Big Sky Country. Linda Lael Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ for a tasteful wooden sign suspended from a wrought-iron post by brass chain—Shepherd Real Estate, Locally Owned—everything looked the same as it had when she lived there.

      Four Georgian pillars supported an extension of the roof, and the windows, mullioned glass salvaged from some country house in England in the aftermath of World War II, shone in the sunlight like so many diamond-shaped mirrors. The front doors were mahogany, hand-carved with leaves and birds and unicorns and all manner of ornate curlicues. A heavy brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head added to the grandeur of it all.

      After steeling herself for another emotional jolt, Joslyn tried the knob. It turned.

      Joslyn pushed open the door and moved into the shadowy coolness of the massive foyer. Soaring two stories high, the entryway echoed with the ponderous ticking of the oversized grandfather clock dominating the inside wall.

      Multicolored light spilled through stained-glass skylights, and two grand staircases stood on either side, sweeping upwards to the second floor. The one on the left opened on to the side of the house where her room—more of a suite, really—had been, along with spacious quarters for guests and a private sitting room with its own fireplace. The master suite, with its decadent bath, an honest-to-goodness ballroom, and a sizable library occupied the opposite side of the structure.

      Joslyn took a step toward the stairs, like someone hypnotized, but stopped herself before she could go any farther.

      This wasn’t her home anymore. It was Kendra’s, she reminded herself silently.

      Yes, Kendra was her friend—probably her best friend—but that didn’t mean Joslyn could go poking around in the old house, looking behind doors to see what had—and hadn’t—changed in the years since her departure.

      She peeked into the living room—Elliott had always referred to it as “the parlor”—and saw that Kendra had made good use of the space. There were two desks, both antiques, both equipped with computers and modern phones. The bookshelves on either side of the gray-white marble fireplace were stuffed with manuals but otherwise tidy.

      The elegant round table in the center of it all sported a sparkling cut-glass bowl with an exquisite pink orchid floating inside.

      Joslyn blinked, and, for the merest fraction of a second, the room was the way she remembered it—cheerfully cluttered, with the bookshelves spilling paperbacks and hardcovers and DVDs, and two huge sofas, upholstered in beige corduroy, flanking the hearth. The TV was blaring, newspapers and magazines littered the floor, and Spunky, the cocker spaniel, barked joyfully, as if to welcome her back after a long absence.

      Another blink, and, of course, it was all gone.

      They’d taken Spunky with them the night they fled, she and her mom and Opal, and he’d lived to a ripe old age.

      Joslyn shook off the twinge of longing she felt and moved farther inside the room. A comfortable seating area filled one corner, but there were no customers waiting, so it was an all-clear. She’d done her duty as far as her friend was concerned, she decided, at least for the time being.

      Turning on one heel, Joslyn practically ran out of that house, haunted, as it was, by the ghosts of her pampered youth, and zipped around back to the cottage to fetch her purse and car keys. She needed to cook—like reading, making her favorite dishes and trying new recipes were forms of personal therapy for her—and that meant a trip to the market.

      The limestone gravel crunched under the wheels of her car as she drove onto Rodeo Road and turned right.

      Parable, population 10,421 according to the sign at the outskirts of town, boasted at least two supermarkets and the discount store she’d visited the day before to buy necessities, but Joslyn liked Mulligan’s Grocery, the mom-and-pop establishment across the street from the Curly-Burly Hair Salon, because the meat and produce were organic.

      It had been a lot of years, though. Was Mulligan’s even there anymore? Or had the small family business gone under, done in by competition from the bigger stores and the rocky economy?

      Her heart lurched a little when she rounded the corner and saw cars in the store’s grassy parking lot and an open sign in the front window. The soda machine, probably a valuable collector’s item by now, still stood next to the screen-door entrance, along with an ice holder and rows of propane tanks for barbecuing.

      Cheered, Joslyn parked her car, got out and headed for the door, looping her purse strap over one shoulder as she went.

      The same sense of déjà vu she’d experienced in the living room of Kendra’s house swept over her as she stepped inside.

      She might as well have entered a time warp, things had changed so little. The bread and candy racks were right where she remembered them being, and the floors were still uneven planks, worn smooth by several generations of foot traffic and stained from a thousand spills. The brass cash register, another relic of days gone by, like the soda machine, occupied the same counter in the same part of the store. Only the people were different.

      Mr. and Mrs. Mulligan, already old when she’d known them, were probably long dead. Joslyn didn’t recognize the gangly man behind the counter or any of the other customers.

      The tension that had drawn up her shoulders, without her really noticing, eased so suddenly that it left her a little dizzy. Her mind occupied with memories and ingredient lists, she’d forgotten to dread encountering one or more of her stepfather’s numerous victims.

      That was bound to happen, sooner rather than later, most likely, but for now, Joslyn dared to hope she’d wandered into a confrontation-free zone.

      Please, God.

      Except for a nod of greeting, the clerk at the counter didn’t pay her any particular attention, and neither did the few shoppers gathering food from shelves and coolers.

      Joslyn took a cart, one of the half dozen available—it had a rattle and one hinky wheel—and started down the first aisle. She hadn’t bothered to make an actual list, since she needed practically everything.

      She was standing in front of the spices, picking out the must-haves, like paprika and poultry seasoning, when she suddenly realized someone was watching her.

      Joslyn looked up into a pair of eyes so blue that they might have trapped fragments of a sky darkening its way toward evening. Her heart fluttered up into the back of her throat and flailed there as she registered the man’s identity.

      Slade Barlow.

      A badge glinted on his belt, reminding her that he was the sheriff of Parable County now, and he carried his hat in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

      Be out of town by sunset, Joslyn imagined him saying, in a slow, thoughtful drawl, befitting his jeans, Western shirt and polished boots.

      “Hello,” she said, sounding stupid in her own ears and feeling as stuck as a deer caught in the dazzle of oncoming headlights.

      A slight frown creased Slade’s tanned forehead. His hair was dark and short, though not too short, and those new-denim eyes were slightly narrowed.

      “Joslyn?” he asked.

      She bit her lower lip, nodded, wishing she’d worn a pair of shades and a baseball cap, so she could have pulled the brim down over her СКАЧАТЬ