Free The Lawman Meets His Bride by Meagan McKinney Page A

her homespun manner and weather-lined face. She could be crafty, sly, or manipulative as any given situation demanded.
    However, the wily widow dropped the topic of Quinn Loudon and poked her head out the window to breathe deeply of the fragrant air.
    “Look at those dogwood trees!” she said enthusiastically. “Weather’s tricked them. They’re swollen with new sap. My soul alive, you couldn’t put a price on a day like this.”
    They entered the town limits of Mystery. With a year-round population of 4,000—swelling to almost twice that by late summer—Mystery was only a fifteen-minute drive due east from the Lazy M. The two blocks comprising the old downtown area still included plenty of its original red-brick buildings with black iron shutters—nothing fancy, just practical and sturdy. But the ornate, nineteenth century opera housewith its scrollwork dome had once put the community a cut above plain old saloon towns. So had the stately old courthouse, now the community center and the only gray masonry building in town.
    “There’s Paul Robeck,” Hazel remarked, waving at a tall, well-dressed man coming out of Omensetter’s Pharmacy. “I buy all my insurance through him. I can’t believe he’s still single. Handsome, steady, good sense of humor.”
    She sent Constance a sly sideways glance. “He manages to work your name into every conversation we have, too. I keep telling him, land sakes, Paul, just give the gal a call.”
    “He has. Several times, actually.”
    “And…?”
    “Oh, Hazel, it’s just not a good time for me to start…socializing with men. Ginny and I have both been busy with—”
    “Oh, bosh,” Hazel cut in. “Admit it. You’re still man-spooked by that experience with Doug.”
    “Maybe,” Constance admitted reluctantly.
    “Sweet love, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Why don’t you call Paul?”
    “Paul’s a nice guy and all that. But frankly, he just doesn’t do it for me.”
    “‘Do it?’ You mean he’s not quite as sexy and exciting as, say, Quinn Loudon?”
    “Hazel! You of all people should know I have no interest in being a gangster’s moll.”
    “Would there be interest if Loudon wasn’t a gangster?”
    “That’s sort of like asking what happened before once upon a time. Who knows?”

    Her companion met that evasive comment with a mysterious little smile.
    By now they had entered the scalloped foothills, and Hazel fell silent, enjoying the sun-luscious day and the magnificent view. The temperature dropped somewhat as they climbed higher, but nothing dramatic.
    At one point near the end of the winding ascent up Old Mill Road, they rounded a tight bend and glimpsed a gorge below with white water frothing down it. Both women were almost reluctant when the road finally dead-ended at the Hupenbecker cabin.
    “Just like I thought,” Constance said, nodding toward the cabin. “Front door standing wide open and the lock broken. Good thing I brought another.”
    Before they went inside, the two friends walked around back so Hazel could visit the creek and the old stone bridge. It had rained earlier, up here in the mountains, and mud daubers were still active in the puddles.
    “They towed Loudon’s car out, I see,” Constance pointed out. “My God, the tow truck completely tore up the ground.”
    But the nastiest surprise was reserved for when the two women poked their heads inside the cabin. The place had been so thoroughly “searched” it was actually damaged. Several floorboards had been pried up and carelessly tossed aside.
    “Those idiotic goons,” Constance fumed. “I’ll be sending them a bill. That is, if I can figure out whom to send it to.”
    Hazel’s reaction was more speculative than angry.
    “In my long experience with the state troopers and county cops,” she told Constance, “they’ve beenquite professional and do everything according to Hoyle. This wasn’t their work.”
    “Probably federal agents,” Constance