Chapter 1 TOWN MEETINGS REQUIRE POPCORN
JADE
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IT’S FIVE MINUTES into Rocky Ridge Creek’s town meeting, and I already want to stab the next person who speaks with a pen.
“Someone has been stealing the cushions I hand-knit right out of Whiskering Heights.” Mrs. Graves, aka the local crazy cat lady, hits her cane off the floor.
And here we go.
Whiskering Heights, the local feline paradise tucked away in her backyard. The multi-level cat village is complete with a granite fountain, lush gardens, and plenty of catnip zones.
It’s heaven for every stray in town and run by a woman who I wouldn’t doubt crocheted herself a crown out of hairballs.
I can’t stab an old lady with a pen, can I?
“No, you can’t.”
Did I say that out loud?
Shit.
I swing my gaze to my youngest sister, Josie, who’s sitting beside me, munching on popcorn, as if we’re at the theater.
“Aren’t you saving that violence for Hart?” She gives me her wide-eyed, fake-innocent look, lashes fluttering, and a smirk fully engaged. “I heard he likes it kinky.”
Amazing how a single syllable can still hijack my whole mood. So emotionally evolved of me. One name and suddenly I’m neck-deep in whiplash. Years later, and still—my jaw clenches, my stomach flips, and the hate?
Still sharp.
Still raw.
Like no time has passed at all.
“No,” I huff, turning back to the meeting, but the thought of taking the man out has certainly crossed my mind more than once.
And I’m a lover of nature, animals, and all things peaceful. People, though, aren’t peaceful.
“I demand fingerprints from my fence latch, the doors of the cat houses, the awnings, and their tiny porches.” Mrs. Graves’ grey curls look like the result of a cat curling on her head for an afternoon nap.
I clutch the pen tighter. I promised myself I wouldn’t shed blood today, but I’m one more stupid comment away from it.
“I spotted him in town yesterday,” my sister drawls, crunching loudly. “You know, that hunky oldest Wilde cowboy.”
He is not hunky.
“It was almost as rare as spotting Bigfoot riding a bike through town.”
Is my sister looking to be my next victim? Between Mrs. Graves acting like an unhinged CSI intern and my sister playing Miss Obsessed FBI agent, I might need two very sharp pens—if I were a violent person.
This is why I don’t attend town meetings.
This is why I like the privacy of my office and the seclusion of my cabin.
“He’s aging like bourbon in an oak barrel. You don’t even need a lasso to catch him, just one look and you’re hooked.”
Did she just purr?
Thinking of Hart Wilde?
Nauseating.
Mayor Thomas Banks breathes through his nose, a slow, deliberate drag like he’s trying to inhale his patience.
The tip of his nose is flushed red, either from the obsessive polishing with his handkerchief or the mounting frustration as the meeting veers off course in record time.
Likely the latter.
I don’t blame him.
I feel that breath in my inner core.
If I weren’t heading a sponsorship for the regional rodeo out of town, I wouldn’t be here.
Also, if I could just get my fifteen minutes of fame over with before a certain cowboy has a chance to get here, that would be spectacular.
I glance at the clock. Time is ticking.
“For the third time, Mrs. Graves”—he exhales hard enough to stir the stack of handouts on the table in front of him—“we are not the police.”
The fact that the mayor had to say it even one time.
“He’s got that ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of trouble written all over him.” My sister’s words are meant to provoke me, but I refuse to bite.
Besides, it’s more like “I’m an asshole” kind of trouble written all over him.
“The sheriff won’t do fingerprints.” Mrs. Graves shoots the sheriff a look as if he had just tracked mud on her clean floor.
Although with a backyard full of cats, I’m sure mud would be the cleanest thing to walk through her back door.
Sheriff Nash doesn’t even twitch at the accusation. He just stands off to the side, hip propped against the scuffed wooden wall where the varnish faded years ago. Arms folded tight across his chest, badge catching the dim light, and one ankle slung over the other.
“Doesn’t have the resources.” Mrs. Graves’ eyes stay fixed on him, steady as a preacher’s sermon, while her fingers knit a storm right there on her lap.
I wouldn’t be surprised if those balls of yarn are spun from cat fur.
“He may wear the badge, but I’ve seen smarter kittens chasing their own tails.”
This is coming from a lady who has a rotating cast of feline friends and enough catnip that she started her own garden. Forget Whiskering Heights, we should call her the Mayor of Crazy Cat Alley.
Snickers from the locals pepper through the silence, sparking low laughter.
It’s packed tonight, and I’m not thrilled about taking the floor with all these eyes on me. Not that I have a choice.
Like the Sheriff right now.
