The Sheriff's Legacy

By Linn Keller

Firelands County, Colorado, just hired a new Sheriff.

Firelands County, Colorado, knew their new Sheriff was a Marine, a Gulf War veteran, and was recently graduated from college; they sent their chief deputy to pick up Sheriff Will Keller from the airport.

Firelands County, Colorado, did not know their Sheriff would arrive in a tailored, dark-blue suit dress, and high heels.

In the Sheriff's first half-hour in-county,she uses a shotgun to stop a barfight, slams a drunk face-first into the painted plasterboard, arrests the Mayor and tells the Board of County Commissioners which of them is an adulterer, with whom and how many times; which of them is a gambler, how much he has lost at the tracks, and at which track; she lets them know in no uncertain terms exactly where they can get off, and proceeds to run her department as she pleases.

The Sheriff is here to do a job, and she doesn't fight fair.

And she doesn't -- whether it's drug traffickers, a crooked prosecutor, a fiancee or getting justice, Sheriff Willamina Keller gets what she wants.

Peacefully, or otherwise.

She doesn't care which.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781468502237

Linn Keller

LINN KELLER is an expatriated Appalachian storyteller who lived "under the siren" for more than two decades as a firefighter-EMT, EMT-Paramedic and deputy marshal ... simultaneously. Somewhere in all that active confusion he became a nurse, and through it all he remains licensed and active in municipal water and wastewater treatment. A lifetime historian, researcher and re-enactor, Keller lectures on the Civil War and Morgan's Raid, lives reluctantly in Northeast Ohio when he cannot get away to a Western European monastery in the 10th Century, where he portrays Brother William, a Cistercian monk -- or into the American West in the 1880s, where he portrays the second Sheriff of Firelands County, Colorado. His wife assures him he still doesn't know what he wants to do when he grows up. Keller has written The Sheriff's Legacy (October 2008) and now its sequel, The Sheriff's Betrayal. The third book in the Sheriff's series, The Sheriff's Journal, is planned for October 2010, with another in the works.

Book preview

1. SHERIFF WILL KELLER 

Are you a cowboy, or do you just wear the hat?

Acting Sheriff JW Barrents, slouched in a marginally comfortable chair in the airport’s waiting area, opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a lovely pair of high-heeled pumps, made all the more so by the really nice ankles strapped into them. He tipped his hat brim up with one finger and his gaze continued up a very nice set of legs, and the skirt of a tailored suit.

A lifetime’s training took over: he stood and removed his hat.

Can I help you, ma’am? he asked politely, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It had been a long drive to the airport, and the sun coming through the windows had felt pretty darn good, and he’d dozed without really meaning to …

Asleep on the job? What would the Sheriff say? the woman smiled, with a tilt of her head.

As a matter of fact, ma’am, I am waiting on the Sheriff right now.

I see. She paused, apparently considering her options. May I wait with you?

Yes, ma’am, he said politely.

She sat beside him. You’re from Firelands? she asked.

Yes, ma’am. He stuck out his hand. Acting Sheriff JW Barrents.

She took his hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm.

I know who you are.

Ma’am?

She turned back the lapel on her tailored jacket to expose a six-pointed star. Sheriff Will Keller. I believe you’re here to drive me home.

She rose, smiling. I believe you have my luggage?

He rose with her. Yes, ma’am, it’s in the car.

She gestured, palm up. Lead the way.

•

Barrents was obliged to vibrate the key while turning it to get the tailgate unlocked; he could feel his ears start to burn — Bad enough this lock won’t work half the time, he thought, now it has to mess up with the new Sheriff standing right beside me!

He glanced over at the Sheriff, surprised that she was paying him no attention at all. She was taking off her jacket, folding it neatly and draping it over her forearm: obviously a ploy to give him time to unlock a contrary tailgate without the pressure of a new boss glaring over his shoulder.

He accepted the charity and opened the back of the car.

Your luggage is here, ma’am.

Her smile was breathtaking. Thank you. Could you hand me that small case, please? — yes that one, and hold this for me? She traded him the train case for her jacket, unzipped its lid.

Casually, as if she did it every day, she withdrew a gunbelt from the train case and slung it around her trim waist with the ease of long practice: only the fact that she was working off the tailgate of a marked Sheriff’s unit, with a uniformed deputy beside her, kept Airport Security from becoming concerned, alarmed and quite active: as it was, she drew a number of stares, especially when she drove the magazine into the handle of her stainless 1911, cycled the slide and holstered.

