Free Montana by Debbie Macomber

Elvis.
    The ice-cream parlor with its white wire chairs was exactly as she remembered.
    Sam glanced at her.
    â€œEverything’s the same,” she told him.
    â€œEverything changes,” he said without emotion. “Looks can be deceiving, so don’t be fooled.” He eased the truck into an empty parking space and turned off the engine.
    â€œI need to stop at the bank,” she said, looking over at the large redbrick structure. From there she’d go to the Safeway and buy groceries. The Safeway was at the other end of town, about six blocks away. A stoplight swayed gently in the breeze at Main and Chestnut. For a while it had been the only one in the entire county. But five years ago Jordanville, forty miles east, had its first traffic light installed, stealing Sweetgrass’s claim to distinction. Gramps had taken the news hard; he’d written her a letter complaining bitterly about the changes in Montana. Too damn many people, he’d grumbled.
    Without looking at her, Sam added, “I’ve got some supplies to pick up.”
    Sam wasn’t unfriendly, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to make her feel welcome, either. Molly had no idea what she’d done or hadn’t done to create such…coolness in his attitude. This morning he’d seemed neutral, but neutral had definitely become cool.
    â€œI’ll meet you at the bank when I’m finished,” he said.
    Molly climbed down from the truck and hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Sam walked close beside her until they reached the bank, then he crossed the street. As she opened the heavy glass doors, she caught a glimpse of him studying her. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
    While the outside of the bank was relatively unchanged, the inside had been updated. The polished wood counters were gone, and except for the lobby with its marble tiles, the floor was now carpeted.
    Molly moved toward the desk with a sign that stated: New Accounts.
    â€œHello,” she said, and slipped into the chair.
    â€œHi.” The woman, whose nameplate read Cheryl Ripple, greeted her with a cordial smile.
    â€œI’m Molly Cogan,” she said, introducing herself. “Walter Wheaton’s my grandfather.”
    Cheryl’s smile faded and she stood up abruptly. Almost as if she couldn’t get away fast enough, Molly thought.
    â€œExcuse me a moment, please,” the woman said. She hurried toward the branch manager’s office, and a moment later, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man appeared.
    â€œMs. Cogan?” he said, coming over to her, hands tightly clenched. “I’m David Burns. Is there a problem?”
    Molly blinked at him, taking in his well-tailored suit and polished shoes. “No, should there be?”
    David Burns’s laugh held a nervous edge. “Not exactly. It’s just that your grandfather has…shall we say, challenged the integrity of this banking institution on a number of occasions. I came to be sure there wasn’t any problem with his account. Again.”
    â€œNone that I know of,” Molly said, wondering what her grandfather had said or done to raise such concern. On second thought she didn’t want to know. “Actually I came to open my own account.”
    â€œYour own?” His relief was evident. “That’s great.”
    â€œI’m moving in with my grandfather.”
    â€œI see. Welcome to Sweetgrass. Cheryl will be more than happy to assist you.” He took a couple of steps backward before turning toward his office.
    Within ten minutes Molly had signed the necessary documents and chosen a check design. As she got ready to leave, she noticed a tall attractive man standing in the lobby, watching her. When he saw Molly, he smiled and nodded as if she should know him. She didn’t. A moment later he approached her.
    â€œMolly Cogan?”
    She nodded, frowning, certain she didn’t recognize him. His was