Dream Walkin'

Chapter 1

The large, old cabin, circa 1899, sat like an imposing Viking Queen at the Canadian/Minnesota border on the shore of an impressive wilderness lake called Callahan at the township for which it was named; Callahan Falls. The cabin, nearly as impressive as the majestic lake itself, was a contradiction of its charming name, The Dew Drop Inn, which didn't conceal the fact that the cabin had ever been anything other than what it was now, a century plus old tavern. Its solid timbered exterior frame had weathered to a warm shade of red-brown that clashed with the absurd shade of gold to which the front door had oxidized. Yet the oversized cabin, battered and aged, represented a warm nest of sorts-- a place of acceptance where literally, everyone knew your name, when you were born, and what you had for supper last night.

Tonight, however, it was a respite from the late afternoon heat and humidity, a reward of frosty mugs of cold beer and friends who shared the same business and interests.

Inside, the windows of the dusty old establishment had been opened full width to encourage the breeze aided by a lazy fan suspended from the ceiling which merely stirred the perpetual scent of the cabin’s interior; years of spent fires, grilled food, and perma-must mingled with the scent of lake water, pine, and the mock orange just blooming outside the back window.

Kelly Callahan, (no relation to the town) proprietor, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, identifying each scent until she isolated the fragrance of choice. Mock-Orange.

Don’t look now, Mz Kitty, Harlan Pettibone, her eldest and most frequent customer, said in his best Festus Hagen voice, but good ol’ Matt just crossed the street.

You mean Sheriff Taylor, don-cha? John Sanders laughed and slapped his wife on the knee in good humor. You never could cook like good ol' Aunt Bea.

Posh! She waved his humor off and laughed along with the group.

Kelly Callahan opened her eyes and forgot her bookkeeping in time to see the king of Callahan Falls cross the wooden planked walkway up to her front door. She turned her back to the door, popped the top button on her green gingham blouse, fluffed her cleavage and her hair, and turned back to lean suggestively on the bar in a showing off a slice of Kitty Russell cleavage pose, a shameless act of intentional annoyance fueling the feud that already flamed between them.

Harlan, she warned, if you slap my ass again, I’m slapping yours soon as you lift it off that bar stool!

Harlan chuckled.

Drink, Sheriff? Kelly asked as the man who was almost too broad shouldered for the narrow threshold stepped through the door.

No, ma’am, he touched his fingers to the tip of his hat as his gaze swept the room.

Help you find something? Her gaze followed his briefly then flashed back to his all too handsome face. His leather gun belt creaked as he moved.

She smiled as his dark eyes flicked over her, lingered on her exposed cleavage then skipped from each expectant face at the bar to the next.

Looking for a couple of tourists, he said. They were to put in on the south ridge launch yesterday. They never showed.

That’s unusual, they typically don’t get lost until they enter the Boundary Waters. I’d check the ditch over by the electric station. Harlan cackled, That corner’s tricky.

Did that, thanks. He turned to Kelly, his absent as usual expression unusually absent. The hard edge of concern lined his eyes as his gaze locked onto hers.

The pair are brothers, Caucasians, one 34, the other 35. Name's Johnson.

Kelly rolled her eyes, a second later the rest of the bar went up in hoots.

Imagine anyone in Minnesota being called Johnson, Harlan muttered.

We’ll look out for them, Sheriff, Kelly said cracking Harlan across the arm for his bit of hilarity, but she was unsettled. Why would the sheriff worry or care if a couple of tourists hadn't shown up? More, how would he even know they hadn't shown up? The DNR no longer required visitors to the Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Area to check in and out, as it once had. Moreover since when did misplaced tourists fall under county sheriff jurisdiction? Something was wrong with this picture.

His gaze met hers and held for several seconds, then he touched his hat again and left the bar.

Kelly's mouth went dry and her blood seemed to go static. She watched him through the window as he walked back to his car.

That’s one fine looking man. Nancy Chapel slid up to the bar and helped herself to one of Harlan's cigarettes. She lit it herself.

And how, Linda Sanders added.

