something to drink and put on the finishing touches.” He knelt on the floor and gently pulled off her boots, resting her feet, one at a time, on the coffee table.
“What if I get used to this treatment?” she asked him.
“That’s my intention. To spoil you into submission.”
Her hand went to her slightly swollen middle. “I already submitted, remember?”
He was about to say “Not all the way,” but held his tongue. “I’ll be right back,” he said instead.
She stifled a yawn as he went to the kitchen. “Feed Sadie while you’re in there, will you?” Then she yawned largely and let herself relax into the cushions of the sofa. The fire was so warm and welcoming. The smells, so savory and alluring. The day, so long and tiring. She yawned again, thinking home had never felt quite so delicious.
When Jim returned with a stemmed glass of sparkling cider, he found her sound asleep, her head slumped onto her shoulder.
Five
T he phone at the Toopeek household rang, sending Tom and Ursula both bolting upright. Four-thirty in the morning. Tom grabbed it first. “Toopeek,” he answered.
The gravelly unidentified male voice rasped, “Man with a gun out at Rocky’s.”
“Great. What’s he going to do with the—”
Click.
“Hello? Hello?”
Rocky’s was an isolated roadhouse frequented by the lowlife clientele of three counties because it sat on the edge of all three. Unfortunately, it sat a little bit more on the Grace Valley side of upper Mendocino County. Tom’s jurisdiction. Tom dialed the number from memory. It began to ring.
Ursula fell back against the pillows. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
“Man with a gun at Rocky’s.” The phone just rang and rang.
“What else is new?” she asked. “Everyone out here has a gun or twelve.”
It rang and rang and rang.
Tom hung up and swung his long legs out of the bed. His bare toes curled against the insult of the cold wood floor. “Someone must be threatening or even shooting.”
“How do you figure?”
“No answer at Rocky’s. The man with the gun is either not letting them answer or someone tore the phone out of the wall. Again.”
He picked up the phone and dialed another number. This time there was an immediate answer. “Rios.”
“Ricky, I just got a call from—”
“I know. Rocky’s. It’s a couple of the MacAlvie boys. Cousins. They got laid off from the mill up at Mad River and they were either having a celebration or a commiseration that turned into one of their usual fights. I’m on my way.”
“Good. I’ll back you up.”
“Hey,” Ricky said, “I got it, Tom. Plus, I radioed Humboldt County and got Bill Sanderson. The MacAlvies are theirs. Humboldt can join the party. Go back to bed.”
“It’s okay. I’m up.”
“We’re all up,” Ursula muttered, sticking her legs out in search of slippers.
Ricky was on duty till 7:00 a.m. He had fielded the call through the police station and arranged hisown backup from the county sheriff’s department. But someone had made a point to call Tom’s house, which upped the seriousness of the trouble by a notch. Because of that, Tom decided he’d put in an appearance. Maybe it was a worse-than-usual fight. He could only hope they’d kill each other by the time he got there. The MacAlvies were no good.
Rocky Conner was a leathery woman in her forties who looked like she was in her sixties. Her life had taken its toll. She was the fourth generation to run that ramshackle watering hole and was named for her great-grandfather. She claimed her people had served up drinks to tired and thirsty men all the way back to the Gold Rush.
Rocky’s was off the beaten track and known only to locals. Though it wasn’t exactly a place to buy a drink by invitation only, it came close. Tourists were not welcome. Strangers were usually met with unfriendliness unless they arrived on Harleys and had plenty of money to buy rounds. Rocky ran the place alone, but she had her regulars
“What if I get used to this treatment?” she asked him.
“That’s my intention. To spoil you into submission.”
Her hand went to her slightly swollen middle. “I already submitted, remember?”
He was about to say “Not all the way,” but held his tongue. “I’ll be right back,” he said instead.
She stifled a yawn as he went to the kitchen. “Feed Sadie while you’re in there, will you?” Then she yawned largely and let herself relax into the cushions of the sofa. The fire was so warm and welcoming. The smells, so savory and alluring. The day, so long and tiring. She yawned again, thinking home had never felt quite so delicious.
When Jim returned with a stemmed glass of sparkling cider, he found her sound asleep, her head slumped onto her shoulder.
Five
T he phone at the Toopeek household rang, sending Tom and Ursula both bolting upright. Four-thirty in the morning. Tom grabbed it first. “Toopeek,” he answered.
The gravelly unidentified male voice rasped, “Man with a gun out at Rocky’s.”
“Great. What’s he going to do with the—”
Click.
“Hello? Hello?”
Rocky’s was an isolated roadhouse frequented by the lowlife clientele of three counties because it sat on the edge of all three. Unfortunately, it sat a little bit more on the Grace Valley side of upper Mendocino County. Tom’s jurisdiction. Tom dialed the number from memory. It began to ring.
Ursula fell back against the pillows. “What is it?” she asked sleepily.
“Man with a gun at Rocky’s.” The phone just rang and rang.
“What else is new?” she asked. “Everyone out here has a gun or twelve.”
It rang and rang and rang.
Tom hung up and swung his long legs out of the bed. His bare toes curled against the insult of the cold wood floor. “Someone must be threatening or even shooting.”
“How do you figure?”
“No answer at Rocky’s. The man with the gun is either not letting them answer or someone tore the phone out of the wall. Again.”
He picked up the phone and dialed another number. This time there was an immediate answer. “Rios.”
“Ricky, I just got a call from—”
“I know. Rocky’s. It’s a couple of the MacAlvie boys. Cousins. They got laid off from the mill up at Mad River and they were either having a celebration or a commiseration that turned into one of their usual fights. I’m on my way.”
“Good. I’ll back you up.”
“Hey,” Ricky said, “I got it, Tom. Plus, I radioed Humboldt County and got Bill Sanderson. The MacAlvies are theirs. Humboldt can join the party. Go back to bed.”
“It’s okay. I’m up.”
“We’re all up,” Ursula muttered, sticking her legs out in search of slippers.
Ricky was on duty till 7:00 a.m. He had fielded the call through the police station and arranged hisown backup from the county sheriff’s department. But someone had made a point to call Tom’s house, which upped the seriousness of the trouble by a notch. Because of that, Tom decided he’d put in an appearance. Maybe it was a worse-than-usual fight. He could only hope they’d kill each other by the time he got there. The MacAlvies were no good.
Rocky Conner was a leathery woman in her forties who looked like she was in her sixties. Her life had taken its toll. She was the fourth generation to run that ramshackle watering hole and was named for her great-grandfather. She claimed her people had served up drinks to tired and thirsty men all the way back to the Gold Rush.
Rocky’s was off the beaten track and known only to locals. Though it wasn’t exactly a place to buy a drink by invitation only, it came close. Tourists were not welcome. Strangers were usually met with unfriendliness unless they arrived on Harleys and had plenty of money to buy rounds. Rocky ran the place alone, but she had her regulars
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