“Margie,” she said quickly, “how in the hell did Ollie Caldwell end up with a badge?”
Margie nearly choked on her coffee.“Lord—didn’t think he’d be the next name outta your mouth.”
“He stopped me on Black Bear.”
“’Course he did.Boy can’t seem to mind his business.”Margie shook her head.“Well, sheriff’s office was hiring up locals some years back.And you know Ollie—he was always tryin’ to be a part of somethin’.”
“I guess I’d always assumed he’d joined the Kings,” Cassie replied.“Wasn’t he prospecting at one point?”
“Mhm,” Margie murmured, stubbing her cigarette out in a nearby ashtray.“Mav never did take a shine to him.Said he was too soft for the life and always askin’ questions that didn’t need askin’.
“Prospectin’s about keepin’ your head down and provin’ you can follow orders.And here’s Ollie wantin’ reasons.
“Didn’t take long ’fore Mav sent him packin’.
“Boy sulked for a spell; next thing I knew, he’s wearin’ a badge.”
Margie blew out a slow breath, eyes softening toward the window.“They all hated him after that.Even Con wouldn’t give him the time of day.You know how it goes—nothin’ cuts deeper in these hills than turnin’ your back on your own.”
Cassie’s chest pinched a little at that and nearly let herself follow the thought—how easy it was to end up on the wrong side of a King’s loyalty.
“Speaking of Ollie,” she sighed.“I guess I should probably drive to county today…”
“The police have some of Connor’s things,” she added, the words dragging.“I don’t know what all they’ve got, but…I don’t like the thought of them just…sitting there.”
Her throat closed up on her.She fought to finish, fought not to let the dam break wide open.
“You want company?”Margie asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Cassie shook her head.“No.I’ve got it.”
Margie took one last swig of her coffee and dumped the rest into the sink.“All right then.But remember—grief’s heavy, and it’s a goddamn liar.Don’t let it fool you into carryin’ it alone.And eat your goddamn breakfast—I don’t cook for the joy of it.”
Nash rolled up along the strip of dirt edging Margie’s place and killed the engine of his Harley Dyna, the low rumble dying into silence.
He didn’t climb off right away.Just sat there, pulling off his helmet, peeling his gloves slow…eyes locking on the cracked windshield of Margie’s old pickup parked crooked in the drive.Fuck—he kept meaning to replace it for her and kept forgetting.Not like he’d remember today either.He was five beers deep—maybe six.And the brew hadn’t done much to cool his mood much, just kept the pressure from blowing the lid off.
“You stakin’ my place out, Nathanial?”
Margie’s voice drifted from the porch, where she sat in her rocker—a goddamn relic that often groaned louder than its sitter, one runner shorter than the rest causing it to pitch when she leaned.“Get off the damn bike.I’m too old to be squinting at broodin’ men from this far off.”
Nash swung a leg over, shoved his gloves in his pocket, and headed up what used to be a walk, traversing overgrown flowerbeds gone wild.Tomato cages entangled with roses, and whatever the hell else was pushing through it all, the whole mess spilling out in all directions.
Margie’s eyes—sharp as shit even in her sixties—tracked him through a haze of smoke as he climbed the steps onto the sagging porch, where vines crawled the posts and encircled the railing, thick enough you could hardly tell where her garden ended and the house began.
“You look like the bottom of a boot,” she said plainly, “you been drinkin’?”
“I ain’t been sober yet,” he muttered.And he didn’t plan to be anytime soon.“She here?”His gaze cut to the door.
“Who?”
Nash shot Margie a look—don’t play—and she shook her head, snorting.“Does it look like she’s here?”
“I know she’s stayin’ here.”
“Who told ya?”
“I got my ways.”