A little girl pointed. Look, Mommy! Is that a police woman?

The Sheriff turned, thrusting her arms into her jacket. Yes I am, honey, she replied, reaching up to turn her lapel back and expose her Sheriff’s star for the benefit of mother and child alike.

Oooo! the little girl exclaimed. Mommy, can I be a police woman when I grow up?

The mother hustled her child inside, giving the Sheriff a mistrustful look.

Do you get that often? Barrents asked as they climbed in.

She sighed. Unfortunately, she admitted, closing the Suburban’s tailgate.

It fell open again, and she slammed it shut, hard.

This time it held.

Do you get that often? she asked, dusting her hands off.

It was Barrents’ turn to shake his head and chuckle. Unfortunately, he admitted.

They climbed in, pulled the heavy doors to. Barrents twisted the key in the ignition, and the big-block motor started instantly.

At least the engine starts, the Sheriff thought. Wonder how worn the front end is. If it wanders any amount on the drive home, this heap is going to the scrap yard!

Barrents spoke first, clearing his throat as if a little nervous. That was a good idea, he said, sending your luggage ahead. It arrived this morning, with your instructions.

The Sheriff chuckled. Last time I flew, my luggage went on to Boston. Half of it never showed up at all.

Yes, ma’am.

They left the airport, the city, in their rearview mirror; the sun had passed its zenith before her 747 touched down, and the afternoon sun was warm coming through the windows.

Have you eaten? the Sheriff asked, after about a half-hour.

Yes, ma’am, I ate before I got there, Barrents replied with the hint of a smile. Wanted to eat before I arrived. I know how they price those airport restaurants.

The Sheriff chuckled. You’re right on that one! she agreed.

They drove in silence another few minutes, then:

Ma’am?

Yes?

I was a bit surprised, ma’am, he began, uncertainly; I didn’t … I didn’t quite expect …

A woman?

No, ma’am.

What were you expecting? Her tone was quiet, and carefully neutral.

Barrents hazarded a quick glance at his new boss.

Well, ma’am, I’d been given instructions to pick up a ‘Sheriff Will Keller.’ He swallowed. I was expecting a William, ma’am.

Willamina smiled. William is my brother. He’s a deputy marshal back in Ohio. She looked almost mischievously at the tall deputy. Disappointed?

No, ma’am, Barrents said carefully.

Willamina nodded. What will your wife think of you working for a woman?

Ma’am?

I read your file on the flight. She tends to be jealous. Will this cause problems in your marriage? Because if it does, I may be able to reassign you to minimize or eliminate contact between us.

It won’t be a problem, ma’am, Barrents said crisply.

Almost a military answer, the Sheriff thought, then: He is a Marine.

The Sheriff accepted his answer, and changed the subject: How many vehicles have we?

Three, ma’am. This, another Suburban, and an old Suburban that hasn’t run for three years.

How well do they run?

So far, ma’am, they’re still on the road. This one is two years old, the other one is four.

The other one is beat to death. It’s had one back axle replaced, it has a broken rear spring and the steering is shot. The front suspension is worn out, the brakes are gone and a wheel bearing needs replaced. The Sheriff looked at Barrents. I read your report. Well written, by the way.

Thank you, ma’am.

I understand that the request for new vehicles was turned down again.

Yes, ma’am. Barrents was silent for several moments longer, then: Ma’am?

Yes?

Ma’am, that part about my wife being jealous … was that in my file?

Willamina smiled thinly. I’m the Sheriff. I find things out.

Yes, ma’am. Another several moments of silence. Ma’am?

I suppose you’re going to tell me she’s not all that jealous.

Yes, ma’am, I was, until you did.

Willamina nodded. The words of a good and loyal husband. You’d be surprised how many men don’t defend their wives.

I suppose so, ma’am.

Tell me about the mine.

You read the report, ma’am?

"I did not read your report. You found it. I want to hear it from you."

Yes, ma’am. Deputy Barrents flexed his big hands on the wheel. You already know the original, log Sheriff’s Office was torn down years ago after a tornado hit town, and there was some fire damage.

1914, yes. I remember reading that.

Well, ma’am, the day before the twister hit, they made measurements and drawings of the original building, and they took photographs inside and out. They had intended to dismount the building piece by piece and put it in a museum. Tornado ruined that idea.

Go on.

"They salvaged the jail cells and the original desk and chair, but lost track of the desk and chair. The contents had been ordered removed and stored, but in the confusion after the tornado, nobody knew if or where the contents went. After the storm, nobody much cared.

