Big Sky Country. Linda Lael Miller
so little. The bread and candy racks were right where she remembered them being, and the floors were still uneven planks, worn smooth by several generations of foot traffic and stained from a thousand spills. The brass cash register, another relic of days gone by, like the soda machine, occupied the same counter in the same part of the store. Only the people were different.
Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan, already old when she’d known them, were probably long dead. Joslyn didn’t recognize the gangly man behind the counter or any of the other customers.
The tension that had drawn up her shoulders, without her really noticing, eased so suddenly that it left her a little dizzy. Her mind occupied with memories and ingredient lists, she’d forgotten to dread encountering one or more of her stepfather’s numerous victims.
That was bound to happen, sooner rather than later, most likely, but for now, Joslyn dared to hope she’d wandered into a confrontation-free zone.
Please, God.
Except for a nod of greeting, the clerk at the counter didn’t pay her any particular attention, and neither did the few shoppers gathering food from shelves and coolers.
Joslyn took a cart, one of the half dozen available—it had a rattle and one hinky wheel—and started down the first aisle. She hadn’t bothered to make an actual list, since she needed practically everything.
She was standing in front of the spices, picking out the must-haves, like paprika and poultry seasoning, when she suddenly realized someone was watching her.
Joslyn looked up into a pair of eyes so blue that they might have trapped fragments of a sky darkening its way toward evening. Her heart fluttered up into the back of her throat and flailed there as she registered the man’s identity.
Slade Barlow.
A badge glinted on his belt, reminding her that he was the sheriff of Parable County now, and he carried his hat in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
Be out of town by sunset, Joslyn imagined him saying, in a slow, thoughtful drawl, befitting his jeans, Western shirt and polished boots.
“Hello,” she said, sounding stupid in her own ears and feeling as stuck as a deer caught in the dazzle of oncoming headlights.
A slight frown creased Slade’s tanned forehead. His hair was dark and short, though not too short, and those new-denim eyes were slightly narrowed.
“Joslyn?” he asked.
She bit her lower lip, nodded, wishing she’d worn a pair of shades and a baseball cap, so she could have pulled the brim down over her face.
Or, better yet, one of those dime-store disguises with the big plastic nose and mustache attached to a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
Slade’s white, even teeth flashed as he grinned. “Well, now,” he said, still watching her.
Well, now? Just what did that mean?
Joslyn racked her brain, trying to recall if Sheriff Barlow had been caught up in Elliott’s scam, but it didn’t seem likely. He’d grown up in the trailer across the road from Mulligan’s, the shy son of a single mom, holding down a paper route until junior high and washing cars and helping out with hay and wheat harvests after that. He’d driven an old car with rust spots on the chassis and the muffler duct-taped to the undercarriage.
A far cry from the flashy red car she’d been given the day she’d gotten her driver’s license.
Nope, Slade wouldn’t have had the means to sign up for pie-in-the-sky with Elliott Rossiter. Lucky him.
“I was sorry to hear about Elliott,” he said.
Here it comes, Joslyn thought, inwardly bracing herself. “Sorry?” she echoed, stalling.
“That he died?” Slade prompted with just the hint of a grin dancing in his eyes and flirting with the corners of his mouth. For the most part, though, his expression was solemn. Thoughtful. Like she was the last person on earth he’d expected to run into in Parable, Montana, or anywhere else.
“Thanks for not adding ‘in prison,’” Joslyn said, without intending to say any such thing.
“I reckon that part goes without saying,” Slade replied easily. She knew he wanted to ask what she was doing back in Parable, and of course she couldn’t have told him, even if she’d been inclined to do so, because she still didn’t know herself. He nodded, started around her and her cart. “Anyhow, good to see you again,” he said.
It was a lie, of course, though cordially told.
“Same here,” Joslyn fibbed.
She’d have avoided Slade if she could have, but she had to admit, if only to herself, that Callie Barlow’s baby boy had grown up to be one good-looking hunk of cowboy.
Once he’d rounded the display of boxed doughnuts at the end of the aisle, Joslyn tried to concentrate on spices again, but all she added to the seasonings already in her cart were salt and pepper.
The shopping cart wheel creaked and grabbed at the floor with every revolution as she pressed on toward the meat, fish and poultry, showcased in a refrigerated cooler, sure that everyone in the store must be staring at her by now, suddenly recalling her former association with Elliott Rossiter.
She selected a package of tilapia, an organic game hen and some lean hamburger, trying to distract herself by ogling the prices—which were outrageous. She’d go broke if she did all her shopping at Mulligan’s, that was for sure, nostalgia or no nostalgia.
But she didn’t stay distracted for long.
Slade Barlow not only filled her thoughts, he seemed to permeate her body, too, as though there had been some quantum-level exchange of energy.
He was taller than she remembered, broader through the shoulders. It wasn’t even noon, and he had a five o’clock shadow, and, furthermore, that quiet confidence of his both drew her and made her want to sprint in the opposite direction.
What was that about?
She heard him exchange pleasantries with the clerk as he paid for the water, heard the little bell over the front door chime as he went out.
She stood frozen in front of the meat counter, strangely shaken, half expecting the sky to cave in, shattering the not-so-sturdy roof of Mulligan’s Grocery and landing all around her in big, blue chunks snagged with wispy strands of cloud.
“Aren’t you Elliott’s girl?” a quavery female voice asked.
Startled out of her daze, Joslyn turned and saw Daisy Mulligan herself standing at her side, shrunken and white-haired, with pink patches of scalp showing between her pin curls, but very much alive. Her blue eyes were watery behind the old-fashioned frames of her glasses.
Joslyn caught herself just before she would have blurted, “I thought you were dead,” and rummaged up a warm smile, putting out her hand. “Joslyn Kirk,” she said pleasantly. “Elliott was my stepfather.”
Daisy nodded slowly, her rheumy gaze watchful, as she shook Joslyn’s hand. “Nobody around here thought the Rossiter boy would grow up to be a crook,” she remarked. “His father and grandfather were both doctors. Solid citizens. We should have known there was something wrong with Elliott when he didn’t go to medical school.”
Joslyn tried to read the old woman, but it was impossible. Either Mrs. Mulligan was about to shout down the ceiling, calling Joslyn the spawn of Satan and ordering her out of the store, or she was just making conversation.
There was no way to tell.
“And when he didn’t marry a hometown girl,” Daisy added ruefully, following up with a sigh. She looked fragile as a bird in her cardigan sweater and simple cotton dress, though she walked without a cane and her shoes weren’t orthopedic.
Uh-oh, Joslyn thought.
“Not