Heads swivel from Mrs. Graves to him and back again, eyes sharp, ready to spill the tea all over town.
The sheriff hides his reaction behind reflective aviator shades perched on his nose, despite the evening darkness filtering through the high windows.
Nash is good at letting insults slide. He observes, he calculates, and he arrests when shit gets out of control.
Hence, the reason he’s attending tonight’s town meeting. They always get out of control.
“We don’t fingerprint either.” The mayor adjusts his hay hat and wipes the red paisley bandana across his forehead, mopping the sweat beading there.
The room isn’t hot. He just brings his own weather system of frustration.
“I bet Hart would enjoy fingerprint, lock me up officer, role play.” My sister’s elbow digs into my side.
“Can you not?” I hiss.
“The town council should fingerprint.” Mrs. Graves rises shakily to her feet, clutching her cane.
A few balls of yarn roll from her lap, and the people nearby instinctively gather them like it’s part of the routine.
I don’t doubt it is.
“All in favor of town council fingerprinting criminals, raise your hand.” The older woman jabs her knitting needle toward the air, punctuating her point.
I slink down in my seat. “Can’t we have one town meetin’ where Mrs. Graves isn’t bitchin’ about somethin’ useless?”
Josie smiles at me in that way that makes me feel like the punchline to a joke she hasn’t told yet.
“Well, it wouldn’t really be a town meetin’ then, would it?” Her hand shoots up. “I second that motion.”
Of course, she does.
I’m still debating why I even chose to sit with her. I knew she’d whip out the popcorn, and second motion on things she has no business seconding.
I could’ve snagged a nice seat up front, with nothing but the council in view. Instead, thanks to my sister, I’m back here watching half the town pretend they’re running Congress.
I hate town meetings.
“There is no motion and no voting on the subject of fingerprints.” Mayor Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose, his face turning a darker shade of red.
“Might we suggest security cameras, Mrs. Graves?” The town’s deputy mayor, Rita Rowe, sips from her water bottle, but we all know it’s not H2O in there.
She’s the town lush, armed with a bag of wine inside her purse and a hidden tap on the side, for crises, celebrations, and anything in between—like Tuesday town meetings.
“Apparently, hand-knitted cat cushions are a hot commodity these days.” Rita casually fluffs one side of her big red curls, looking every bit like an ‘80s Reba McEntire, and ready to steal the show.
“Why is this topic being further discussed?” I say it loud enough that only my sister hears, but I’m not really talking to anyone. “There is an agenda for a reason.”
And I guarantee fingerprints and Mrs. Graves’ cats are not on it. I could recite the order of this week’s business in my sleep.
Still, the waiting is what grinds me down. I know how it goes—dragged-out debates, a dozen voices too many, and the constant buzz of who did what with whom.
“I second security cameras!” Josie’s crossed leg bounces off her other knee, kicking the side of my leg each time.
She doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, or is absolutely doing it on purpose, waiting for me to crack first.
It’s undoubtedly the latter.
“Stop encouraging her. I don’t want to be here all night.” I pivot my legs out of her reach.
“If we get your topic discussed on time, will you duck out early with me to Kiwi’s?” She flings a lone kernel in my direction.
It bounces off my cheek and lands on my clipboard. I tilt it, and the piece slides onto the floor.
Even my sister’s worst rants over drinks are more coherent than whatever trainwreck is happening here.
“Yes.” The word is so painfully hard for me to say.
Josie salutes me with a wink before her hand shoots in the air.
She always reminds me of a cowgirl who stumbled into a wild, moonlit night with fringed leather boots, layered jewelry, a flowy poncho, and boyfriend jeans rolled at the cuff.
“I vote no cameras! No fingerprints! Moving on!”
Is she under the impression she’s running this meeting? Given she’s been attending since pigtail years, I don’t doubt it. And her half-braided pigtails today? Not a coincidence. It’s strategic nostalgia on her part.
But ducking out of a meeting is so unlike her. Makes me wonder why she’d offer, or what she’s up to. Josie only does things for Josie.
“Speaking of Hart—”
She was speaking of Hart.
“—isn’t he supposed to be helping you with this sponsorship presentation thingy?” My sister tosses a handful of popcorn in her mouth and chomps loudly.
“It’s not a presentation.” I drum my pen against the clipboard resting on my lap.
“Well, whatever it is, isn’t he supposed to help you?” Josie flicks a kernel off the folded pleats of her prairie-chic skirt.
It lands on my clipboard—again—and is as annoying as this conversation about Hart.
I nudge the kernel over the edge.
“I don’t need his help.”
I didn’t want his help.
I didn’t ask for his help.