I was down in the mines, ma’am, the old gold works under the town. Big shafts. A man can walk upright in them and wear his hat and not have to duck.

Intrigued, the Sheriff tilted her head a little, listening carefully to the deputy’s words. Mine works, you say. Dry works, or are they flooded?

Dry, ma’am, until you get into the lower works.

I recall when strip miners cut into one of the old coal mines in Perry County. They found the light weight mine rails, a coal car, some hand tools. One fellow found a rotted tobacco pouch and a clay pipe on a little shelf cut into the rock, and he recognized the miner’s tag laid beside it. The pouch and pipe had been his grandfather’s.

I’d be damned! Barrents grinned, then: Sorry, ma’am. Quite a find for a grandson. His grin faded, but slowly. Was there any tobacco in the pouch, ma’am?

Nothing but mold. Appalachian Ohio coal mines fill with ground water and have to be continually pumped out, otherwise they flood. This one was the exception: it was high enough it hadn’t flooded. The Sheriff shifted in her seat. Did you find anything in your gold works?

Oh, yes, ma’am! Barrents said, suppressing a bubbling excitement.

The Sheriff observed him closely. He’s containing his excitement well, she thought, but this is important to him.

Well …?

Ma’am, I found what I thought were squared-off rocks, at least until I hit one with the chipping hammer I had with me.

What were they?

Lead, ma’am!

Lead?

Not solid lead, ma’am. Sheet lead. Someone had crated up the contents of the original Sheriff’s office and covered the crates with lead sheeting, probably to keep out vermin and any water drip that might soak through from above. It looked like they tried to solder the seams but ended up crimping them instead, and peened them shut. Nice job, too. The peened joints were easier to open than the solder joints.

There were two crates?

Yes, ma’am. They’d loaded everything they could into the desk, and under the desk, and crated it up, and the rest with a chair and a cot went into the other one. They didn’t crate up the pot belly stove but a rock fell and broke it up.

I see. Her tone was almost disappointed.

Don’t worry, ma’am. We can get you another cast iron stove.

It was late by the time they crossed the county line, and entered Firelands County, Colorado: by this time it was late, and the Sheriff wanted nothing more than a bath, a meal and bed.

Tired, ma’am? Barrents asked.

Mm-hmm. Getting hungry, too. What’s open this time of night?

Barrents chuckled. Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, he said, but you’re expected at Council meeting when we arrive. He looked at his watch. Should get you there right on time.

Council meeting?

Yes, ma’am. They want to meet Will Keller, their new Sheriff.

Willamina smiled grimly. They won’t like what they see, she said quietly.

Deputy Barrents was wise enough not to reply to the Sheriff; instead, he reached for the gray GE mike and keyed up.

Firelands, unit two, back in the county.

Roger, Two, a female voice replied. Firelands One and Two, respond to the Spring Inn, bar fight.

Barrents and Keller each uttered the one universal scatological epithet used by lawdogs in such moments. They looked at one another and grinned.

Barrents’ foot was heavy on the throttle, and the big-block Chevy engine responded with a will.

Acceleration pushed them back in their seats, and both of them grinned wickedly.

You up for this, boss?

You bet!

The Suburban streaked through the long red rays of the evening sun.

It’s a rough little place, Barrents warned, fights are a regular thing. Men work hard, they play hard. I think he writes off broken furniture and new windows on his taxes.

Weapons?

Not often, no, ma’am. Chairs, pool cues, the worst is generally a broken bottle. Believe me, fists and boots do harm enough!

Is that it, the stone building up ahead?

Yes, ma’am, and there’s Firelands beyond. Barrents began shedding speed, braking well ahead, giving them a chance to look the outside over before actually arriving. He punched off his headlights and reached for the gray mike.

The Sheriff already had it in hand. Firelands One, on scene, she announced. Hanging up the microphone, she thumbed the release button and pulled the 12 gauge riot gun free of its mount.

Barrents shoved the shifter into park and pocketed the keys.

He looked a the stubby shotgun in the Sheriff’s manicured hands.

You sure you want that, ma’am? he asked, reaching for his baton, clipped to the floor in front of his seat.

Makes a good hearing aid, she smiled grimly.

Barrens shook his head and chuckled, Mama taught me never argue with a lady!

They closed their doors gently, just one click, and strode for the front door.

The door was solid, scarred, of heavy and weathered timber: through the neon beer sign in the window they could see the whole place was involved.

