Free Left Hanging by Patricia McLinn

again for a boy, but he didn’t. He set about making them the best cattlewomen, best horsewomen, best ranchers around. Linda took to it like a flower getting its first drink of water. Not that old Walter gave her much credit.
    “Inez—that’s the one he held up as so smart and all. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with it. She’d been neglected too long. Or she had too much of her father in her and got her prideful back up. Some say she took up with Newt to get her father’s goat. It sure did that. Walter and his oldest didn’t talk for years. Linda refused to break off with her sister, but wouldn’t go against their father, either. She walked a tightrope between them, even though she’s a woman who’s got a good head on her shoulders most times.”
    Penny wiped her counter, having already disposed of my order and taken my money. Nobody was behind me, so I stayed put.
    “Inez got sick. When it was nearly too late, the both of them, her and her father, finally put aside their fighting. She had a rough time, real rough, but she was a fighter that one, and she beat it. Walter and his grandson were thicker than thieves, Linda was happy as all get-out, and even Newt seemed to have mellowed.
    “Then the cancer came back. Inez fought. But this time—” Penny shook her head. “It was long, and it was hard. It seemed as if any one of the others might go with her from their hearts breaking. In the end it was Walter. Six months later.”
    I took the opening. “The man who died today at the rodeo—?”
    “Keith Landry’s not from Cottonwood County, but he’s been coming a lot of years.”
    I heard the creak of a cart behind me. I wanted to order the intruder to go buy more. But I didn’t dare break eye contact with Penny. Maybe she hadn’t heard—
    She had. “Bye now, Elizabeth. Well, hi there.”
    WHEN I GOT IN the car, a note sat on the passenger seat. Had it been there at the station, and I hadn’t noticed? Or had someone spotted my car here and left the note?
    Either way, what did it say that I’d left my car unlocked. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that.
    I’d like to talk to you. TDB
    Thomas David Burrell wanted to talk.
    So, what was I supposed to do with that information at this hour of the night?
    The only reasonable thing a grown-up, professional journalist could do. Go home and eat cookies.

DAY TWO
    FRIDAY

Chapter Eight
    EVEN AS I reached for the phone that had jolted me awake after too little sleep, I knew it was my mother.
    She had a knack.
    In college, if I’d been out late the night before, perhaps had more than a modest amount of alcoholic beverage, Catherine Danniher invariably called first thing. Last night’s overindulgence had not been alcohol. Instead, a serious sugar buzz from the cookies had left me tired, but too restless to sleep for three hours. That, and considering how the situation might change depending on what Richard Alvaro’s sister’s employer discovered.
    “Elizabeth, it’s your mother.” As if I didn’t know.
    “And father,” Dad added.
    “Hi.”
    “We want to talk to you about that wonderful job offer in St. Louis.”
    I stretched, hoping against hope this would be quick enough that I could go back to sleep. “It’s for a talk show. I’m a reporter. Not a good fit.”
    “Don’t be hasty, Elizabeth Margaret. Before you make a decision—”
    “I decided. I told Mel to tell them no thank you. It’s done.”
    “The position is still open.”
    I sat up. “How do you know that, Mom?”
    “We saw Mel at your second cousin Sally’s son Kiernan’s wedding. The subject came up.” Dad made an inarticulate sound. I envisioned her glaring at him. “It’s fortunate—”
    “Who brought up the subject?”
    She gave her signature sound of exasperation—a muffled tongue click accompanied by a huffing out of her breath. “That’s unimportant. What matters—”
    “It’s important to me, if my agent is talking about my business without