Kelly laughed, thankful the spell had been broken. She re-buttoned her blouse and went back to her bookkeeping, but a chill had assaulted her back.

Having moved to this last scrap of civilization two years before, she still had trouble being gracious with the vocabulary that time forgot. Linda's "and how," reminded her of 1960 sit-coms. But the colloquialisms in this border town got worse. The word "groovy," she'd been informed referred to an un-grated, dirt road while the term far out meant more than a three-day trek through the wilderness, and way cool was weather far below zero freezing.

Modern television shows like Dancing with the Stars and CSI’s wouldn’t make it at all. Not because the town folks wouldn’t be interested, but the only television station in rustic Minnesota had only 18 hours in its broadcasting day, 3 A.M. to Midnight, with no network affiliations. Even so, the locals seemed to have pretty rigid viewing choices.

Occasionally Kelly rented videotapes and showed them on her big screen, compliments of her fine establishment. Well, Okay, her fine establishment was a 35 x 70 foot log cabin with beer paraphernalia covering nearly every inch of the wall space since the inception of brewing. The collection included lighted beer signs and windup clocks that dated as far back as the late 1800’s, Minnesota Twins World Champion Homer Hankies, and pictures of past Vikings football players autographed to the previous owners were framed and displayed behind the bar. Thick Tiffany swag lamps suspended on chains hung over each heavy, hand carved table and booth. Even the pool table, being the only one of its kind, was supported by four matching, hand carved tree trunks. Lined up on the shelf that framed the wide window over-looking the lake, were newer additions to the décor; Beanie Baby black bear, beaver, moose and skunk; gifts from her younger clientele perched, silently observing the behavior of the indigenous inhabitants, in their natural habitat. Along the farthest wall was a big flat screen television, now disconnected from satellite dish, displayed either the local station or videos of the week. The long bar was old and heavy, and the pickle barrel bar stools were covered in fresh, forest green canvas.

The front door was three inches thick as were the working shutters which framed each window from the inside, which once protected the ancient French trappers from harsh Canadian winters, not to mention the violent attacks from the natives who protected their land from the invading Voyagers.

Over the bar, a beer company plastic moose head adorned with a Rocky Squirrel bow tie guarded the antique cash register. The room was a ménage of time set in Voyager National Park where visitors enjoyed that final beer upon entering the wilderness, or the first one upon returning from their wilderness experience.

While it was a warm nest to her local patrons, a tradition to annual visitors and seasonal lumber jacks; the Dew Drop was nothing less than a God-Send, a safe haven, and a refuge for Kelly who'd found the bar for sale through an internet broker. She purchased the bar nearly sight unseen, changed the name from the Do Drop Inn to the Dew Drop Inn, and contracted a local painter to recreate the billboard-sized, weather-worn, roof-top painting.

The hopelessly damaged, politically incorrect and outdated painting of a cartoon Voyager chasing a young Betty-Boopish Indian maid was transformed into a figure of a young, fit, handsome Frenchman. Here began her problems with the king of Callahan Falls. Problem one: the young, fit, handsomely painted figure struck a remarkable resemblance to the County Sheriff.

Problem two & three: the lovely, young Native American woman at whom he was making amorous overtures wore Kelly's green eyes, a come-on look and not much else. While her too-fair-for Native American skin was supposed to be covered with a buckskin dress, the artist had given her a barely-there, Disney Pocahontas styled off-the-shoulder number highlighted by the crystal droplet that dangled at her throat from a leather thong, suggestive enough to make the sheriff think she was opening a brothel instead of a bar. Not the original innocent drawing Kelly had had in mind, so she asked the painter to repaint it. However, the painter was so enthralled with the beauty of his creation; he offered to cut his fee in half simply for the pleasure of driving past the bar and seeing it displayed to the world. Of course, after two angry rounds with the sheriff, and Kelly being every bit as Irish as she sounded, not to mention a businesswoman at heart, she decided it was just what the up-tight, small county, by-the-book, pain in the ass lawman needed and had the sign hung. That was two years ago, and while the toe-to-toe stand-offs had somewhat subsided, the battle raged on.

