Cole Parker pushed off from where he’d been leaning against the other side of the counter. “Of course he’s sure they’re the guys. He wouldn’t have brought them in if he wasn’t.”
John eyed both men. They couldn’t be more different from each other in law enforcement experience. George Johnson had been with the office for more than twenty-five years, some of them good, most of them bad, if you believed what he said. He was used to the laid-back attitude of the former sheriff, who’d retired to a life of fishing and hunting in Montana three years ago, and classified nearly every call that came in as low priority.
On the other hand, Cole Parker—first cousin to one very sexy Darby Parker Conrad—had been hired on to the force in the past three years and was John’s right-hand man. He always came into the office earlier than he had to, champing at the bit for more responsibility, more excitement.
“Fingerprints are pretty hard to fake, George,” John affirmed as he helped himself to the sludge in the office coffeepot. It tasted as bad as it looked. But seeing as he was just coming off a long night spent out at the abandoned farm on the edge of town, outside corporation limits and in his official jurisdiction, then bringing in the two out-of-state escaped convicts, he’d have knocked back battery acid if it even remotely resembled coffee.
George looked over the paperwork, made a notation, then put the papers aside. “So they were camped out at the old Jenkins place, were they?” He shook his head of thick, disheveled graying hair. “Old Violet Jenkins kicked the bucket what, six months ago? And still nothing’s been done with her house.”
Something like that, John thought. And the reason it was still vacant was that there were no heirs around to do anything with it. He downed half the coffee. And farms like hers weren’t exactly hot properties right now. At least not here. Maybe outside a larger town, within commuting distance. But Old Orchard wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. Which was just fine with him.
“You suppose it’s true what they say?” George asked. “That she had all that money from her husband’s life insurance tucked away somewhere in that old place?”
John sighed. Gossip like that had kept them all plenty busy after Violet’s passing. The paper had carried a speculative piece headlined “Hidden Treasures?” and the next day every teen within fifty miles was combing through Violet’s underwear drawer. Along with a couple of local adults he preferred not to think about right now.
“There was never any proof that there was an insurance policy,” he said. “Another one for the urban-myth books. Or suburban. Whichever. Whoever ran that piece in the paper should have been fired.”
Cole crossed his arms over his too-buff chest, his gaze almost accusatory. “You know, you should have called me when you found out those two were out there. Going in there without backup wasn’t very smart.”
“They were asleep. No risk at all.” John grinned at the younger man. He knew his welfare wasn’t behind Cole’s rebuke; it was having been left out that ticked him off. Not much happened in Old Orchard, and the capture of the two felons would probably be on the front page of the town’s only paper, the Old Orchard Chronicle, for months.
Cole took the FBI poster detailing the two fugitives down from the wall of shame. “Well, this ought to make Bully Wentworth think twice about going up against you in the election.”
If anything was capable of knocking the wind out of John’s sails, it was mention of Blakely “Bully” Wentworth. They were alike in so many ways. Attended the same schools. Shared the same friends. Yet they couldn’t have been more different.
“Wentworth isn’t interested in being sheriff,” George said. “He just wants to use it as a jumping-off point for bigger and better things down the road.” He swore under his breath and said something about opportunists and born politicians. “At least your arresting those two will get him out of the paper for a while.”
The arrest of the two felons might even be enough to knock over the pieces cropping up lately about his late best friend, Erick Conrad.
John found it impossible to believe that they were approaching the one-year anniversary of Erick’s death, even though the paper had begun running pieces to herald the event ten days ago. The last article had gone into detail about Erick’s widow and how Erick had planned to leave Old Orchard until he won the affection of one town native, Darby Parker.
John frowned into his coffee cup, finding the writer’s use of the verb “won” curious. Yes, John had at one time been attracted to Darby Parker, but that fact had never been known to anyone but him. Not after he’d found out his best friend had set his sights on her. Then Darby Parker had become Darby Conrad, and she and Erick had had twin girls who were now six. And John hadn’t thought of her in romantic terms since.
And Erick? Ultimately he had left Old Orchard. Nearly a year ago he’d died fighting a four-alarm blaze, and they’d buried him in the cemetery just outside town limits.
John’s throat tightened in mid-swallow, nearly causing him to cough up the scalding liquid.
Okay, so it wasn’t that hard to understand why he’d been attracted to Darby Parker Conrad. She’d always been a looker, plain and simple, what with all that curly brown hair, brilliant smile and curvy body. But John had been so used to her being Erick’s wife he had never stopped to think about the possibility of her ever being free. He absently rubbed the back of his neck. Given what had happened between the two of them three months ago, he should have stopped and thought about just that.
“Anyway, you going to call the feds and let them know about their two wayward friends back there?” George jerked a thumb toward the holding cells, “or do you want one of us to do it?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll get it,” Cole said at the same time.
John sighed and ran his hand over the stubble sprouting across his jaw. “Yeah, why don’t you do it, Cole.”
Cole grinned and headed toward one of the back offices. “I’ll get right on it.”
George watched him go. “Makes no never mind to me who does it, just so long as it’s not me. Less paperwork on this end.” George looked at his watch and sighed. “My relief is late. Again.” He glanced up as the early-spring-morning sun bounced off a reflective source and through the front window. “Maybe this is him.”
John tossed his half-full coffee cup into the garbage, then watched as an old truck pulled up to the curb outside the front window. He knew immediately it wasn’t Ed Hanover. Not because of his visual confirmation. More as a result of his instant physical reaction to the woman climbing out of the cab. He felt as if someone had just dumped a handful of Mexican jumping beans into his stomach.
Which was pretty much the way he reacted every time he saw Darby Parker Conrad nowadays.
George’s exasperated sigh cracked the silence. “Nope. Not Ed.” He squinted, apparently trying to make out who was walking toward the door. His bushy brows budged upward as he did. “I’ll be. It’s the Widow Conrad.”
The Widow Conrad. John winced. The words seemed more appropriate for an aging, portly woman who had lived the better part of her life with her mate, not a walking bombshell like Darby, who still had her whole life ahead of her. Yet the unlikely juxtaposition didn’t change the fact that she was a bombshell. And that she was a widow. More specifically, his best friend’s widow. And even if he couldn’t
