Fried Pickles and the Fuzz Read Online Free PDF Page A

phone rang. Setting the plate of food to the side, Heather wiped her hands on a dishtowel and picked up the receiver of the old rotary dial phone. “Fried Pickle.”
    â€œEvenin’ . ”
    There was no need to ask who was calling. The honey - and - whiskey voice drifted through the dated artifact and washed over her like a warm summer breeze. “Evenin’ , Sheriff. You’re late for supper.”
    â€œYeah, I know, but something came up across town , and I got hung up.”
    Heather laughed. “Another brawl at the Burro?” The local watering hole was the only bar in a fifty-mile radius and tended to get a little rowdy on payday when the cowboys came in from the local ranches. “Or was it a case of overzealous racers pitting their man-mowers against each other in a drag race dow n Connors Avenue?”
    â€œUh, no, not tonight.” Silence hung thick on the line between them. “This is actually more of an official call.”
    â€œOh. What’s going on?” Her nerves stretched tight. There was nothing in the world that she could think of that would garner a call from the police. Since she lived abo ve T he Pickle , she didn’t drive her car. She didn’t own a house in town. S he didn’t even have any family left since Granny Joy had passed. The only thing that she could think of was…
    â€œWe need to talk about Gus.”
    Heather groaned and dropped her head to the cool stainless counter. “What’ s he done now? ”
    â€œWell, he got away from Billy tonight and went callin’ over to Mrs. Pearson’s. She caught him peeking through her living room window , and when she went out to run him off… well, he relieved himself on her front walkway. It appears that he’s the mysterious prowler we’ve been huntin’ for. ”
    â€œMmm .. .” Great. Just great. “Where is he now?”
    â€œI’ve got him locked up over at the station.”
    Heather straightened and patted her jeans pockets for the keys to the front door of the café. “I’ll be right over.” Without waiting for a reply , she dropped the phone in its cradle, wrapped Bronson’s dinner plate in plastic wrap , and bolted through the front door.
    A quick jog up First Street , and she was pushing through the front door of the p olice s tation. Bronson sat at one of the two desks that occupied the small front room. Four cells were located down a short hallway that ran the center of the building. They didn’t really need much space since crime in the area was usually limited to cow tipping and bar room beefs that were as good as forgotten by morning.
    He glanced up from the pap ers before him as she entered the room.
    Her heart battered the inside of her chest , and she fought to remain calm. It wasn’t just her worry over Gus, but she had been getting butterflies lately any time she got around Bronson . Well, that and the fact that she’d never been in a police station for anything other than the occasional supper delivery o r cookie drop - off.
    His felt cowboy hat lay upturned on the desk. A tangle of dark locks faintly retained the impression of his hatband . Dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones , and a strong jaw gave him a rugged, dangerous look that rivaled any cowboy movie star she had ever seen on screen.
    â€œI brought you dinner.” She set the plate down near the corner of his desk.
    He didn’t take his eyes from her. “Thank you.”
    Heather shoved her hands into the front pockets of her worn jeans. “I guess he’s in the back?”
    Bronson leaned back in his chair and nodded slowly.
    â€œCan I take him home?”
    â€œHome where?” Bronson eyed her. “I know he doesn’t live with you. Far as I can tell , he just moves around and stays with anyone who will put up with him for awhile.”
    Her heart sank. “That’s not fair, Bronson.”
    â€œI’m sorry , but