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“Eventually.”
Tai tapped out a rhythm on the armrest. “Soon would be good.”
Bridger couldn’t disagree with that. He tapped out his own beat on the steering wheel. The sharp prickling at the back of his neck disappeared, only to be replaced by a spurt of dread.
Jane might concede that he got more out of Myles and Randall Dressler without her present, but she wouldn’t be happy about it.
18
The old rancherset the rake on the counter and shook his head, pinning Jane with faded blue eyes beneath a sweat-stained Stetson. He jabbed a finger at the shiny red tines. “Used to be tools lasted a lifetime, but this junk don’t make it through a season.”
She smiled patiently and rang up the sale. It was more likely last summer’s monsoons were to blame. Violent thunderstorms had plagued the valley for months, sending cascades of debris-filled water down from the mountains. For every rock a rancher or farmer removed from a field, ten more were deposited, on the Griebs’ land more than most. With a hundred acres spanning several drainages off the mountain, their place took a bigger hit from the storms than those in the center of the valley.
“I hope you have better luck with this one,” she said and handed the man his receipt.
The doors behind him opened. Tai and Bridger ambled in. Their energy—and the fact that they were tall and broad and hard to miss—drew the attention of all three of her current customers.
The rancher’s eyes widened, showing a quick flash of surprise, before he drew his hat down and gathered his things. The elderly Benbow sisters had been arguing over the selection of wildflower seeds, but all was forgotten when Tai smiled at them.
He offered a short bow. “Ladies.”
Lettie, the oldest of the two at eighty-four, smiled with delight. “Where you from, stranger? They sure grow ‘em big wherever it is.”
He grinned harder. “I’m the runt of the litter.”
The sisters tittered, elbowing each other before following Hal Grieb out the door.
Jane bit down on a groan. She hoped the two men didn’t plan on any stealth reconnaissance. They might as well have been Butch and Sundance for all the attention they’d get in town.
Bridger headed straight for her, planting his hands on the countertop. “How’re you feeling,” he asked, his voice heavy with concern. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
She tried to fight the delicious surge of emotion his attentiveness created, but it was like trying to stop the runoff from a high-country creek. Best to go with the flow.
“Fine,” she answered. To her surprise, it was true. Her headache was gone, replaced by a healthy pang of hunger.
His shoulders relaxed. “Good to hear.”
Tai picked a pre-packaged s’mores kit from the display of camping supplies. He frowned down at the cellophane covered packet. Everything someone needed to make the messy treats—except the actual campfire.
“They’re for tourists,” Jane explained.
He put the item carefully back. “Man, kids have it easy these days. We had to cut our own sticks. Build our own fires.”
Bridger laughed. “Yeah. That was tragic. Playing with pocketknives and fire. No fun at all.”
Tai snorted. “Seriously. These kids don’t know what they’re missing.”
“I’m thinking their parents do.” She couldn’t help pointing out.
Tai’s face lit with recognition. He cocked a finger at her and perched on a stool at the far end of the counter, sending his partner a meaningful look. “I’m hungry. You gonna tell her, or do you want me to do it?”
Bridger’s hands curled into fists, and his jaw tensed.
Jane’s stomach dropped. Whatever he needed to say, it couldn’t be good.
“We had a talk with Pastor Zack.” Bridger fired out the words.
“And the guy writing the checks,” Tai added.
