The Great Jackalope Stampede by Ann Charles, C. S. Kunkle Page B

her down? Would they risk it right in front of the Sheriff’s windows? She didn’t plan to stick around to find out.
    At the end of the block, she took a left and started running, looking over her shoulder every other breath. Up ahead, a sidewalk sign advertised fresh sandwiches and sun tea. The bell overhead jangled as she stumbled inside. Trying to slow her huffing, she took several deep breaths while straightening her bohemian skirt and tank top.
    The place smelled like fresh baked bread with a hint of pickles. The sign at the hostess station said to seat herself, so Ronnie slid into a chair at a table in a corner that would give her a view of the front window but with a fake cactus to hide behind. With her back to the rest of the deli, her only concern was the two men she expected to burst through the door any minute.
    She opened a menu, pretending to peruse it while peeking over the top. The black sedan cruised by slowly, dark sunglasses on the driver, too. Were they both carrying? Did they have a horse’s head in their trunk next to their Tommy guns?
    “Keep going,” she said under her breath, her eyes on the taillights to see if they brightened. When the car rolled out of her view, she pushed to her feet and edged up to the window, watching the sedan pause much longer than three seconds for the stop sign before continuing on down the road.
    She sighed in relief. Jesus, that was close.
    She needed to get out of here before they came back around again and started going door to door looking for her. When she turned back and let her gaze sweep the rest of the diner tables, her knees almost buckled at the sight of Sheriff Harrison sitting in a chair three tables back.
    His hat rested on the table across from him, his black wavy hair flattened around the sides. His eyes had a slight squint as he chewed while he watched her. Tomatoes and bacon spilled out of the sandwich on his plate. His tan colored shirt was pressed crisp as usual, the star pinned there all bright and shiny.
    As he finished his bite and swallowed, his eyes took a tour from the top of her head to her sandals and back up again, like she was a suspect in one of his line-ups. She lifted her chin, determined not to let him catch her hands or knees trembling. She could handle a small town Sheriff. After all, she had hosted dinner parties with state senators and rich big-time industrialists without a single fumble.
    “Well,” he drawled, “at least you’re dressed today. But isn’t it a little early to be hitting the gin? It is Sunday, you know.”
    She crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t been drinking.”
    “You sure about that? Why don’t you come over here and let me smell your breath again.”
    “No, thank you.”
    “It wasn’t a question.” He kicked out the seat across from him. “Have a seat, Mrs. Jefferson.”

Chapter Seven

    Once upon a time there was a man who skimmed treasures from the fenced antiques black market. This thief of thieves hid his stolen treasures in the basement of his house and deep within his mines. One day, he up and died, leaving his unenlightened widow to play caretaker for his horde of hot goods. The End.
    But Claire knew better, unlike what Kate and the others in her family believed. It was not the end. It was more like “to be continued …”
    Claire grabbed the ladder from inside the unfinished restrooms and leaned it against the side of her work in progress. Another week of plumbing, electrical wiring, and then drywalling, and they should be rolling the final paint on the building.
    Natalie had plans of heading home in a week and no amount of begging or attempts at blackmail would convince her to stay longer. Claire hated to see her cousin go. Working next to her had been like old times, including the sweating, swearing, and post-work drinking. The only thing missing had been the men. Mac had changed all of that for Claire, but Natalie’s disinterest in the other sex at the moment had Claire