on the morning after his visit to the Maxwell ranch. The business district covered a square of about twelve small city blocks—mostly independent merchants, a lawyer or two and the post office, plus the courthouse and four churches, one on each corner of the main intersection, which gave the town and the street their names.
Most residents lived south of Main Street, in tidy houses under old pine and cedar and oak trees. The Methodists, late arrivals to this part of Montana, had built their church to the south, in the lower foothills, rather than downtown with the Baptists, Mormons, Catholics, and Lutherans. Bars and gas stations clustered at the western end of Main, around the road heading toward the mountains. East of town, the north-south state highway ran toward the two-lane road leading the unwary out to Walking Stones Ranch. Rafe didn’t plan to make that trip again any time soon.
On the north side of town, rough lanes wound high into the foothills of the Crazy Mountains and the Gallatin National Forest, with isolated houses tucked into corners here and there. Rafe’s rented house sat north of Main Street, too, but closer in—a brisk three-block walk brought him to the bustle of Saturday morning in a ranching town. To his right stood Grizzly’s Diner, the only decent place to eat if you didn’t want to cook. Leaving Jed posted just outside the door, Rafe stepped into a wave of friendly chatter that suddenly lulled as customers reacted to his arrival.
In a couple of seconds the talk resumed, quieter than before, as if people didn’t want to be overheard. Sitting at the counter, Rafe fought to ignore the fact he was being stared at and studied the menu.
“Coffee, Deputy.” Mona Rangel, the owner, set a mug down at his right hand, already mixed with sugar and milk, the way he liked it. “Something to eat?”
Rafe grinned his appreciation. “Let’s try something really wild today—scrambled eggs instead of fried. Think we can stand the shock?”
Her gray eyes flickered with humor, but she didn’t break a smile. “Three scrambled with bacon and toast, coming up.” She turned toward the kitchen, cutting off his only friendly contact in the place.
Halfway through his second mug of coffee, somebody actually joined Rafe at the counter, on the very next stool, no less. He glanced to the left and caught the eye of Judge LeVay, his ostensible boss and the main representative of the law in Paradise Corners, besides himself.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Deputy.” LeVay nodded. He looked the part of a wise old western judge, from his thick white hair and mustache to the black suit and vest and string tie. “Just coffee,” he told Mona when she appeared.
The judge said nothing until the coffee arrived and had been sampled. Rafe endured the silence without comment—he had no illusions that this was a chance encounter. Or an invitation to join the local shooting club.
“Got a call early this morning,” LeVay said finally. His voice barely carried over the noise of the crowd.
Rafe didn’t comment.
“Robert Maxwell seems to think you exceeded your authority in dealing with an incident last night.”
“Mr. Maxwell’s perceptions are a little…skewed.”
One white eyebrow lifted. “The man is a close friend of mine. I believe what he says.”
“The drinking age in Montana was twenty-one, last time I checked.” The judge glanced over his shoulder, a clear warning for Rafe to keep his voice down. “And DUI carries some stiff penalties…at least on paper.”
LeVay drained his mug and wiped his mouth with a napkin plucked from the stainless-steel cube between them. “I appreciate your concern. I’m sure Mr. Maxwell does, too. However, I believe he can handle this…situation…without outside interference.”
Rafe dropped the oblique approach, but kept his voice quiet. “That boy’s going to hurt himself. Or somebody else. He’s out of control.”
For a second, the judge’s pale blue eyes met his, and Rafe knew they were in agreement on that fact. But then LeVay slid off the stool.
“Leave it alone,” he advised. “You’ve got enough trouble on your hands in this town without getting the Maxwells riled up.” With a nod of greeting to a couple of men in a nearby booth, the older man made his way to the door. Through the glass, Rafe saw him stoop to talk to Jed. The bloodhound squirmed gratefully as the judge scratched the sensitive spot on the back of his neck. If Jed liked the man, Rafe decided, he couldn’t be all bad.
But if Maxwell owned him, he couldn’t be completely trusted, either. Better not look for help from that quarter.
Rafe turned back to finish his eggs, and found Mona standing opposite him.
“Take the judge at his word,” she suggested, swapping his cold plate of food for a steaming hot portion. “Maxwell owns this town and most of the people in it, one way or the other. You land on his bad side, you won’t get an ounce of cooperation from anybody.” She smiled. “Except me. Maxwell doesn’t like me, either.”
“Why not?”
“I taught in the county school system for close to two decades. Bobby was one of my sixth-graders. Bright kid, spoiled rotten. He didn’t do a lick of work in my class all year. I wouldn’t promote him, no matter how many fits his daddy threw. Maxwell got me fired, but Bobby still had to repeat the sixth grade, and he didn’t pull the same stunt again. Graduated in the spring with pretty good grades, I heard.”
“And you’re working in the diner?”
Mona shrugged. “My husband built the place and ran it until he died last year. I figured keeping Grizzly’s open would give me something to do and pay my respects at the same time.” Her smile was rueful. “Anyway, watch your step. The Maxwells are about as safe to be around as timber rattlers. A little more predictable, maybe—you threaten them or theirs, you can be sure they’ll do their best to take you down.”
She moved away, and Rafe thought for a second about calling her back for one more question.
What about Thea Maxwell?
Did she take after her old man? Did she follow his orders straight down the line? Was she just one more piece of property her father owned?
Did it matter? Boss Maxwell had practically threatened him with bodily harm for interfering. The lady herself had brushed him off like yesterday’s dust. And there was little doubt that her brother would keep to the straight and narrow exactly as long as it took him to pick up his truck. Any more trouble with Bobby would put Rafe on the side of the devil, as far as all the Maxwells were concerned.
Didn’t he have enough trouble in this town already? Was his sense of self-preservation so weak?
With a silent sigh, Rafe acknowledged that the same two words answered both of those questions—plus one more…
Could he really be crazy enough to consider going after this woman?
Remembering Thea’s voice, her smile, the light in her eyes and the strange peace he’d felt when he first saw her, Rafe nodded and took a sip of coffee. Three simple questions, one simple answer.
You bet.
CHAPTER