Kelly tried to refocus on her accounting books, then slapped them shut. She was restless again. It happened every time that stupid sheriff walked through her front door. Ever since the day he charged into the Dew Drop, dragged her off the bar and out the back door... she grit her teeth, willed her heart to slow, and forced the memory from her mind.

Nine O’clock, Nancy said looking at the only one of seven historic beer clocks that ran on time.

Harlan sniffed, I gotta outfit some classy operation tomorrow.

Pillsbury again? Kelly looked at the 60 plus year old man who really did resemble a 60 year old Festus Hagan, the rough-cut deputy from the old TV show Gunsmoke.

"No, but all them fancy pants companies are wanting to do it now. They claim it builds team effort or some such nonsense." His pale blue eyes rolled beneath his bushy brows.

Kelly smiled. They picked a bad time of year.

This being late summer tourist trade was slow. Kelly had learned that the experienced campers appeared in the cooler spring and early summer while the weather and the bugs were low. As the summer heated up, the black flies, gnats, and the weather became more volatile, the novices appeared. Either way, they entered the park on Saturday mornings full of exuberance and exited the following Saturday afternoon exhausted, with a few exceptions.

Goes to show ya just what them exec-atives know. He paused and looked at Kelly,

Didn’t you work for one of them places when you was livin’ in the concrete jungle?

Yep, way back then. She nodded and turned to the tap and poured herself, then everyone else a beer. It was a shameless act of detouring unwanted conversation and speculation of her fiercely protected past. The sheriff flit through her mind; the cleavage, the hair--seemed she was full of shameless acts today.

You never did say why you left the city and moved up here, Nancy challenged as if reading her mind.

So much for shameless act, Kelly thought and tried not to frown.

Of course she has. Linda accepted her beer and saluted Kelly.

Kelly sent Linda a grateful smile.

Oh, yah. Sick of it all. Nancy mumbled.

Harlan flapped a hand at Nancy, the 30-year-old, bottle blond who had no reason to stay in Callahan Falls, but had nowhere else to go. This was an old conversation based on her desire to move away and resenting anyone who had the means, the drive, and the intelligence to do so. Unfortunately, the more Nancy drank, the deeper her resentment. Nancy had trouble figuring out why anyone as pretty as Kelly Callahan would want to leave the city and a to-die-for job for this God Forsaken Wilderness.

I guess we both just need a change of scenery, Kelly sighed, setting the complimentary beer before her adversary.

Yah. Nancy agreed and accepted the beer Kelly handed her with a sheepish smile. "Seems to me that once you’ve had it all it’s pretty easy to give it all up."

Nancy, Linda admonished, you don’t know what Kelly had before, why she moved or anything. Can’t you just accept that she's a nice person?

Yah, Nancy lifted her glass and chugged the rest of her beer. I better go. I’ve gotta open the store early tomorrow for deliveries.

Nancy was the only employee of Tam’s Last Call Market since the Minneapolis HQ added the satellite grocery store seventeen years ago. Everyone heading into the wilderness forgot at least one vital piece of equipment, or needed one last packaged food item before going where there were no stores. Nancy liked the job because she met so many different people, mostly men.

Kelly could understand how life here, forever, could be a lonely thing for a vital, unmarried woman whose biological clock was ticking away. That was the irony of the relationship between the two women. People traveled through the Boundary Waters, they never staying long enough to form emotional ties with the people of Callahan Falls. The very reason Kelly came to Callahan Falls was the reason Nancy wanted out.

Nancy waved goodnight and left the room as Harley, Harlan’s son, and his three buddies came in. Harley was a young, handsome, rugged man, the type you’d find living a rugged life guiding trappers, hunters, cross country skiers, and fishermen across the wilderness. He was one of the few men she knew who could take you into the wild with nothing but a Swiss Army knife and a book of matches, and not only keep you sheltered and well fed, but have you believing you were having fun too.

