Page 10 of Mack
He turned on the stool and watched the band. The woman singing was good. She wasn’t Mallory. He thought about asking someone which band member was her brother, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to come across as a man who needed to be escorted off the premises.
He finished his beer, waved Dixie over, handed her cash, waved off the change, and walked out.
Great way to spend a Saturday night.
The next morning, he crossed the yard and pushed open the barn door.
He’d grown up in this house. His parents had downsized after he and Juliette moved out, leaving the place empty for nearly four years, holding onto it with the hope that he’d come back someday and restore the ranch. He hadn’t planned on it. Now here he was, sleeping in his parents’ old bedroom and still not sure what that meant. He’d had to buy new furniture, but that didn’t bother him. The house belonged to him and his sister, but he knew that Juliette wanted nothing to do with Clifton anymore.
He loved it here. That was the problem. It would have been easier to leave if he didn’t.
He walked to Slate’s stall and rubbed the horse’s velvety nose. The blue roan Quarter Horse was spoiled and knew it, and Mack loved him for it. The feeling was mutual.
“Hey, Slate. How about a ride.” The horse bobbed his head.
Mack grinned, slid the gate open, hooked a lead to the halter, and got him saddled. Then he mounted, nudged him forward, and they tore out of the barn, through the gate, and into the north pasture. Three hundred acres stretching out ahead of them.
This was his favorite thing. It cleared his head better than anything else ever had.
The day was warm, but the weather was supposed to turn soon. That didn’t surprise him. Early September in Montana could mean snow or it could mean another week of heat, and you never knew which until it arrived. Mack was hoping for cold. He could always add layers. There was nothing you could do about heat except suffer through it or spend the afternoon in the inground pool out back like he used to every summer growing up.
He nudged Slate faster and let himself stop thinking for a while.
Monday morning, he hadn’t planned on stopping at The Everyday Grind. He’d told himself he didn’t need coffee, that he had half a pot waiting back at the department. Then he walked past the place on his rounds, and the smell hit him and that was the end of that.
The line was three people deep when he pushed through the door. He got in behind a woman in a yellow sundress, dark hair pulled up loosely at the back of her neck, a few strands escaping.
He almost took a step back.
Mallory Nichols was studying the chalkboard menu above the counter with the focused appearance of someone making a decision that mattered. She hadn’t noticed him. He had approximately four seconds to decide whether to say something or study the menu board himself and pretend.
“The cold brew is worth it,” he said. “Best thing on the menu, so they tell me.”
She turned, and he watched the recognition move across her face, that slight catch before she steadied herself.
“Deputy Reinhardt.”
“Mack,” he said. “Even though I’m on duty.”
She glanced at his uniform shirt with a look that said she’d already noticed. The line moved and they moved with it, standing close enough that he caught the faint scent of something warm, cedar maybe, the shop still on her clothes.
She ordered a cold brew with vanilla. He ordered the same and earned a sideways glance.
“Copying me?”
“I was going to order it anyway,” he said.
She smiled at that, a real one, and accepted her cup from the barista. They stepped to the side together without discussing it.
“How’s your sister?” she asked. “Did the snow globe arrive?”
He looked at her. “She called me twice. Once to say it arrived and once to tell me it was her favorite.”
Mallory’s face opened into a genuine smile. “That’s the best thing you could have told me.”
“She asked where I found it.” He sipped his coffee. “I told her a Christmas shop on Main Street. In August. She wants the address.”
Mallory laughed softly. “Tell her we ship.”
