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Aware that she had strayed into painful territory, Debbie looked stricken. “Oh, Sloan, I
am
sorry. Me and my big mouth. I keep forgetting.” But she couldn't leave it alone either. Her eyes on the task of bagging his groceries, she murmured, “Of course, it's been four years now. Time for you to move on. Tall, handsome fellow like you, shouldn't have any trouble finding a nice girl.”

“Debbie, I haven't been interested in ‘nice’ girls since I turned sixteen. What makes you think I'm going to change now?”

“You're right about that! But since nice girls are out of the question, what's stopping you from finding yourself a bad one then? There's bound to be a half dozen floozies in town who would swoon if you gave them a chance to climb your bones. At least then you'd have some other female company besides that little rat of a dog.”

“ ‘Climb my bones’?” Sloan asked with mock incredulity. “Mrs. Smith, you have shocked me. Does Mr. Smith know that you pass out that sort of advice to young innocent men like myself?”

“Innocent?” Debbie snorted. “Go on, get out of here—and give Pandora a kiss for me.”

Sloan grinned at her and hefted his bag of groceries and walked out to the Suburban. His cabin at Hobb's Flat was ten miles away—six of it gravel and most of it snake-backed, but he'd driven it so often, he didn't have to concentrate on the road. He allowed himself to think about this afternoon…and the meeting with Shelly.

He'd envisioned seeing her again often enough. And he'd thought after having caught that glimpse of her in the car at Inspiration Point that night that he would be prepared for a face-to-face meeting. He smiled mirthlessly. But he hadn't been. He'd been blindsided at the emotional tangle she had aroused within him. He had been convinced that when they met again, that he'd be very cool and collected, that all he would feel for her would be contempt and something very close to hatred. Certainly he had never expected that he'd be glad to see her. He shook his head, as he turned off the main road and began to drive up the narrow lane to the cabin. He supposed that was what astounded him the most, the knowledge that for one split second he'd been deliriously, hell, ecstatically happy to see Shelly Granger.

The lust hadn't surprised him. In fact it would have surprised him if he hadn't reacted physically to her in some way. With everything else that had gone wrong between them, the sex had always been good. He grimaced. OK. Admit it, the best he'd ever had.

Pushing into the cabin, he avoided stepping on Pandora as she danced around his feet. Busy trying not to break a leg as Pandora scampered in and out of his legs as he tried to walk to the kitchen, he put thoughts of Shelly out of his mind.

There was a chill in the air, the hint of a storm, and after putting the groceries away and feeding a demanding Pandora half a slice of raw liver, Sloan made himself a small fire in the living room. It started to rain, and he stood staring bleakly out of the window, his thoughts straying toward Shelly.

An insistent pawing on his leg and a soft whine made him look down. Pandora, always sensitive to his moods, stared back, her little black eyes fixed on him. He smiled and picked her up.

“What's the matter, liver-breath?” he asked as he ruffled her ears. “Am I not paying enough attention to you?”

Pandora gave him a warm, wet kiss on the nose. Sloan blinked as he was enveloped in the odor of raw liver. “Whew! Haven't you heard of breath mints?” he scolded as he put her down. Pandora regarded him a moment, then, as if deciding she had lavished enough attention on him, she trotted over to the couch and jumped up onto her blanket and proceeded to make herself a nest. Curled up and comfy, she gave a contented sigh and made Sloan smile. It occurred to him, as he joined Pandora on the couch and propped his feet up on the low redwood table in front of it, that maybe Debbie was right. One thing was sure: Something was very wrong in his life when his only female companion was a dog who gave him liver-scented kisses.

Chapter Six

I
t was still raining on Wednesday night when Jeb came to dinner. Not a true rain, but a continuation of the misty drizzle that seemed to be the norm for most of the storms this year. Already there was talk of how dry the rainy season had been so far, and worries about the cost of hay and alfalfa had begun to creep into conversations around the valley. As for the feed in the hills, well, there wasn't much of that either and several ranchers had already driven their herds of cattle down to the valley floor—weeks, even months ahead of time.

