Moon Over Montana. Jackie Merritt

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      JACKIE MERRITT

      is still writing, just not with the speed and constancy of years past. She and her husband are living in southern Nevada again, falling back on old habits of loving the long, warm or slightly cool winters and trying almost desperately to head north for the months of July and August, when the fiery sun bakes people and cacti alike.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter One

      The students and teachers at the Rumor High School were looking forward to the end of the school year, some more than others. Art teacher Linda Fioretti was more inclined to look ahead to the new school year rather than rejoice in the completion of this year’s curriculum.

      But then, Linda had only been a teacher for a short time—living in Rumor that same duration and loving her new job. Having been born and raised in the Los Angeles area, this was Linda’s first experience with the slower pace of a small town and she was amazed by how quickly she had adapted. Of course, liking the pretty little town and the people she had met created a sound foundation for contentment.

      She had established a comfortable routine, Linda decided while feeding her dog one sunny Saturday morning. Did she really want almost three months of total freedom from routine? Driving around the country and setting up her easel in places that took her fancy held much appeal, granted. But recently—Rumor’s influence, undoubtedly—she’d been discovering things about herself that she hadn’t known before. Maybe she was even less like her oddball parents than she’d always believed. Considering her unusual upbringing, it was a simple matter for Linda to assume that Vandyne and Hilly Vareck, her mother and father, had absolutely no conception of the word routine, if they even knew it was part of the English language. Certainly routines weren’t something they had put into practice in her presence.

      “There you are, Tippy,” Linda said as she set his bowl of dry food on the old newspaper on the floor of the tiny laundry room in her apartment. She returned to the two-stool counter in her small kitchen, sat on one and picked up her cup of coffee. She still had three weeks to prepare for the end of the school year, as well as the science fair she’d organized with the science teacher and local inventor Guy Cantrell. Plenty of time to decide how she would spend the summer.

      She was just beginning to relax and read the front page of the Rumor Mill, the town’s newspaper, when someone rapped on her front door.

      Tippy came tearing out of the laundry room, food forgotten, barking and sliding around corners in his haste to reach the front door and save Linda from whatever monster was daring to make noise just beyond the door.

      “Tippy, calm down,” Linda said. “Sit,” she told the little white dog, which he did, but with a watchful, suspicious eye on the door.

      Linda peered through the peephole and saw a man she hadn’t yet met. He looked innocent enough, not at all like the characters that had recently called on her and then practically run for the street, mumbling something about having the wrong address when she opened the door. She’d been amused the first time it happened because the man had been wearing a perfectly ghastly-looking toupee. The second time it occurred she wondered if she should alert the law about the man dressed as an overweight woman who had just knocked on her door.

      But hadn’t she laughed herself silly at the way he had hastily limped away in huge high heels? Where on earth did a man find shoes like that? Anyhow, she’d decided the guy was probably the town’s one eccentric and that she really shouldn’t cause trouble for someone so obviously a cookie or two short of a full box. She certainly hadn’t felt threatened by him or his penchant for knocking on strangers’ doors, after all. At any rate, she hadn’t alerted anyone. The sheriff would probably have laughed it off anyway.

      When the normal-looking man on her doorstep knocked again, Linda opened the door and said “Yes?” in a polite but questioning manner.

      “I’m here.”

      Another eccentric? Good grief! Linda suddenly wasn’t so polite. “So you are,” she said dryly. “Would it be too much trouble for you to explain why you’re here?”