Page 3 of Mack

She leaned over and kissed T.J.’s forehead, breathing in the scent of his baby shampoo, then slipped out and left the door ajar, a sliver of hallway light falling across the carpet and made her way to the bathroom to take a quick shower.

It helped. She stood under the hot water until the tension in her shoulders loosened, then pulled on an old T-shirt and climbed into bed. She watched enough of a reality show to stop thinking, then clicked off the TV and the nightstand light and settled into the cool cotton.

Just before she closed her eyes, she saw a pair of light gray ones staring back.

****

Monday morning, Mack pushed through the door of the sheriff’s office, and strode to the office he shared with Logan Townson, hung his Stetson on the wooden peg, and dropped into the creaky chair behind the desk, the ancient springs protesting beneath him.

“Morning, Mack,” Deputy Brody Morgan said, passing the doorway with a coffee mug.

“Morning, Brody.”

“Are you happy to be on daylight now?”

“Hell yes. I don’t mind the three to eleven shift but that eleven to seven is a pain.”

“I hear you. I was on it when I first came back. I think Sam does it on purpose.”

Mack chuckled. “No doubt.”

He’d always liked Clifton, but when he left to work for the Marshals, he lived in Billings and loved it, but Clifton was home. Single stoplight, friendly faces, mountains out every window. Whether it was enough to hold him was still an open question. He ran a hand through his hair and let it go.

An hour later Sam appeared in the doorway, his six-foot-five frame nearly filling it. “Morning.”

Mack leaned back. “Must be nice to be the boss. Roll in whenever you feel like it.”

Sam smiled. “It has its perks. Do you remember Betty Lou Harper? She works the front counter.”

“I think I remember her, but nobody was at the counter when I came in.”

“She gets here when she wants.” Sam tilted his head toward the lobby. “Come on.”

Mack pushed back his chair with a squeak and followed him out to the lobby, its faded American flag and bulletin board thick with community flyers.

“Betty Lou, this is Mack Reinhardt,” Sam said. “He’ll be filling in while we’re short-handed.”

The woman behind the counter had a steel-gray bun, cat-eyeglasses, and a newspaper folded in her hands. She looked up slowly, and the look she gave Mack was the kind that took a man apart and filed him away before he’d said a word. He glanced at Sam.

“She takes a while to get used to,” Sam said with a grin.

“That is not true, Sam Garrett.” Betty Lou looked at Mack and smiled. “I remember you, Mack Reinhardt. Welcome back. Let me know if you need anything.”

“She’ll get to it once she finishes her crossword,” Sam said, and Mack laughed. They both cleared their throats when Betty Lou glared at them over the rims of her glasses, pencil poised like a weapon.

“Come on,” Sam said, already heading back toward his office, “before she decides to make our lives difficult.”

Mack lingered a moment, and Betty Lou’s eyes narrowed at him like a hawk spotting prey. He winked. That made her chuckle.

“Another man too good-looking for his own good,” she said. “Welcome home.”

He smiled and headed for his office, then stopped at Sam’s doorway and leaned against the frame, arms folded. The place looked recently renovated, gleaming floor, fresh eggshell paint still carrying the faintest chemical scent.

“This is all new, isn’t it?”

“It is. We moved to the first floor about a year ago.” Sam leaned back in his leather chair, making it creak. “Judges, courtrooms, attorneys, the mayor, they’re all stacked up above us. The whole building got overhauled. MDOL is on the third floor.” He gestured vaguely upward, his gold wedding band catching the light from the row of windows behind him. “You should’ve seen the old place. Cracked ceiling tiles, flickering fluorescents, carpet so worn you could see the concrete underneath.”

“This is nice.” Mack ran his fingers along the smooth edge of the desk. “Glad there’s an elevator if I need another floor.” He grinned.