Free Wild in the Moment by Jennifer Greene Page A

feeling so roughed up and skinned.
    He hiked on, his ears freezing because he forgot his hat—he always forgot his hat. He was headed for Karen Brown’s store, a place called Inner Connections. He’d never been inside the decorating place, never planned to, never wanted to. But he’d taken out a wall in John Cochran’s house, and they wanted a bay window, andMrs. Cochran was housebound because of some recent surgery and she wanted some swatches.
    Teague had no idea what a swatch was, but the interior decorating store—Karen Black, or whoever, did curtains and upholstery stuff—was supposed to have them. Lately he couldn’t seem to escape this kind of exasperating problem. All his clients weren’t as sweet and frail as Mrs. Cochran, but lots of women wanted decorating ideas to go with their carpentry and rehab projects.
    Ask him, the whole thing was dumb. When you had a good-looking window, why cover the thing with a bunch of fabric?
    He trudged past the barber shop, then Lamb’s Feed Store, then the cleaners. First place on the next block was the Marble Bridge Café. In the spring and summer, the café set Adirondack chairs outside so the locals could sip brew and fight about politics, Vermont-style. Teague wouldn’t mind popping in for a fast coffee—and to warm his hands—but he wanted to get this torturous swatch thing over with. Maybe after. Assuming he survived the decorating store. Assuming someone was there who could explain about the swatch thing. Assuming…
    He stopped dead, then backed up three paces.
    Something was odd. He wasn’t sure what snagged his attention, but walking down Main Street was invariably like listening to his own heartbeat. He knew how it was supposed to sound. He knew how it was supposed to look.
    The Marble Bridge Café was one of those places that never failed to be predictable. By this time in the afternoon, George’d be sipping free coffee at the counter, his sheriff’s hat on the hook inside the door. The placewould smell like something burned, because Harry Mackay—who’d owned the café for the past forty years—invariably started talking and forgot what he was cooking. People didn’t come for the food unless they were desperate, anyway. The café was primarily a breakfast and lunch place that Harry kept open through the afternoon because he had nothing better to do. In the early part of the day, it was a place to hang out, to fight about politics, to read the paper. It was tradition. And traditionally, by late January, Harry hadn’t taken down the Christmas lights; tired garlands were sagging from the windows; and the linoleum was muddy from people charging in with boots all day.
    The garlands and lights were there.
    The floor was the color of dirty snow.
    The sheriff was sipping free coffee.
    Teague couldn’t fathom what was different—and then realized there were people inside. By this time in the afternoon, the clientele had usually thinned out. Today at least half the booths and tables were occupied. Maybe Harry had a sale on burned food?
    The thought struck his funny bone, but Teague would still have continued on if he hadn’t suddenly spotted a woman behind the counter. Not Janelle or the other part-time waitress who worked for Harry. Not anyone he’d ever seen in the café before. And he immediately pushed open the door.
    Several called out greetings. He answered or nodded, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off the woman. Her back was to him, but he could still tell that she wasn’t a normal woman—at least not normal by Marble Bridge Café standards. Her height clocked in around five-seven and she had glossy dark hair, worn shoulder length, the kind of hair that swayed when she moved and siftedcolors in the right light. She wasn’t wearing jeans and an L.L. Bean sweater, which was the winter indoor uniform in White Hills. Not that he’d know