Shelly had shooed Maria out of the kitchen as soon as she'd come home from shopping in town this morning. She had spent most of the day humming to herself as she had bustled about baking and cooking. She enjoyed cooking, but being single and living alone, it was something that she didn't do often, so she pulled out all the stops.

Working backward, she had started with baking a pecan pie, using a generous amount of the pecans she had sent along home in her Christmas package last year. It was a tradition, and the five pounds of shelled pecans were carefully doled out during the year in pies and cakes and cookies baked by Maria. Just as walnuts were plentiful in California, pecans were plentiful in the South and so walnut pies were common on the West Coast, pies made with pecans rare, while pecan pies held sway in the South. Jeb would, Shelly thought, appreciate the difference.

The pie baked and cooling on the long counter, the big prawns she had found in MacGuire's earlier in the day were cooked in a spicy court bouillon, then peeled and cleaned and put in the refrigerator to chill. She chose to make tiny cheese puffs for hors d'oeuvres, and once they were out of the way, she mixed up the remoulade sauce she would serve with the shrimp for an appetizer and then set about cooking the main course: chicken jambalaya. The scents in the kitchen were delectable, and Shelly had no doubt she'd gained three pounds just sniffing the fragrant air. The old-fashioned soaked salad she'd planned to serve was quickly mixed and set in the refrigerator to, well, soak. Fresh steamed broccoli and, she made a face, store-bought rolls would round out the meal. She'd have liked to have made some New Orleans French bread, but by three o'clock that afternoon, she was glad she had given in to practicality and bought commercial dinner rolls that morning. Now for the table.

She glanced into the walnut-paneled formal dining room and wrinkled her nose. It was handsome and grand and too big, too opulent for what she wanted. She decided that the oak table in the kitchen alcove would be just fine and would certainly make her serving task easier. Besides, she doubted Jeb would care where he ate as long as he ate. Some gaily patterned yellow-and-green place mats, matching napkins in brass holders, crystal goblets, and a dainty arrangement of daffodils from the garden completed her efforts. Now for a long shower and some comfortable clothes, she thought, as she climbed the stairs to her room.

At 6:30 P.M. almost on the dot, Shelly heard the sound of a vehicle in the driveway, and a moment later she opened the door to her guest. She smiled at Jeb, recognizing the St.

Galen's version of dress-up: Western-style jacket, a freshly ironed plaid shirt, clean jeans, and polished boots. Except for the loafers on her feet, she wasn't dressed all that differently, having chosen to wear a pair of hunter green corduroy jeans and a loose-fitting yellow sweater.

A big grin on his dark face, Jeb swept off the inevitable Western hat and thrust the two bottles of wine he held in his other hand at her. “Didn't know which kind to bring,” he said as he stepped inside the house, “so I brought both.”

Shelly glanced at the labels, her brows rising. “Impressive. When did you become a wine connoisseur?”

He chuckled. “I just went into a liquor store today in Ukiah and told the fellow behind the counter to give me a bottle of his most expensive white and do the same with the red.” They both laughed, and the evening was off to a good start.

As the evening progressed, it was clear Jeb enjoyed every bit of her culinary efforts. Watching the amount of food he put away, from the miraculously disappeared cheese puffs to the dessert, she wondered seriously if one pecan pie would be enough. It was. Pushing back from the table, the few crumbs on his plate all that remained of his third piece of pie, Jeb gave a blissful sigh.

“If those paintings of yours ever stop selling, kiddo, you could get a job as a chef in a flash.” He smiled at her where she sat across from him in the small kitchen alcove. “You could put me down as a reference.”

Without comment she got up and poured them both another cup of coffee before settling once again at the table. Almost by tacit agreement they had spent the evening catching up with each other. She'd told him about her life in New Orleans, of her successful career as a landscape artist, and some of her plans for the future. He'd talked about happenings in the valley, filling in the pieces that Nick and Maria hadn't been able to. What they hadn't talked about was Josh.

Sipping her coffee, she gazed at him. “OK, I've fed you, and we've caught up on events here and in New Orleans. I think it's time that you sing for your supper and tell me what you know…and suspect, about Josh's death.”

