The Reluctant Sheriff

Chapter Two

Mick Hardin drove the official county vehicle along a narrow blacktop road that bisected the hills. He was filling in as sheriff while his sister recuperated from a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty. This was Linda's official vehicle, and a Bigfoot air freshener swayed from the rearview mirror. It was a three-quarter profile view of Bigfoot in mid-stride, looking over his huge, hairy shoulder. The cardboard smelled of pine, or what the manufacturer thought pine trees smelled like, which wasn't the scent of any tree Mick knew. Earlier he'd given it an experimental sniff in case there was something lurking beneath the chemical tang, maybe ancient dirt or decaying moss. Nope, just fake pine like cheap bathroom cleaner.

During her recovery, Linda was temporarily living under the roof of Shifty Kissick while Mick stayed in his sister's house. Everything in his life was provisional, including his role as sheriff. He thought it was a kind of metaphor for the hills of eastern Kentucky, a temporariness that never changed. Only nature itself was consistent - relentless, beautiful, benevolent, and cruel.

He turned onto the long dirt driveway to the house of a woman who'd called the station three times. The SUV bounced through a mudhole, causing Bigfoot to hop against the windshield and bend a flimsy arm. It occurred to Mick that no one had ever found the giant bones of Bigfoot. The absence of a skeleton kept the legend alive. Or maybe they lived forever. It was a conversation for Johnny Boy, the former deputy, but he was on temporary leave, whereabouts unknown to everyone except Mick.

The driveway ended at a yard with an old Pontiac on the grass. Mick parked behind it, honked his horn, and got out. The one-story house gave the impression of being close to the ground due to the low slope of the roof that extended above the porch. The screen door opened and a woman in her late forties stepped outside smoking a cigarette. A midsize dog shot from the house, leaped the three steps, and bounded across the yard. Its tail wagged with such vigor that its hips moved as if dancing. Mick shifted his body to look at the dog peripherally and reduce his own threat.

'Conway!' the woman said.

The dog stopped moving.

'He's friendly,' she said.

'I can see that,' Mick said. 'I'm Sheriff Hardin. Are you Mrs Morris? Molly Morris?'

'Yes, I am. I called y'all three times.'

'I understand, ma'am. We're short-staffed right now and got behind. How can I help you?'

'Around back,' she said. 'Loretta is up to no good. I don't hardly know where to start or how to say it.'

'Let's start with Loretta. Who is she?'

'My daughter-in-law. Soon to be ex.'

Mick nodded.

'Loretta what?' he said.

'Loretta Cargill. Kept her own name. That's how little she thinks of our family.'

'A lot of women do that these days,' Mick said. 'Might not be personal.'

'Are you a married man?'

'Divorced.'

'Did she take your name?'

'Yes, she did. It was twenty years ago.'

'Then how do you know what you're talking about with these young Jezebels and how they think?'

'I don't reckon I do,' Mick said.

She tipped her head and gave it a quick nod, then took a long drag off her cigarette. She blew the smoke hard and fast as if making a point. Its funnel dissipated in a breeze. At the end of the porch, a robin poked its head from a forsythia bush to look at the humans.

'Your son,' Mick said, 'the one married to Loretta. Does he live here?'

'Well. Yes and no.'

'It would help if you were a little more specific, Mrs Morris.'

'Ronnie and Loretta live around back but I ain't seen him in a few days. I'd just as soon Loretta left.'

'Around back?'

'Yes, they made a damn yurt.'

'A yurt.'

'That's what they call it. Some kind of thing made out of sticks. It's a mess is what it is. Like a hideout little kids built in the woods. One hard wind and it's gone. I been praying for a big storm.'

'Okay,' Mick said. 'Why did you call?'

'At first I thought Ronnie had a lot of new friends, but he's gone and there's men still coming around. My opinion, she's doing floozy business.'

Mick nodded and looked at the forsythia bush. The robin had ducked back inside and Mick felt a jolt of envy for the ease with which it could avoid difficulties. Maybe the bird should be sheriff, or Mick should have been a bird.

He walked around the house to a long backyard snugged tight to the ubiquitous hillside. A pair of bee boxes stood near a patch of honeysuckle beside a heavy-duty push lawnmower suited to rough terrain. A mowed path led to a homemade shelter situated within the shade of a sugar maple. He'd seen yurts, a kind of round tent with a sturdy door, while serving in Afghanistan. This one had the traditional shape but it was covered by a shimmering blue tarp staked to the ground. The entrance was an old bear hide, the fur scraped off in sections, exposing the stiff yellow skin.

In front of the yurt was a small firepit built of stacked rock topped by a grate. Four lawn chairs surrounded it. A creek ran along the base of the hill below a damp cliff that was dripping water. Red and green moss glittered on the stone. Like most of eastern Kentucky, it resembled a park that families visited on vacation in other states. Here, the people just lived.

Mick went back to the front, faced the bear hide, and spoke.

'Hidy,' he said. 'Anybody in there?'

The bear hide rustled, then was shoved aside from within. Out stepped a woman in her twenties, moving with an elegance that surprised Mick, considering the situation. She looked him straight on with frank intelligence in her clear eyes. She glanced at the sheriff's badge and holstered Beretta, then back to his face. He nodded and stepped back.

'Loretta Cargill?' he said.

'That's me. Do you want to come in?'

'No, thank you. I'm all right out here.'

'Is Ronnie hurt?'

'Not as far as I know,' he said. 'I'm not here about him.'

'His mom okay?'

'I just talked to her and she's fine. Reason I'm here, she called three times.'

Loretta walked to a lawn chair and sat. Mick took another chair and they stared across the dead fire at each other. A fly landed on the cooking grate, then another. The scent of honeysuckle drifted and Mick took a big inhale.

'One of my favorite smells,' he said.

'It's a good pollinator. The butterflies need all the help they can get these days. Reckon we all do.'

'Mrs Morris thinks you're running some kind of business back here. Is that the case?'

'Sort of, yeah. People stop by. If they're in a hurry, I give them a pull.'

'A pull.'

'Yes. Sometimes they give me things. That bear hide. The lawn mower. It's self-propelled but the drivetrain quit working and the woman didn't want it. Heavy as heck but free's free, you know. Her two boys dropped it off. I gave them a free pull.'

'A free pull?'

'Yeah, just one apiece, not the full thing.'

'I'm not sure what we're talking about.'

'The tarot,' she said. 'Thirty minutes is minimum to get anywhere. Enough time for a couple of questions. An hour's better. But some folks just want one card, so I pull one. Is something on your mind? I can give you a pull. You look a little troubled.'

'I am,' Mick said. 'But then, who ain't? Thank you for the offer, but I can't do it on duty. Can you think of any reason Mrs Morris called about you?'

'She doesn't like me.'

'I got that impression. Why not?'

'I don't know for sure. Ronnie is the youngest of six kids. I think Molly is afraid I'll take him off somewhere. You know, make him move.'

'Do y'all talk about...