always been a firm believer in not giving up, that’s for sure.” Mitzi’s gaze cut quickly to Dan, then back to Rachel. “Johnny’s the impatient sort, and he’s anxious to move to Bakersfield. I’m certain we can work out a deal agreeable to everyone involved.”

  “Then there’s the matter of the sales commission,” Cooper said.