His buddies however, were another story altogether. Fisher Potts, (AKA Larry) owned and operated the over-priced gas station his grandfather had started back in the 1930’s. He was basically a nice fellow who smelled of au du petrol and whose wardrobe was limited to navy blue denim shirts embroidered with Pott's Filling and Service Station over the left breast pocket. Zach Kramer (AKA Moe) worked for the DNR, but no one knew exactly what job he held because his khaki green uniforms always looked clean if not wrinkle free. Then there was Glenn Milken, (AKA Curly) who helped Harley on the longer trips and hired out on cabin and or lodge repair whenever the need arose, although no one had actually ever witnessed him at labor, hard or any other kind.

No Stella tonight? Curly winked at Moe and shuffled his feet beneath the bar stool like a school boy who'd seen A Street Car Named Desire for the first time.

Kelly laughed and pulled the tap as she set them up with rounds. Watch my lips, Curly, Kelly said carefully, knowing she was being teased because of Harley's resemblance to a very young Marlon Brando. Stella only works on Fridays.

"Say works again, Stella honey." He crooned, while his lips undulated in her direction.

Kelly narrowed her eyes and slowly shook her head then smiled. "Those words are reserved for Mr. Dillon."

The bar hooted at her play on words and the jab she took at Sheriff Adams who no one really knew at all but dearly loved to pick on. It was obvious to Kelly why the locals liked to tease him behind his back. No one had said directly, but they felt snubbed that he didn't hang around and chew the fat. He'd never even volunteered his first name to them nor joined in the nightly beer sessions. In a county in which there was no crime the Sheriff took his job very seriously and everyone wondered why. Though he lived at the edge of town, his duties covered a wide and wild area, which often bordered on the understaffed DNR’s Conservation Officer’s duties. There was no local police for the town of fifty, but police intervention was rarely a need.

Having arrived in town only a few short weeks before him, her first run in with him had her casting her opinion with the locals, and the subsequent collisions only solidified her choice.

How big is this county anyway? Kelly asked Harley.

About 3000 square miles, maybe a little more. He lifted his beer and drank, but his eyes stayed on Kelly. She hummed, and turned to wash the glasses that were beginning to stack up.

What’cha gettin’ at? John looked past his wife at Kelly.

I just never thought of the county on terms of size before, she shrugged. I mean it looks big on the map, but I've never actually paid attention to it.

That is a lot of area to cover, Linda caught Kelly's wavelength.

Ah, bat’s sweat, Larry chimed in. Sheriff Baker didn’t have no trouble running this place by his-self before.

Baker had three deputies. Harley answered carefully, and C.O. Johnson was still around.

C.O. Johnson is still around. Harlan filled in. Saw him just the other day at the filling station, had some trainee with him. He pretended to shiver in distaste, Some little girl.

She can't be that little.

No more 'n that high. Harlan gestured about four feet and the rest of them exchanged doubtful glances.

Kelly shook her head along with the excess water from her hands before drying them on a bar towel; she looked up at her customers. So what are you saying? The previous sheriff had three deputies and this one works alone?

Hell, Carver Jackson who’d been silent all along piped up, we had to send out for this sheriff. We didn’t have nobody in the county that wanted the job. But we didn’t ask for no deputies.

Stupefied, Kelly faced Carver, Where did the deputies go?

Carver shrugged. They didn’t want to be deputies no more and left, I sup'ose.

Kelly looked at Harlan and laughed, I think we can call him Chester, what do you think?

Everyone laughed and Carver blushed because the raspy slightly dull inflection to his voice wasn’t an act. Kelly gave him a free beer, but what he’d told her about the sheriff bothered her. Deputies don’t just run off because they don’t want to be deputies any more. And the sheriff’s office was an elected position.

So, what happened to Sheriff Baker?

He died, John supplied finishing his beer, and patting Linda’s knee. Come on dear it's getting late.

Linda finished her beer and took her purse from the coffee cup hooks Kelly had installed under the bar for just that purpose, "funny, they said it was complications due to lymes disease. Some attack on his heart, but …well, I don’t know. Could have been appendicitis or heart attack for all we know. They didn't find him for a few days... and …well, Baker didn't have any family so ... She shrugged in a helplessly guilty fashion. We just didn't know what to do or what to think."

