Page 117 of Stolen for Keeps
Maggie’s was a staple in Buffaloberry Hill, with a handwritten sign that read:If You Leave Hungry, That’s on You.The place smelled of fresh coffee, griddled butter, and something sweet—maybe the day’s pie special. The usual crowd filled the booths. Ranchers taking their break, a group of elderly women swapping town gossip, and a couple of teenagers sharing a plate of fries like they were rationing for the apocalypse.
Noah gave me that worn-in grin that made it impossible for me to stay mad at him for long. “Anything you like, my dear,” he said.
I went with the chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes while he ordered the double bacon cheeseburger, a mountain of fries, and a large soda. Because apparently, subtlety wasn’t his thing.
We ate like people who hadn’t been chased by threats, knives, and deadlines.
Halfway through my plate, he slid out of the booth and mumbled something about hitting the bathroom.
“Told you not to gulp the whole soda,” I said.
He held up a finger. “I blame the fries. They were saltier than usual.”
“Sure,” I said. “Couldn’t be that you ordered enough food for three grown men.”
“You say that now,” he said, already on his way to the back, “but you’ll be grateful when you’re stealing my leftovers at midnight.”
I kept picking at my mashed potatoes. They were friggin’ delicious, and I couldn’t help myself, even though I was already hovering somewhere between full and food coma.
The door chimed as another patron stepped in.
It was Sheriff Colton, the town’s lawman. I’d only recently learned that he wasn’t stationed here full time.Buffaloberry fell under Ravalli County, which meant his main office was down in Hamilton, the county seat. Buffaloberry Hill had a substation and two deputies to manage the day-to-day.
But it wasn’t Colton who turned my stomach.
It was the other man.
He looked different without glasses. Something was off about his eyes. Maybe colored contacts to match the hair. But it was him. He walked in like he knew he didn’t fit. The suit was tailored and city-worn. It was the wrong kind of polished, the wrong kind of calm.
Harlow.
My fork stalled halfway to my mouth, the mashed potatoes losing all their appeal.
The men’s eyes found me at the same time.
Sheriff Colton cleared his throat, shifting back slightly on his heels. “Miss Belrose,” he said, tipping his hat with a nod. “Don’t believe you’ve met Detective Frederic Harlow.”
Harlow didn’t bother with the small-town charm. “I’ll take it from here, sheriff,” he said, barely looking at Sheriff Colton.
Sheriff Colton hesitated for a beat, maybe even considered sticking around, but then he turned and stepped outside, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Harlow helped himself to the booth, sliding in across from me like we were friends catching up over coffee.
I moved to stand.
Harlow’s hand flattened against the table, a motion meant to halt me before he even needed to say a word. “I just want to talk.”
Talk.
Yeah, right.
That wasn’t the kind of thing you strolled up and said on a friendly visit. Not when you were the kind of man whooperated in shadows and loopholes, when you twisted justice until it served your pocket rather than the law.
The diner had gone quieter. It was not completely silent—Maggie wouldn’t allow that—but enough for the shift in atmosphere to be felt. Enough for a few curious glances to flicker my way. I wasn’t after a scene, and the last thing I needed was the gossip mill churning before I had my next move figured out.
So, this scumbag had finally caught up to me.
Was this Annamaria’s doing?