Here we go again, Barrents muttered and reached for the door handle.

The Sheriff laid a hand on his. Allow me, she smiled, and Barrents was surprised to see her eyes: where before they had been a light blue, now they were quite pale, with flecks of gold standing out like placer gold on winter ice.

He pulled hard on the door handle, and the noise of the bar fight rolled out to meet them.

The scene reminded the Sheriff of nothing more than a Warner Brothers cartoon: a great churning cloud of dust with a fist poking out here, a foot there, a set of dentures spinning off into the atmosphere; it was generally a riot situation with maybe six or eight occupants happily pounding the stuffing out of one another with fists, feet and furniture.

The Sheriff raised her voice. Sheriff’s office! she shouted, jacking a round into the chamber. Nobody paid the least attention to the tall, slender woman in a tailored suit dress and heels.

Nobody paid attention, that is, until she raised the muzzle overhead and drove an ounce and a quarter of 00 buckshot through the ceiling.

The concussion was enough to freeze everyone instantly.

Bar fights are like a boil, and like a boil, this one had a core: two women were into it, screaming, clawing, and yanking at one another over against the far wall.

The Sheriff tossed the shotgun to Barrents, who stroked a fresh round in the chamber and sidestepped from the doorway, getting the smooth stone wall to his back.

The Sheriff seized one of the women by the shoulder and jerked her around, hard.

The woman took a punch at the Sheriff.

Sheriff Willamina Keller, recently graduated from college, a veteran police officer from back East, neatly attired in a tailored suit dress and high heels, turned just enough to miss the punch, then seized the extended arm at wrist and elbow and threw the offending pugilist over the nearest table.

The other woman came at her and was met with a patent-leather, spike-heeled pump in the gut, stopping her instantly and doubling her over.

Sheriff Keller seized the second woman’s head in both hands and brought her knee up into her face, hard, then shoved her back against the wall.

The woman spun and hit the wall face first.

There was the crunch of cartilage shattering and a trickling flow of blood and mucus from the ruin that had been her nose.

Turning, the Sheriff saw the first fighter was coming off the floor, hefting a beer bottle by the neck.

Breaking the bottle over the back of a chair, she raised its jagged end toward the Sheriff.

The Sheriff’s hand swept under her coat tail and re-emerged with a handful of stainless steel .45 automatic.

Its red grip-mounted laser danced across the woman’s eyes.

Your choice, the Sheriff said evenly, her voice plainly heard in the sudden silence. Drop the bottle or I drop you.

Sanity and reason prompted the broken bottle’s swift descent to the unswept floor.

•

Six of the eight sat in irons while the Sheriff and Barrents made sense of the situation.

Six of the eight remained in irons, and were transported to the county lockup.

Only the barkeep and his short-skirted barmaid remained.

Sheriff Willamina Keller saw the prisoners to processing, then went to her new office. Closing the door, she took the few moments necessary to freshen her appearance: she replaced one of her stockings, the right one, which had somehow acquired a tear and a run, probably when the woman’s face ran itself into her briskly-rising knee; she gave her hair a quick brush, tugged at her jacket, nodded at her reflection and stepped out, looking as fresh and unwrinkled as she had that morning.

Barrents, can you handle things here? I believe I have Council meeting tonight.

I’ve got it here, Boss, Barrents grinned. You watch your six with them politicians. They’ll stab you in the back given half a chance.

The Sheriff smiled grimly.

I expect them to try.

•

Chief of Police Roger Taylor was leaned back in his padded chair, feet up on his desk, not thinking of anything in particular, when he heard a protest from without: Maddie, his dispatcher, was telling someone something, and a shadow appeared on the frosted glass of his office window.

His office door opened and a tall, good-looking woman stepped in, Maddie fluttering and cackling behind her, for all the world like an agitated hen.

The woman shut the door in Maddie’s face and reached up to grasp her lapel.

She turned it over, displaying a six-pointed star.

Willamina Keller. I’m your new Sheriff. You’re needed in council chambers.

"Ah, ma’am, I don’t know who you think you might be, but you can’t just —’’

"Now."

She turned and swept out.

God, she’s got nice legs, he thought as the swing of her skirt was cut off by the closing door.

He reached for his eight-point uniform cap.

•

The Mayor looked up as the council chamber’s door opened.

Look, Legs, he said irritably, you can’t just sashay in here like this. We’re in executive session. New Sheriff’s coming tonight.

Legs? Willamina Keller coasted to a stop, almost dead center of the Council chambers, and looked around as if searching for whoever he was talking about. Legs?

