couldn’t afford to pay. She’d spent all her savings on the expansion.
When she arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she grabbed the gray sweater that hung on a hook next to the door and slipped it on. Whatever was waiting for her on the other side of that door was more than likely going to require her standing out in the cold for a minute or two before she could wrangle it inside.
Good thing she still wore her shoes, albeit three-inch heels, but shoes nonetheless.
“Okay, what do we have this time?” she asked as she swung open the door expecting another goat or llama or...
* * *
SHERIFF JET WILSON fought his way back to the jail. The official white SUV, with the Briggs Sheriff’s Department logo emblazoned on the two front doors, was fishtailing at almost every turn. The snow was piling up fast now, and driving was nearing impossible. Benny Snoots, the town’s one and only official snowplow driver, worked as fast as he could, but the snow was just too much for him.
Russ Knightly, a man Jet Wilson didn’t much like, promised two more snowplows if he was elected mayor, and on a night like this, Jet considered giving him his vote...or not.
If, on the other hand, Mayor Sally Hickman won again, Jet would make sure at least one more snowplow was on her agenda, and if it wasn’t, he promised himself he’d take up the cause himself and add plowing capability to the front of the SUV.
When he finally pulled up in front of the small jailhouse, he parked curbside and got out. His very first step encased his cowboy boots in so much snow that it slipped inside his boots and made a mess of his nice warm woolen socks. He grabbed the bags of food that he’d picked up at Sammy’s Smokehouse off the back seat, slammed the doors shut and headed for the front of the jail. None of the townsfolk knew he was living at the jail these days and no one needed to know.
A water pipe had burst in his apartment earlier that week, and until his landlord could get it fixed and repair the damage to the floor and the wall, Jet didn’t have anywhere else to go...at least nowhere he could afford. All the rooms in this town were too pricey for him and, well, he didn’t want to impose on what few friends he had.
Being relatively new to Briggs, having lived there for less than two years, making friends had been tough. Especially since he’d ticked off Russ Knightly, who seemed to be a big deal in town, next to Carson Grant, the town’s one and only rodeo hero. Jet admired Carson, and had met him a few times, but Russ was another story entirely. He hadn’t meant to make him mad, but the guy had been doing seventy-five in a fifty-five-mile zone, had a taillight out and was missing his front license plate when Jet had pulled him over. Idaho required two license plates, no matter what kind of vehicle you drove, and besides, the guy had way too much attitude for Jet’s liking.
Little had Jet known that Russ seemed to pull all the important strings in town, and in the state, for that matter, and when you were merely a small-town sheriff, those strings could get pretty tight.
In the end, his violations had somehow been dismissed, and Jet had ended up the bad guy.
Of course, at the moment, Jet didn’t give a hoot. The jail suited him just fine, thank you very much. The bed in the cell was comfortable enough, and rarely used, so he thought he’d break it in for a few days.
He swung open the heavy front door, hit the light switch, slipped out of his bulky parka and cowboy hat, tugged off his boots and his wet socks, sat down at his desk inside his small office and tore open the bags of delicious-smelling barbecue. His mouth instantly watered in anticipation. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his stomach had started aching about three hours ago from lack of food. The pungent smells filled the room as Jet cracked open a can of beer and took a long pull.
He was in for the night, and it felt good to finally be free of all responsibilities. He took a big bite of one of the beef ribs, ripping the meat off the bone with his teeth, groaned his delight and walked over to put his wet socks on the old radiator under the bank of windows so they could dry. All the blinds were closed, so no one could see him, not that there was anyone out there looking on a night like this. Still it gave him comfort to be hidden from view for a while. He walked back to the desk, took another big bite and was just about to sit down and settle in when the phone rang...his phone, in his pocket. The phone that he kept private, and only a handful of people had the number.
That phone rang.
The jailhouse phone had an all-night service for any emergency calls, but that wasn’t ringing.
He felt the sigh that seemed to come up from his bare feet before he heard it expel from his throat as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen.
Doctor Coco Grant’s name lit up the black screen along with the picture he’d taken of her in front of her illegal goat pen inside her clinic.
Part of him didn’t want to answer, but he knew if she was calling this late at night, it must be important.
Frankly, he didn’t want to hear about “important” right now, not in the middle of what had to be the best barbecue ribs Sammy had ever created.
He chewed and swallowed.
“Hello,” he reluctantly said into his phone.
“Hi, Sheriff. Sorry to bother you this late, but I’ve got a situation over here that requires your attention.”
He glanced up at the large clock above the front door knowing perfectly well that whatever it was that required his attention would take him at least another hour or more and it was already going on ten thirty.
“Can I give it my attention over the phone? It’s pretty nasty out there tonight, and it’s late. Besides, if someone left you another goat or any other farm animal, there’s nothing either one of us can do about it tonight.”
“It’s not a goat, Sheriff. It’s a baby.”
As he took another bite of a rib, sauce dripped down his fingers and landed on his shirt and lap—bright red sauce that stained everything it touched. He cursed under his breath as he tried to wipe it up.
“You don’t have to get nasty about it,” she said in his ear.
“No. I wasn’t talking to you. It’s just that... Look, let’s call a truce for tonight. I don’t care what kind of illegal baby critter someone left you. We can deal with it another time, just not right now.”
“If you don’t want to do your job, fine, but you should know it’s not a critter of any kind this time. It’s a baby, as in a human baby. A little girl named Lily. She’s about two weeks old from what I can tell and in desperate need of a diaper change, which I think I can do with an old T-shirt. But some real diapers would be nice. And some formula, and a new outfit, cause she soiled this one and wrapping her in something of mine isn’t a real option.”
He didn’t know what to say or how to respond. He’d never dealt with an abandoned baby before. He’d have to read up on it, or at the very least call someone over in Boise to give him a quick rundown of protocol.
“Hello. Hello. Hello. Are you there?” she said, sounding agitated.
He finally took a breath. “Did you say a baby girl?”
“Yes. An infant, and from what I can tell, the only note we have is written on the back of a restaurant receipt from Sammy’s Smokehouse with Lily’s name on it and nothing else.”
He stood, raking a hand through his hair while trying to gather his thoughts. Then he said, “I’ll be right over.”
* * *
“WHY IS SHE crying so much?” Russ asked for the umpteenth time as he awkwardly held baby Lily by her head and butt, flying her back and forth like he was getting ready to propel her through the air. “Is she sick? Maybe she’s got something really wrong with her?”
“Or maybe it’s the way you’re holding her. Haven’t you held a baby before?”
Coco walked over