No one said anything until the couple reached the door and said goodnight. See you tomorrow, Kelly said waving good night, but the silence in the room told her these people knew more than they were telling. Harlan followed Linda and John, and Carver was the next to say good night leaving Kelly with Harley and the three stooges.

Whatta ya so interested in the sheriff all of a sudden for? Larry asked.

Kelly who’d been wiping down the end of the bar looked up, I’m not interested in the sheriff.

Why all the questions all of a sudden.

Why so defensive all of a sudden? Kelly countered coming up on the unwashed, unattractive, intellectually challenged Neanderthal who ran a broken down, overpriced filling station. Jealous?

Moe chortled and Larry smacked his arm. Kelly grinned, thinking it was ridiculously easy to toss these lads off track some times. But Harley was onto her and winked.

Anyway, it’s the county I was interested in, not the county law man. She gave him a stiff nod then moved back to wiping down the bar. You know the county I lived in was scarcely a fifth the size of this one. I guess the farther North you go the bigger the counties get, she mused. It's one of those things I have never thought about before. She pause in thought. Or does it go by population? She looked at Larry as though she thought he'd have an answer and grinned at the stupefied look on his face.

Harley laughed right out loud at the mesmerized expressions on the faces of his other companions. Clearly, they had never given any more thought to this than she had. Can I take them home now, teacher? He said paying for the next round of drinks, I think their brains are full.

Kelly just set up another round of drinks when a sudden parade of flashing of red and blue lights exploded outside. Kelly moved around the bar to the front door just as two more sets of lights came screeching to a halt. The last car in the convoy of six was a black Chevy Blazer. The words COUNTY CORONER gleamed along the door.

Chapter 2

Kelly watched as the flashing lights of each vehicle flicked off. Car doors slammed and a low conversational hum of voices drifted to her. Uniformed state troopers made their way into her bar, each removing his Smoky Bear hat respectfully as he entered.

Got any coffee? Officer Howard, hat in hand, asked.

Of course, she answered mesmerized by the complete air of respect afforded her by the officers as they moved to the round table in the middle of the room. A few minutes later, Sheriff Adams followed. Ignoring Kelly’s inquisitive look, he crossed the room to the four men still lined up on bar stools watching the law enforcement brigade with interest.

Gents, he said casually, the bar is closed.

Kelly rocked back, wide eyed, but said nothing as the three stooges and their keeper finished their beers, said good night, and filed out the door.

Coffee? His eyes flicked over her much as they had earlier in the evening, lingering on that now-buttoned up blouse. He glanced back at the door, the blouse, then looked into her eyes with a high brow'd that’s interesting look.

Kelly folded her arms beneath her breasts and shot him a disgusted glare. It’s brewing.

She turned and gathered tray, cups, creamers, sugar bowls, and spoons and took them to the table while the sheriff crossed to the door, flipped the dead bolt and pulled the closed shade down. Seconds later the scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Kelly filled the thermal pots and delivered them to the table before starting another brew.

You’re gonna have to go for a walk, Sweetheart. His voice was low and sexy in her ear, and she turned to look into his Caribbean Sea blue eyes. His face was so close to hers, she could feel and breath the scent of his body heat, and she went all stupid inside.

Go for a walk? her eyes narrowed in disbelief. It’s eleven-thirty at night. I live upstairs.

The sheriff took her arm and ushered her to the back door, opened it, set her outside, and closed it again. The shade followed, and she gasped in pure disgust when she heard the door latch snap into place. She glared at her own back door for several seconds then walked around the deck to the stairs that led to her second floor apartment. She paused and looked up at her glass doors but knew they were double locked, and the only way back inside would be to break a window. Her window. Her uninsured window. Disgusted, she turned and strolled to the back rail of the patio which overlooked the lake. Above, the stars overwhelmed the sky and shone with brilliance only visible on black, moonless nights like tonight.

