“If she made some real food, things might be different,” Bear grumbled. “God only knows what it’ll smell like when I get home. I have to sleep in that lodge, too, you know. Last time she had her mind on something, the place smelled like curry for a week. Disgusting. ” He polished off the rest of his beer, and with a nod to Helen had a fresh one almost instantly.
Billy considered him. The man’s main source of pride appeared to be that Sorrow had landed Damien for a boyfriend. It made him feel defensive on her behalf. “You should be proud,” he said, even though he knew better than to goad. “She is something in the kitchen. ”
Bear went on alert. “When’d she cook for you? Sully’s in charge of cooking around here. Nobody makes a better fried chicken. All Sorrow wants to do with chicken is put weird sauces and mushrooms on it. They grow those things in shit, you know. ”
“Nah, it wasn’t like that,” Billy said. “She gave me a few slices of her apple cinnamon bread before I went on patrol. ”
“I thought cops only liked donuts. ”
The comment had been grumpy, but instead of annoying Billy, it gave him a laugh. “I like donuts, too, sir. I just like Sorrow’s bread more. Have you tried it? You put it on the menu, I guarantee it’d make you a small fortune. Best bread I’ve had in some time. ”
Bear only grunted hmph in reply. He seemed to be formulating a fervent reply, but when he turned in his stool to deliver it, his foot caught and he stumbled sideways off his seat.
Billy reached out, catching his elbow to steady him. “Easy, sir. ”
The man flinched away, impatience wrenching his features. “I had a stroke. I’m not an invalid, boy. ”
He understood the flare of anger. He guessed Bear had once been as fierce as his name—such a man wouldn’t appreciate growing feeble.
But the behavior also worried him. The man had tottered on his feet. Was Billy witnessing one too many Budweisers or something else? He was well-versed in first aid—all sheriffs were—and he was particularly on alert where a history of stroke was concerned.
He decided to keep the man talking to assess. “What’s on her mind then?”
“Huh?” Bear settled back on his stool, leaning both elbows on the bar.
The man had a startled look on his face, and Billy knew a wave of sympathy. He kept his voice light and easy. “You said your daughter has things on her mind. What’s got her so preoccupied she was forced to retreat into the kitchen?”
The man sniffed. “She found some letters and has it in her head we’re all related to Buck Larsen. ”
The unexpected turn in the conversation took a moment to register. “Pardon?”
“Yeah. Who knows with that girl?” Bear’s expression softened. He spun his bottle around and around on the counter, shaking his head. “She found some old letters in the attic, and now has a bee in her bonnet about the whole thing. Says my great-granddad was the natural child of Buck Larsen. ”
“The Buck Larsen?”
Bear shrugged, but the faint smile on his face said maybe, just maybe, there was indeed something about Sorrow that made him proud. “She’s at the house, doing her stirring and chopping. Go see for yourself. ”
Eight
She dried her prized butcher knife till it gleamed. It was German, used by professional chefs, and had cost her a pretty penny. She hated when even the most minor of water spots marred the surface. Sorrow tilted it up to the light, wondering if it could use a sharpening. After all, a chef was only as good as his—or her—sharpest blade.
“Remind me not to cross you. ”
The voice in the doorway startled her. Her knife froze, midair.
Sheriff. The man filled the doorway, those broad shoulders making her pounding heart skip a beat.
She darted her eyes back to her task, giving it her whole focus. The sauce was simmering, and she’d taken a moment to clean up. A dirty kitchen was one of her pet peeves. “You know better than to surprise a woman wielding a big knife. ”
“It’s safer than a woman…” His eyes flicked in the direction of the tavern as he made a funny, frightened sort of face. “Well, never mind that. ”
She smirked. “Been at the bar, have you?”
“How’d you guess?”
She shrugged, sliding her tools back into the knife block. She knew what he’d been about to say. Helen worked as their part-time waitress and part-time bartender, but she was a full-time flirt. Billy Preston was a fine man—the woman had probably been on him like white on rice. The thing with Helen was, most men seemed to run to her. All except for her husband. And that, Sorrow guessed, was the crux of the issue. But it wasn’t her place to gossip.
Although she did file in the back of her mind the fact that Billy appeared the sort of man who ran away from such a woman.