Jeb grimaced. “I'd kinda hoped to avoid that subject, but I'll play fair—or as fair as I can.” He hesitated, looking down at his cup of coffee, the light overhead glinting on the silver strands that were mixed in with the black hair. Those silver hairs came as a shock to Shelly, as did the realization that Jeb was forty-five years old and no longer the cocky young deputy that she remembered so well. None of them, she admitted, were getting any younger—hopefully, they were wiser.

“First of all, I have to say that there is nothing in the coroner's report that isn't consistent with suicide,” he said finally. “And my reservations are just that—reservations.”

“But you
do
have reservations?” she asked, frowning.

“Yeah. I do. But only because I knew Josh and all the people involved. There was something going on between him and Milo Scott, but damned if I know what it was. The moment Josh started being so friendly with those two, Scott and Williams, I began snooping around, but I never caught them doing anything I could put my finger on—or at least arrest them for.”

Jeb sat back, fiddling with his coffee cup. “You should know that part of my reservations come from the fact that there have been one or two suspicious deaths over the years in which Milo Scott was suspected of either killing the person himself or ordering it done.” He made a face. “The problem was we could never prove anything. In one of the cases, we couldn't even prove it was murder—it had to be put down as accidental death. Suspicious as hell, but there you are.” He sighed. “Mendocino County is a big county area-wise, but it doesn't have a big law enforcement segment. It's also one of the lowest paid sheriff's departments in the state, and except for lots of space, lots of trees, a gorgeous coastline, and clean air, the county doesn't have as many amenities as people from other areas have come to expect.” He smiled crookedly. “It's just been during the last half dozen years or so that we even got a Walmart in Ukiah—and there was a huge fight over that. Willits only got a Burger King a few years ago. No doubt about it, Mendocino County
is
changing, growing, but the entire county is still pretty much small town, ranching and farming, and that sort of life doesn't appeal to everyone—a majority of people
expect
malls, pizza delivery, and six-theater complexes and fast-food places on every corner. Most of the time, after a new deputy gets some experience and can start to be of some real use, he—or she—usually ends up moving away for a higher-paid job, better career advancement—even if it's just into the Ukiah or Willits Police Departments. Which leaves us, the sheriff's department, constantly playing catch-up. Despite the turnover we do a damn fine job, but there are problems, and one of them is that there aren't many of us and there's a bunch of ‘them.’” When Shelly looked puzzled, he added, “You've maybe forgotten that Mendocino is part of the Emerald Triangle and one of the largest marijuana-growing regions in the state. We're remote, have mostly rugged terrain, and we don't have much legitimate industry—or a big population. Logging, one of the biggest employers, has practically disappeared, and a lot of people, aging hippies and their offspring and the like who drifted in during the sixties, don't think that there's anything wrong with growing a little patch of weed to supplement their income. Hell, a few years ago one of our county supervisors was campaigning for the legalization of pot—and he had tons of support.

We're not a rich area, and it can be hard to make a living here. There are cases where the pot patch is the only income for some people.”

Shelly frowned. “You don't think that Josh—?”

He shook his head. “No. Not growing it. But it wouldn't surprise me to find out that he was paid to turn a blind eye to
others
growing it on Granger land.”

Shelly sucked in her breath. “You mean, his gambling debts were paid off and for that he virtually leased the ranches for pot production?”

“Possible,” Jeb said neutrally.

“But you never found anything like that, did you?” she asked sharply.

“Honey, you're forgetting how many thousands of acres your family owns, and where it is and how rough the terrain.” He looked disgusted. “You could hide an army out there, and no one would find it—especially not with the number of men we have.”

“So your reservations about Josh's death are mainly because of his association with Milo Scott and Ben Williams?”

“That and the fact that in the weeks prior to his death he gave no sign, that anybody noticed, of being suicidal. Besides, I
knew
the man. Not once during all the years I knew him did he even give a hint of being the type of person who would commit suicide.”

Shelly grimaced. “Is there a type?”

Jeb sighed. “No, I guess not. I just can't accept the idea that he did it—even though all the evidence points in that direction. Call it my gut reaction.”

“Mine too,” she said softly. Those odd entries in the ranch books crossed her mind. Standing up, she said, “Bring your coffee with you. There's something I want you to see.”