Dusty had ever seen off the stool next to him and set it on the counter. “So I quit my job at Dalton Oil and started buildin’. I figured I needed to start small before I moved on to a big project. I worked straight through the night and, after only fourteen hours, ended up with this beaut.” He tapped the very peak of the birdhouse, and with a creak and a clatter, it folded like a house of cards. Rye stared at the pile of wood in confusion. “I guess I needed to use more Elmer’s.”
“Try hot glue,” Darla said as she knitted with the imaginary needles and yarn. “It works like a charm.” Her expression turned sad. “In fact, you can just have my glue gun and cases of glue since I won’t be needin’ them now that the reverend has made me see how frivolous my craft hobbies were.”
Dusty’s shoulders tightened even more. He had always thought that Darla’s creations were a little over the top. Especially the “Guns and Roses” float she had made one year for the homecoming parade. But the woman reminded Dusty of his mama, who also liked to knit, and the thought of some evangelistic minister showing up and talking her out of doing something she got so much pleasure out of really pissed him off.
Not to mention the fact that Rye was now out of a job.
Or that Dusty really could’ve used a cup of Rachel Dean’s coffee.
“Where is this reverend?” he asked.
“I’m not sure where he is right now,” Darla said. “He was stayin’ with Sheriff Winslow and Myra until Sam shot off his pinkie toe and they had to head to the hospital.”
Without another word, Dusty turned for the door as Rye yelled out.
“But ain’t you gonna do something about my coffee?”
“Sorry, Rye,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’m a sheriff, not a restaurant manager.”
Dusty was almost to his squad car when he made the mistake of glancing down the street. He stopped dead in his tracks, and his jaw dropped. Doc Mathers had been right. The entire town of Bramble had gone stark-raving crazy. And the cherry on the top of that craziness was heading straight toward him.
“Hold up there, Sheriff!” Mayor Sutter called as he pedaled toward Dusty.
At least, Dusty thought it was Mayor Sutter. The voice and handlebar mustache were the same. What was different was the clothing. Instead of western wear and cowboy boots, the mayor wore tight biker shorts that revealed a pair of skinny, white-as-death legs and a black nylon shirt with a vibrant orange stripe.
“I’m glad I caught you,” the mayor said as he rolled to a stop. With his biking shoes clipped to the pedals, the bike started to topple like Rye’s birdhouse. Fortunately, Dusty caught it before the mayor hit the ground. While Dusty held on to the bike, Harley worked to get his feet free. When he finally succeeded, he took back the handlebars and stood on his tiptoes, his big belly protruding out like a nine-month-pregnant woman’s.
And that wasn’t the only thing protruding out of the tight nylon. Dusty cringed and looked away.
“Thank you, son,” Harley said. “This exercise stuff is going to take some getting used to, but no one becomes the next governor of Texas by sitting on their butt.” Before Dusty could get over the governor thing, the mayor continued. “So I guess you heard about Sam Winslow.”
“Exactly what happened?”
“I’m not real sure. Sam was already drugged up by the time I reached the doc’s office, and Myra was too upset to get much out of.”
“I’m sure it’s upsetting for your husband to get shot.”
The mayor shook his head. “Sam will be fine. I think she was more upset about the accident moving the ladies’ luncheon from her house to Wilma Tate’s. The reverend is the guest speaker. And let me tell you somethin’, that man can sure talk. If the ladies’ club didn’t have a strict rule about no men, I’d head on over to Wilma’s myself.” He glanced down at the bike, and his mustache drooped. “
“Try hot glue,” Darla said as she knitted with the imaginary needles and yarn. “It works like a charm.” Her expression turned sad. “In fact, you can just have my glue gun and cases of glue since I won’t be needin’ them now that the reverend has made me see how frivolous my craft hobbies were.”
Dusty’s shoulders tightened even more. He had always thought that Darla’s creations were a little over the top. Especially the “Guns and Roses” float she had made one year for the homecoming parade. But the woman reminded Dusty of his mama, who also liked to knit, and the thought of some evangelistic minister showing up and talking her out of doing something she got so much pleasure out of really pissed him off.
Not to mention the fact that Rye was now out of a job.
Or that Dusty really could’ve used a cup of Rachel Dean’s coffee.
“Where is this reverend?” he asked.
“I’m not sure where he is right now,” Darla said. “He was stayin’ with Sheriff Winslow and Myra until Sam shot off his pinkie toe and they had to head to the hospital.”
Without another word, Dusty turned for the door as Rye yelled out.
“But ain’t you gonna do something about my coffee?”
“Sorry, Rye,” he called back over his shoulder. “I’m a sheriff, not a restaurant manager.”
Dusty was almost to his squad car when he made the mistake of glancing down the street. He stopped dead in his tracks, and his jaw dropped. Doc Mathers had been right. The entire town of Bramble had gone stark-raving crazy. And the cherry on the top of that craziness was heading straight toward him.
“Hold up there, Sheriff!” Mayor Sutter called as he pedaled toward Dusty.
At least, Dusty thought it was Mayor Sutter. The voice and handlebar mustache were the same. What was different was the clothing. Instead of western wear and cowboy boots, the mayor wore tight biker shorts that revealed a pair of skinny, white-as-death legs and a black nylon shirt with a vibrant orange stripe.
“I’m glad I caught you,” the mayor said as he rolled to a stop. With his biking shoes clipped to the pedals, the bike started to topple like Rye’s birdhouse. Fortunately, Dusty caught it before the mayor hit the ground. While Dusty held on to the bike, Harley worked to get his feet free. When he finally succeeded, he took back the handlebars and stood on his tiptoes, his big belly protruding out like a nine-month-pregnant woman’s.
And that wasn’t the only thing protruding out of the tight nylon. Dusty cringed and looked away.
“Thank you, son,” Harley said. “This exercise stuff is going to take some getting used to, but no one becomes the next governor of Texas by sitting on their butt.” Before Dusty could get over the governor thing, the mayor continued. “So I guess you heard about Sam Winslow.”
“Exactly what happened?”
“I’m not real sure. Sam was already drugged up by the time I reached the doc’s office, and Myra was too upset to get much out of.”
“I’m sure it’s upsetting for your husband to get shot.”
The mayor shook his head. “Sam will be fine. I think she was more upset about the accident moving the ladies’ luncheon from her house to Wilma Tate’s. The reverend is the guest speaker. And let me tell you somethin’, that man can sure talk. If the ladies’ club didn’t have a strict rule about no men, I’d head on over to Wilma’s myself.” He glanced down at the bike, and his mustache drooped. “
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