Despite the heat of the day, the night was chilly and heavy with dew. Her thin, sleeveless gingham blouse and denim scooter was no protection from the chill, not to mention the mosquitoes that attacked in full force.

Kelly shivered and looked around the deck but there was nothing to toss over her shoulders. With her arms wrapped around herself, she circled the building looking for anything that might have been left behind for warmth. Ironically, the best she could do was the quilt-lined sheriff’s jacket left on the front seat of the county car. Patting the jacket down to make sure he'd left nothing personal in the pockets, she tossed the jacket over her shoulders then wandered among the cars parked haphazardly along the narrow paved street.

She hadn’t meant to look, but she could hardly help seeing the double set of stuffed body bags in the back of the last car of the convoy. Kelly backed away from the vehicle. She'd been right a few short hours ago. The foreshadowing of disaster in the sheriff's eyes hadn't been imagined. It was as though he'd wanted to confide in her. A strange thought, given all they had been through at each other's expense in the last two years. She shivered, wondering what he'd have said to her, his nemesis, if they'd been alone.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then wandered back to the sheriff’s car, opened the door, and slid inside. At least the mosquitoes couldn’t find her in here, she thought, leaning her head back against the thick fabric-covered headrest. She watched the stars twinkle, inventoried the dashboard and tipped the seat back before closing her eyes and dozing off.

Sheriff Adams peered through the open window on the passenger side of his car. The twin fans of lashes resting peacefully on high cheekbones shaded the sparkling forest green eyes. Her short, dark, chestnut hair curled in a chaotic Meg Ryan fashion around her ears, dusted her brows. She had been the liveliest woman he’d ever met awake, and now he was taken aback by the frail angelic look of her asleep. Worse, he felt bad about kicking her out of her own house for four hours, leaving her in the chilly night with no jacket or even a cup of her own hot coffee.

He scratched his head and wondered what to do with her.

It’s not polite to stare. The words floated on a mellow sigh.

He gave her a smile that showed his even white teeth, and she wondered why that made her tingle a little, but she smiled back without appearing to open her eyes then gave a final deep resigned to moving breath. The scent of his cologne lingered beneath the odor of deet across her shoulders as she tossed the jacket off and he opened the door.

Sorry about that, he said reaching behind her for the jacket and placing it back on her shoulders for the short walk to the bar.

Given your cargo, I guess I have to forgive you, she said coming awake in the crisp clear night. The other cars were gone.

There’s coffee left.

At this time of day? She shivered, No thanks, how 'bout I buy you a scotch. Famous Grouse OK?

His brow rose appreciatively and she grinned, Private stock.

They walked side by side up into the Dew Drop where Kelly slipped out of his jacket and handed it back to him before heading to the security of her bar. She dug out the bottle and set two crystal glasses on the polished wood. Using her back bar scoop, she dropped a few ice cubes in each then cracked the paper tape on the fresh bottle. The aromatic scotch glowed amber as it trickled over the ice cubes, partially filling the cut crystal glass.

He watched the liquor shimmer amongst the crystal and ice. Then lifting the weighty glass, he savored the aroma before taking that first sweet, fiery sip.

Kelly watched him, not as surprised as she perhaps should have been to see he was the kind of man who knew what crystal was to fine scotch and visa versa. Wanting to savor her own drink, Kelly swirled the scotch around the ice, sniffed and sipped before walking across the room and switching on the jukebox. She kicked Toby Keith’s greatest hits album into action. Dream Walkin’ started to play softly as she circled the room, turning off the neon lights as she went.

This is going to kill my reputation as a bad girl, she muttered crossing the floor to him.

Or enhance it, he said, his eyes locking on hers.

It was her turn to raise her brows, but he only smiled and finished his drink.

Thanks for the scotch, he said looking at his watch, then standing from the bar.

Anytime Marshal, she said coming back to her good ol’ girl self. She met him at the door, but he stopped. She paused and looked up at him.

You know, I wish you’d lay off the Matt Dillon stuff, he said turning to look down at her, no humor was left in his eyes and that startled her.