Yes, the Mayor snapped, legs! Now unless you’re peddling your sweet self —

Willamina Keller turned slowly, a dancer’s move, giving the Mayor and the Council a good look at her.

Tall, slender, with the natural beauty of her Scandinavian and Celtic ancestry, she raised her arms gracefully overhead, and then together in front of her, palms down, like a ballerina, fingers lightly laced.

She batted her lashes and walked directly towards the Mayor, placing one foot precisely in front of the other, the walk of a professional model; one high-heeled foot, one well-turned ankle, one sculpted leg, one in front of the other, casing her hips to sway, her skirt to flow, her hair to swing, her entire athletic body in motion within her tastefully-tailored suit dress …

She had the man’s rapt attention.

She walked up to the Mayor’s table and put her right hand on the table, beside the microphone.

She smiled.

Her left hand shot out like a striking viper and seized the disagreeable little man by the shirt collar and the carefully-knotted silk tie.

Council was shocked into silence as Sheriff Willamina Keller twisted his collar, hard, and dragged him, choking and flailing, across the table and face-down onto the floor.

Chief of Police Roger Taylor watched, stunned, as she dropped her full weight through the sharp focus of her knees directly into the man’s kidneys, immobilizing him with what the Chief knew had to be an absolutely blinding explosion of pain.

Seizing the man’s right wrist, she mercilessly applied a joint-lock, bending his hand painfully forward and twisting the arm behind his back.

She reached to the back of her own belt with her free hand.

Council saw her draw the shining circles of stainless steel from a hidden carrier under her coattail.

Quickly, efficiently, the Sheriff cuffed the Mayor’s wrists behind his back, palms out, punching the double locks to prevent over-tightening or tampering. Seizing the man’s upper arms, she rolled back on her three-inch heels, using her weight and leverage to bring the gasping man to his feet, only to turn him and bend him over his own table, hard.

She held him there, her fingers digging mercilessly into the back of his neck.

She flipped back the lapel of her jacket, displaying her star.

My name is Will Keller, she announced in the ringing voice she usually used when addressing assembled troops. ’Will’ is short for Willamina, and I am your new Sheriff. You may address me as Sheriff, or as Ma’am. I am not Legs, Luscious, Toots, Sweetcakes or Blondie, or anything else you may dream up. I’m here to do a job, I don’t fight fair, and I have just placed this murdering low-life under arrest for arson, conspiracy to commit arson, murder, conspiracy to commit murder, plus a Federal warrant for Interstate Flight to Avoid Prosecution. She hauled the Mayor up of the table and half-walked, half-dragged him across the room to the Chief of Police.

Chief Taylor, you will take the prisoner into custody.

Ah, ma’am, the Chief stammered, I’m not sure I can do that.

One of the Councilmen stood and shouted, You can’t just barge in here and start grabbing people!

Sheriff Keller spun and shot an accusing finger at the Councilman.

You, sir, will SIT YOURSELF DOWN, and you will SHUT YOUR MOUTH, or you WILL be going out of here, IN IRONS, charged with interfering at the scene of an emergency, interfering with an arrest and interfering with a police officer! I am in no mood to put up with YOU, and if you think I am kidding, TRY ME!

Shaken, the Councilman sat.

The Sheriff drew a fat envelope from her inner jacket pocket and handed it to Chief Taylor. Warrants, she said. You will immediately deliver this prisoner to the jail for processing. She shoved the cuffed and shivering Mayor into the police chief’s arms and pushed past them, stiff-arming the door hard enough to slam it open against its stop.

Her heels were loud on the polished stone hallway floor as she left the building.

There was a low whistle as the handful of Councilmen looked at one another.

Guess that means we don’t have to hold the recall election after all!

•

Sheriff Keller’s first 48 hours in office were not particularly peaceful.

In the short time she’d been in the county, she had seized and arrested the Mayor, blown a hole in a barroom ceiling, ordered the Chief of Police around like her personal secretary, and had a stormy meeting with the County Commissioners, in which they attempted to dictate policy and procedure as to how she would dress, how she would conduct herself, and how she would run her department; after which, she took each of the three Commissioners and, pointing to each I turn, told them exactly how much the first had lost at poker, ponies and slots, when the amounts were lost, and exactly where; how many times the second had cheated on his wife, where at and with whom; the third, knowing defeat when he saw it, threw up his hands in surrender and immediately withdrew all support of the other two. That same afternoon, the first two Commissioners were served with charges of sexual harassment, falsification of documents, theft in office and obstructing justice.

