package of butcher paper he was carrying to show them the steaks from Angus House. “Those are surely the reddest, juiciest cuts you’ll ever see.”
“I’ve never seen any better,” Roebuck said, “except when I worked as a cowboy in Wyoming. But that’s been a long time ago.”
Boadeen raised an eyebrow and looked at him with an intensity that made Roebuck uneasy. “Now you mention it, you look like you ought’a be a cowboy. Something about you…”
“John Wayne,” Roebuck said. “I was his double in a few movies.”
“By gosh, you do resemble him. What kind of doubling did you do?”
“Stunt man,” Roebuck said modestly. “Falls and things.”
The sheriff clucked his tongue. “Learn something interesting about you folk every time I come up here.”
“Those steaks’ll spoil if we stand here much longer,” Ellie said. “Why don’t we go in and I’ll put them on the broiler and make up a salad.”
“Best idea yet,” Boadeen said, winking at her.
They entered the cabin and Roebuck sat in a folding chair across from Boadeen while Ellie prepared dinner in the cabin’s small kitchen. As he studied the stiff, authoritarian figure of Sheriff Boadeen, Roebuck wondered how such irony had happened. Here he was, running for his life from the law, and here sat the law across from him, waiting to exchange pleasant small talk.
“I noticed you carry a shotgun in your car,” Roebuck said, trying to get comfortable in the webbed chair.
“Riot gun,” Boadeen corrected. “I saw you admiring it when I got out of the cruiser. It’s a twelve gauge automatic with an extra long barrel, and I have my own shells made up special, big pellets that’ll stop a man in his tracks if just one or two hits him.”
“Ever had to use it?”
Boadeen smiled. “Not yet.”
Ellie came in from the kitchen and handed them each a can of beer. “The steaks are on.”
Boadeen looked at her, his smile lingering. “I can smell ’em cooking.”
“Why don’t you build a fire so it can get going while we’re eating,” Ellie called to Roebuck as she walked back into the kitchen.
Roebuck balanced his beer on the metal arm of his chair and went to the fireplace. He put in some tinder from the stack of wood alongside the stonework; then he placed a large log on top of it.
Boadeen noisily crumpled a piece of old newspaper that had been lying on the sofa and tossed it to Roebuck.
“This’ll make it easier.”
Without answering, Roebuck wadded the newspaper and wedged it under the log. He touched his lighter to the paper and stood, gazing down at the tiny but voracious flame.
“A bit hot for a fire, ain’t it?” Boadeen asked behind him.
“Ellie likes them,” Roebuck answered, still staring at the growing flame. “She likes to sit in front of a fire in the evenings.”
“Sounds like a real little homebody.” Was there a knowing sarcasm in Boadeen’s voice?
Roebuck turned away from the flame. “She is,” he said. “We have a fireplace at home and during the winter you can’t pry her away from it.”
“Good to have a wife who likes to keep a fire burning.” Boadeen laughed sharply at some inner joke. “Home fire, that is.” He pulled on his beer and squinted at Roebuck over the uptilted can. “No offense, Lou, but it strikes me that you seem kind of old to be a flyer.”
“Old?” Roebuck leaned casually on the mantel. “I am too old to fly combat, but for a test pilot they want a more mature flyer, one who’s been through everything. That’s why nerve and know-how are more important than reflexes. You have to be able to think while the wings are coming off.”
“Sounds like a dangerous job.”
“It is,” Roebuck said, “but it pays well.”
Ellie’s voice came from the kitchen. “How do you like your steak, Sheriff Boadeen?”
“Rare and bloody!” He rested an arm on the back of the sofa and looked past Roebuck into the fireplace where the flames were licking at the base of the
“I’ve never seen any better,” Roebuck said, “except when I worked as a cowboy in Wyoming. But that’s been a long time ago.”
Boadeen raised an eyebrow and looked at him with an intensity that made Roebuck uneasy. “Now you mention it, you look like you ought’a be a cowboy. Something about you…”
“John Wayne,” Roebuck said. “I was his double in a few movies.”
“By gosh, you do resemble him. What kind of doubling did you do?”
“Stunt man,” Roebuck said modestly. “Falls and things.”
The sheriff clucked his tongue. “Learn something interesting about you folk every time I come up here.”
“Those steaks’ll spoil if we stand here much longer,” Ellie said. “Why don’t we go in and I’ll put them on the broiler and make up a salad.”
“Best idea yet,” Boadeen said, winking at her.
They entered the cabin and Roebuck sat in a folding chair across from Boadeen while Ellie prepared dinner in the cabin’s small kitchen. As he studied the stiff, authoritarian figure of Sheriff Boadeen, Roebuck wondered how such irony had happened. Here he was, running for his life from the law, and here sat the law across from him, waiting to exchange pleasant small talk.
“I noticed you carry a shotgun in your car,” Roebuck said, trying to get comfortable in the webbed chair.
“Riot gun,” Boadeen corrected. “I saw you admiring it when I got out of the cruiser. It’s a twelve gauge automatic with an extra long barrel, and I have my own shells made up special, big pellets that’ll stop a man in his tracks if just one or two hits him.”
“Ever had to use it?”
Boadeen smiled. “Not yet.”
Ellie came in from the kitchen and handed them each a can of beer. “The steaks are on.”
Boadeen looked at her, his smile lingering. “I can smell ’em cooking.”
“Why don’t you build a fire so it can get going while we’re eating,” Ellie called to Roebuck as she walked back into the kitchen.
Roebuck balanced his beer on the metal arm of his chair and went to the fireplace. He put in some tinder from the stack of wood alongside the stonework; then he placed a large log on top of it.
Boadeen noisily crumpled a piece of old newspaper that had been lying on the sofa and tossed it to Roebuck.
“This’ll make it easier.”
Without answering, Roebuck wadded the newspaper and wedged it under the log. He touched his lighter to the paper and stood, gazing down at the tiny but voracious flame.
“A bit hot for a fire, ain’t it?” Boadeen asked behind him.
“Ellie likes them,” Roebuck answered, still staring at the growing flame. “She likes to sit in front of a fire in the evenings.”
“Sounds like a real little homebody.” Was there a knowing sarcasm in Boadeen’s voice?
Roebuck turned away from the flame. “She is,” he said. “We have a fireplace at home and during the winter you can’t pry her away from it.”
“Good to have a wife who likes to keep a fire burning.” Boadeen laughed sharply at some inner joke. “Home fire, that is.” He pulled on his beer and squinted at Roebuck over the uptilted can. “No offense, Lou, but it strikes me that you seem kind of old to be a flyer.”
“Old?” Roebuck leaned casually on the mantel. “I am too old to fly combat, but for a test pilot they want a more mature flyer, one who’s been through everything. That’s why nerve and know-how are more important than reflexes. You have to be able to think while the wings are coming off.”
“Sounds like a dangerous job.”
“It is,” Roebuck said, “but it pays well.”
Ellie’s voice came from the kitchen. “How do you like your steak, Sheriff Boadeen?”
“Rare and bloody!” He rested an arm on the back of the sofa and looked past Roebuck into the fireplace where the flames were licking at the base of the
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