The Judge laughed, telling him that hell would freeze over before that happened.
* * * *
Kate was up early, playing the part of the campaigning candidate, and of course the grieving fiancé of Sheriff Johnson. She nearly dragged the Judge out of bed, telling him to make the rounds about town, dispelling any rumors regarding his sudden disappearance last week and any coincidence to his own return immediately following the Sheriff’s death.
“Just tell them you went fishing and leave it at that,” she told him.
Judge Lowry knew the law and was good at handing down the stiffest of sentences. However, he was not a people person, and this role of explaining his disappearance, coupled with acting concerned about the townsfolk, all while promoting a woman who could kill him while eating a sandwich, was almost too much.
“I have men in the jailhouse who deserve a fair trial,” he told Kate at lunch. “I’ll campaign for you a few more hours today, and then I must get to work.”
“Sure thing, Judge,” she replied. “I’ll be on pins and needles to hear of your ruling. Death by a thousand paper cuts; six months, with time off for good behavior; or maybe Community Service, picking up dog crap around town—a full 200 hours. Or will it be the traditional yet unexciting hanging from the gallows in the Town Square? I’ll be by to pick you up first thing in the morning.”
His first reaction was to be upset. But the more he mulled it over, it seemed a lot like the truth. If she indeed is elected Sheriff of Weston, she is responsible for carrying out a sentence I hand down, but nothing more, he thought.
“I could just let them go, ask them to paint the Courthouse as Community Service, or even bargain with them for a coup d’état of the highest law enforcement member,” he said, under his breath.
If it even could be called that, the campaigning was an off-the-cuff performance, like comparing a medium-rare filet mignon to an extra-well-done cube steak. The former fiancé—or girlfriend, depending on who was asking, one who knew and even had influence in his decisions over the town—was up against some snot-nosed kid who didn’t know the first thing about the Sheriff’s office or town politics.
“The whole thing is a formality, really,” she said to the Judge. “Don’t tell them the official count on voting day—only that I won by a landslide.”
“That’s what I always do,” he replied. “It’s always a landslide victory, as you call it, for the intended candidate. However, it’s a good thing James VanFleet didn’t run.”
“Would the outcome have been any different?” she asked, with a glare.
“With my final count, I guess not. It just would have been harder to cover it up.”
She walked away, shaking her head. “Note to self,” she said, under her breath. “Keep an eye on both of those men.”
* * * * * * *
Chapter Six
Headed to Second Chances Ranch
Weston, Colorado
David stopped at James’ place with Mark, and he and Mel headed to Mark’s medical appointment. David was informed by James of recent town happenings, with the knowledge that the Raton Pass Militia would be Weston’s official citizens by the end of the week. Mel, figuring it was only a matter of time, looked forward to exploring the town for the day. They picked up the second truck early and stopped by the dog lady’s house, hoping for one more deal.
There were two left, one male and a female, with neither looking exactly like Chance or Daisy. He chose the male, a sweet yellow lab, midway in size between Chance and Daisy.
“Don’t let that sweet-boy demeanor fool you,” said the owner after making the deal. “He’s all business. He protects his own family and kids, but if you were to be on the wrong side of him... well, no need to go there since you all are the good guys. By the way, David, thank you for what you done with the problem I had in the basement. Why, even the odor is nearly gone. Now I done told you all my dogs were for sale, but I think I’ll keep this last girl, so don’t send none of your friends by for her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said David. “Thank you for Mel’s new dog and mine.”
“By the way, what’s his name?” Mel asked.
“His name is Trevell,” she stated.
“Interesting name. Where’s it from?” Mel queried.
“Former owners named him Trouble; that ain’t no name for a dog. How’s he even supposed to get a fair shake at life with a name like that?” she replied. She added: “Trevell was the closest name that the dog would recognize and come to. And besides, the name means ‘down to earth and well grounded.’ He is surely that.”
* * * *
David dropped Mark off alone, at his insistence, but vowed to get the final report from Doc Walters at the end.
Mark and Calleigh resumed their conversation, as if he had never left. There was a moment, quick as lightning, when nobody was around. Just the two of them. He had to know the answer to the most important question on his mind.
“Calleigh… Mark… Can I ask you a question?” they both asked in unison.
“Uh, sure,” he said. “You go first.”
He looked around nervously, hoping they would be alone long enough to ask his question afterward.
“I wanted to ask you…” she paused, almost backing out before continuing. “I mean, a guy like you must surely have a girlfriend, right?”
Oh my gosh, he thought in a split second—she asked it! He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Uh, uh,” he fumbled. Think, Mark! Think!
“Hey, sport,” said Dr. Walters, rounding the corner and walking into the room.