Sheriff Keller proceeded to dress as she damn well pleased, and proceeded to run her office in the very same manner.

The Sheriff in any county is an administrator, as well as the chief law enforcement officer, and administration eats a horrendous amount of any Sheriff’s time: Willamina was elbow deep in paper work when there was a knock on her office door: Reporter to see you, ma’am.

Willamina dropped the papers she was reviewing and rubbed her face. Have him wait, I’m coming out.

Willamina checked her appearance in her private bathroom, gave her hair a quick brushing; shrugging into her tailored suit jacket, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and reached for the door knob.

The Sheriff loathed the media. Early in her career she learned the hard way that any police officer will be the victim of misquotes, paraphrase, of having words taken out of context, and will have quotes attributed that the officer never made.

She also knew that as the first woman to serve as Sheriff, she would be the object of interest, or at least curiosity.

She was astute enough to know it would be wise to get the media on her side.

Besides, it was lunchtime, and she was hungry.

The reporter was half her age; unlike younger reporters of a generation ago, this one actually wore a shirt and tie and dress slacks.

The Sheriff greeted him with a handshake and a smile.

I expected Birkenstocks and a fatigue jacket, she said, and the reporter smiled at the remark.

Oh, you mean my editor, the young man laughed. He has a beard, too.

Every man should have a beard at least once in his life, the Sheriff said tilting her head as if imagining this polite young man with face fur. He blushed, unsure how to feel with an attractive, well-dressed woman paying such close attention to him. He would have been somewhat less flattered if he knew she was comparing his face against a mental file of wanted felons.

The Sheriff took his arm and steered him toward the door. You’re just in time, I’m going to lunch, and you will join me.

Yes, ma’am, he replied obediently, realizing with some surprise but utterly without displeasure that he had fallen immediately under the command of this mysterious woman.

Her dispatcher managed to stifle her laughter until they were without the outer door; then, muffling her giggles in a wrinkled, once-white kerchief, she shook her head and sighed.

They crossed the street without difficulty, and a couple doors down entered the Silver Jewel restaurant. The reporter held the door for the Sheriff, gaining another mark in his favor, and they were shown to a table toward the back of the dining room. There were about a dozen other patrons; a few looked up, and all who did, smiled, for it was somehow proper for a well-dressed woman to be on the arm of a well-dressed, if younger, man.

Coffee, please, the Sheriff said as she accepted a menu, and the reporter murmured, The same.

The Sheriff appeared to be studying the menu.

She did not miss his nervousness as he pretended to scan the menu, nor did she miss how his menu shook a little in his uncertain grasp.

The Sheriff had already selected her meal. Placing her folded menu on the side of the table, she laced her fingers delicately together and regarded the nervous young man with amusement. She could not help but smile at how flustered he became when he looked up and found himself the object of her steady, light-blue eyes.

He swallowed and placed his menu beside hers.

Beside, not atop, she thought. Not overlapping. Significance?

He could almost hear the quiet buzz of her mental gears.

The Sheriff spoke first. Your name is Bruce Jones. You are 32 years of age, a graduate of Boise State School of Journalism. You have the title of assistant editor, which means you are underpaid, overworked and can’t find a job elsewhere. You drive a Volvo, you’re keeping up on your car payments except for last Christmas when you were indiscreet with your credit cards. Congratulations, by the way, on your recovery from that financial blunder. It must have taken self discipline to manage your funds and dig out of that debt.

Jones blinked in honest surprise.

The Sheriff smiled sweetly and asked, Ready to order? She handed her menu to the waitress. Could I trouble you for the Roast Beef Special, please, and some more coffee? And creamers.

The same, Jones said quietly.

The Sheriff leaned her chin on her steepled fingers. Surprised?

Umm, yes, he admitted. Do you make a habit of reading people like a book, telling them what they’re about to say?

Only when they’re transparent. The Sheriff had never lost her pleasant expression.

This isn’t quite how I intended to interview the new Sheriff, Jones admitted.

Over lunch, or my taking the lead?

Both, actually.

I’m buying, so enjoy it. Now. How can I help you? She leaned back as the waitress filled her cup, then his, and left a handful of creamers.

Well, ahh, my readers are curious about a woman sheriff, Jones began.

Go on.

It’s a bit … unusual?

For these parts, yes, the Sheriff nodded. "I am the first woman to serve as Sheriff of Firelands County. Certainly not