wanna eat nuts?”
“No, silly. The Nutcracker’s a ballet.”
Tasha picked a parking spot two slots down from the Mazda and pulled in between a pickup and a Jeep.
“What’s a ballet?” Stevie asked as he followed Melissa out of the car.
Melissa did a pirouette on the sidewalk and pranced around on her tiptoes, showing off. Though, given she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the dance lacked a true classical flavor without the proper costuming. “Haven’t you ever seen a ballet?”
He jammed his hands in his pockets, hanging his head as if he’d missed something important in life. “Uh-uh.”
“Mommy, can we take Stevie to a ballet sometime?”
“I don’t think Reilly’s Gulch has those, honey.” A cultural hot spot, it wasn’t.
“Well, if it did, could we take him?” Melissa persisted.
“I suppose.” Cupping her daughter’s shoulder, she ushered her toward the grocery store and reached out for Stevie’s hand, too. “Come on, kids. We’ve got to get Stevie’s daddy something to eat for dinner.” And then she was going to have to iron, of all things. Hadn’t this place heard of dry cleaners? Or wash and wear?
An older gentleman wearing a sporty plaid beret and a frayed suit jacket met her at the grocery store entrance. He tipped his cap to her, revealing thinning white hair, and nodded toward her car.
“Mighty fine lookin’ Beamer,” he said.
“Thank you.” She considered skirting past him, but he was pretty well blocking the center of the double doors.
“That’s my Mazda.”
Vaguely recalling her sister had owned a Mazda convertible and sold it last winter, Tasha forced a smile. She resisted telling him what she thought of a man who’d steal a parking spot right out from under her nose.
“Red is nice,” she said noncomittally.
Aware of the dangers of talking to strangers, Melissa clung to her side.
Stevie charged forward. “Hi, Mr. O’Reilly.”
The older man shifted his wrinkles into a glad smile. “Hello, young Steven. Looks like you’re escorting two lovely ladies today.”
Stevie giggled. “These aren’t ladies. She’s our new housekeeper.” He pointed at Tasha, then indicated Melissa. “And she’s only a little girl, same as I’m a little boy.”
“You’re littler,” Melissa corrected. “I’m almost seven.”
Before an argument broke out, Tasha introduced herself to the gentleman, who she learned was Chester O’Reilly, descendant of the town founders, and the owner of the only franchised taxi service in Reilly’s Gulch. She thought the reason for only one such service in town was pretty obvious, but he seemed so proud of his community duties, Tasha didn’t see any reason to point out the probable lack of demand for cabs in this small town.
As she tried to excuse herself to get on with her shopping, he said, “If you decide to sell your Beamer, let me know. I’m thinking of expanding my taxi service.”
“You are?” That sounded like the height of optimism to Tasha.
“Yep. Billy Flynn turned over his ranch operations to his boys and he’s got some extra time on his hands. Figured I could keep him busy doing taxi work. Shoot, he’s only eighty-two, way too young to retire. And there’s lots of potential ’round here, you know. Only a question of time till I’m busier than flies on a fresh cow pie.”
“Yes, well…” She wrinkled her nose and mumbled something about keeping Chester in mind if she decided to sell her car while she was in town, then scooted herself and the children past him into the grocery store.
Reilly’s Gulch might lack for cultural amenities but the town certainly wasn’t short on characters. Tasha suspected Chester was only the tip of that particular iceberg.
She doubted the town was short of good-looking men, either. Unfortunately one in particular held a special attraction for her.
Clifford Swain.
Chapter Three
Cliff pulled his truck into the sheriff’s parking lot behind the combined city hall and county courthouse, a squat brick building that had been constructed in the 1930s. He’d barely had time to stop by home, shower and get dressed after his day at the roundup. He’d given Stevie a hug, said a quick hello to Tasha and her daughter, and then he’d been on his way.
Fortunately it was only a couple of weeks out of the year when he burned the candle at both ends, being both cowboy and deputy sheriff. But he owned half the Double S. Even though he never took any of the profits from the ranch—assuming there were any—he couldn’t leave his brother to do all the hard work during roundups. Besides, he kind of liked keeping his hand in the business.
Aching muscles or not, it felt good to ride hard, work harder and have something to show for his efforts.
Which was more than he could say for the success of the sheriff’s office at catching the band of rustlers who’d been plaguing the area for the past year, including the time Cliff was living in Los Angeles.
Adjusting his sidearm, he went into the office. Sheriff Colman was behind the counter talking to Deputy Andy Linear, a Barney Fife look-alike and not a whole lot smarter.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. He hooked his hat on a peg and joined them at the counter where they were studying a large-scale map of the area.
Reed County encompassed some twenty thousand square miles of mostly rolling hills, grassland suitable for grazing cattle. Periodically rivers and winter creeks bisected the land, creating ravines and forming lakes and ponds. To the west, the land rose, becoming more forested. To the east was prairie country. Within the county boundaries only a few small towns existed, shown on the map as clusters of houses and often connected by nothing more than gravel roads.
“What’s up?” Cliff asked.
Larry Colman tapped the map at a spot south of Reilly’s Gulch. “Got a report of another truckload of steers picked up from the King place last night. The King ranch got hit last year, too.”
Larry had put on a good fifty pounds in the years he’d served as county sheriff. Though his body wasn’t as agile as it used to be, his mind was still alert and he was eager to get on with retirement in order to pursue his other interests—primarily opening a museum to house his old-time radio memorabilia, from Captain Midnight decoder rings to a set of broadcast tapes from early Green Hornet shows.
“You find tire tracks?” Cliff asked.
“Yep. We went out to investigate this morning first thing. An eighteen wheeler’s, rear inside left tire with a notch in it same as the other jobs.”
“And another full moon last night,” Andy pointed out.
Cliff studied the map. “That’s when they do their best work.” Last month during the full moon a ranch to the east had been victimized in the same way, the first rustling activity reported since the winter snows had melted. “Looks like it’s going to be another long summer unless we get a lead on them. Or they make a mistake.”
“These particular crooks are sneaky devils,” Larry commented. “Using a big truck like that, then poof! It vanishes into nowhere before we even get word of the missing steers.”
Andy said, “It’s just like that big TV magician who makes the Statue of Liberty and airplanes and stuff disappear. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
Cliff suspected they were hiding the truck somewhere safe between jobs, but he didn’t have a clue where that might be. So far the Double S hadn’t lost any steers. Idly he