Olivia Bingmire had been making fresh-squeezed lemonade for the farmer’s market for as long as Slade could remember. It wasn’t a cure-all for the blues, but it came close on a hot day. Slade headed toward the door, pausing to look at Nate. “You coming?”
“What about the plumber?”
“He’s got Flynn’s cell-phone number on speed dial.” Slade waited for Nate to join them. “It’s time you started meeting the people you’re going to swear to protect. Besides, we could use your hammer on our next few stops.” They left the jail door open in case the plumber showed up.
“I thought you told Truman he could hammer the nails into Sam’s fence?” Nate looked confused.
“I did.” Slade fought to keep a straight face. “That’s why we’re going to need an extra hammer.”
The three men walked toward the town square, leaving their trucks parked in front of the sheriff’s office.
A slender woman with long dark hair came around the corner of El Rosal, a cloth bag tucked in the crook of her arm.
“Becs!” With a nod to the men, Flynn veered across the street to meet his wife, Becca, who’d wisely brought a cloth bag to make it easier to carry her purchases home.
Truman dragged the twins from table to table, his shrill, happy voice carrying down the street. “Make sure you always, always, always buy the brownies from the Jimtown table early. They go fast.”
“Your daughters aren’t very talkative.” There was a hint of polite inquiry behind Nate’s statement.
“They’re shy.” Slade watched his daughters, hoping it was true.
Nate had a long-legged amble that made him look as if he was walking slowly, when in fact he was covering more ground in fewer steps than Slade, who considered himself tall at six foot. And yet, there was something rigid about Nate’s posture that contradicted his easy stride.
Wanting to change the subject, Slade, who didn’t normally pry, found himself prying. “Did you serve in the military?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan. Army. You?” The sheriff was a man of few words.
Slade shook his head. “Four years at Harvard. Two years on Wall Street.”
They exchanged respectful grins.
Flynn and Becca walked arm in arm in front of them.
For some reason, an image of Slade walking with a certain blonde came to mind. For the right reasons, Slade erased it. “You ever been married, Nate?”
“No...I... No.” His stilted answer was out of character for the normally staid sheriff.
This time Slade chose not to pry.
About thirty residents clustered about the tables, many leaning on canes and walkers. The only residents under the age of sixty were Nate, the partners, Truman, and the twins.
They reached Olly’s table. Slade bought a glass for himself, the sheriff, and the girls, who ran to him obediently when he called.
Nate was quickly snatched up by the locals, who circled him as if he was a celebrity.
Slade stood with the girls, drinking lemonade, wishing one of them would lean against him or hug him like they used to.