It’s only in good fun, she said, suddenly quiet, as ‘I shoulda been a Cowboy,’ began to play on the jukebox.

I know, he grinned slightly, taking the lapel of her blouse, he yanked, and the top button slipped from its hole. He smiled as the blouse fell open to give him a glimpse of cleavage. Then he looked back into her dark green eyes. But Matthew happens to be my name. He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own full warm ones before opening the door and walking out into the night.

Behind her, Toby Keith sang, He never hung his hat up at Kitty’s place.

Chapter 3

Kelly opened her eyes. The blue sky matted by evergreen boughs was framed by the cedar wood frames of her broad expanse of living room windows. She hadn’t fallen asleep until the crack of dawn and it had taken a second scotch to get her there. Even so, the first thought that crossed her mind wore a crisp brown uniform, a badge, and the most sensual lips she had ever encountered.

Below, there was an incessant pounding on her front door. Slipping from the sofa where she had finally fallen asleep, Kelly crossed the cold floor to the wardrobe and pulled out a chenille robe before heading downstairs. The moose-head clock ticked noon.

God, Helen, Kelly whipped the door open, I’m sorry!

I heard you had a rough night last night, Helen Freedmen, a fifty-ish, childless, widow and the lunch/dinner cook moved inside and closed the door.

You heard? Already? Kelly finished tying her robe as she followed Helen into the room.

Actually, Harley saw the cars were still here at four this morning when he finished loading the trip they took in today.

Kelly nodded as she rounded the corner of the bar and filled the coffeepot. Helen and Harlan Pettibone had been sleeping together for years, on the sly of course, but everyone knew about it and pretended not to. Helen, tall and slender, moved into the kitchen, fired up the grills, checked her stock and began placing tissues over the tin pie plates that served as dishes. She crossed to the fryers and turned up the heat, loaded fryer baskets with frozen fries, then she turned a raised brow at Kelly who stood there watching her in her bathrobe.

"It is Thursday."

Kelly brought a hand to her head, Oh, shit, she glanced out the front windows and scooted back upstairs. By the time she had showered, changed, and returned downstairs, the restaurant was half filled with lunch time diners and Gun Smoke enthusiasts. Kelly had started the Thursday afternoon Gun Smoke trivia contest as a joke two years earlier, but the locals fell in love with the idea of identifying the budding movie star that appeared in each black and white episode. In addition to packing her Thursday lunchtime trade, the recipient of the first prize steak dinner for two nearly always brought a paying couple with them to dinner. It made for such a steady trade, that she currently advertised the contest to run through the entire Gun Smoke collection, or until her retirement, whichever came first.

Kelly looked around the room but saw only the usual faces, mostly locals but a few seasonal cabin dwellers. Why she would expect the sheriff to attend was beyond her, he’d always shown disdain for the entire idea. Of course, now she knew why. Setting up rounds of soft drinks and a few beers, Kelly couldn’t help but blame him. She could do little about it now, even if she wanted to. She paused and looked up at the screen.

This episode featured Jack Lord as a young gunslinger gunning for Doc. It was one of the more predicable episodes. At the only commercial break, half way through the hour-long show, her customers wrote down their guesses and placed them in a fishbowl on the bar.

At the end of the show the credits would list the actors and Kelly would draw slips of paper out of the fishbowl until the correct answer was drawn. It was a good week breaker for everyone concerned. Besides building Kelly's weekday revenue, Wednesdays and Thursday were the slow days for her fellow tourist trade providers. They appreciated the break in their week and the chance to be entertained with and by each other.

The county car cruised by and Kelly felt her pulse surge. But he didn’t stop, and she felt silly for hoping. No, more like stupid. Like that moment last night when her gaze plastered his mouth as if.... She sighed, and shook her head as she poured a cup of coffee, then reflected on the reasons she moved from the city, the reasons this life was good for her. She wasn’t looking for emotional ties, but she’d apparently forgotten about being a woman completely. Scarcely 40 years old, with a damn fine figure even if she did say so herself, her youth may have faded slightly, but she wasn't a bad looking woman, given