Page 30 of Seducing the Sheriff
Her eyes lit up, and thankfully, she led the way to a case on the far side of the room, explaining that this exhibit had started the collection, and I was forgotten. But I didn’t miss Greg’s smirk boring into my cheek.
“My husband’s family found this in a closet,” Marisa said, as she showed us what looked like a vintage physician’s bag, the leather cracked and worn, but still intact. “We found medicines and potions inside.”
She pointed to the rusty bottles and twisted pieces of paper. I peered into the case just as Greg did and we bumped into each other. We laughed, a little awkwardly, and I stepped back to give him a chance to look again.
“Have you analyzed the medicines?” I asked Marisa.
Her white curls bobbed as she nodded her head. “It’s quite the potent cocktail of drugs. Opium, morphine, quinine, and digitalis. We weren’t allowed to keep any of them, of course.” She sounded quite regretful about that. “This place isn’t secure enough and you know better than most, sheriff, that someone would try to steal the drugs.”
I nodded because, she was quite right. A cocktail of drugs in a cabinet like this was easy pickings.
The door to the museum opened and Marisa looked over.
“I’m sorry, please excuse me, sheriff. Greg.”
She hurried away and Greg smirked at me. “You shouldn’t have such an instantly recognizable name. Maybe you should adopt a pseudonym when we’re out.”
My mind was hooked on the ‘we’ before it focused on the rest of what he said.
“You want me to have a fake name?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m Greg. You’re the sheriff.”
He had a point.
“I’ll think about it,” I groused.
I couldn’t be the only Cash in New Mexico, could I?
Greg had wandered ahead again, poking around like a curious raccoon in a place he absolutely didn’t belong but was somehow instantly at home in. He paused at a small glass display and waved me over with the kind of enthusiasm that made my boots feel too heavy.
“Hey, look at this,” he said, grinning. “One of your predecessors. And they found his badge.”
I stepped closer, leaning in. The photo showed a stern-looking man with an impressive handlebar moustache, the kind that said he fought bears and bad guys in equal measure. His suit was too tight across the shoulders, and he stared at the camera with a scowl that screamed the photographer was wasting his time when he should be catching criminals.
The badge in the display case was battered, the metal dulled with time and history, but the shape and etching were almost identical to mine. I stared at it a second longer than I meant to.
It hit me, unexpectedly, like finding an old note from a stranger that still felt personal. I’d been wearing the badge, sure, doing the job, but this—this made it feel real. Connected. Like I wasn’t filling in until someone better showed up.
Greg nudged me lightly with his elbow. “You ready to move on, or are you having a moment with Moustache McLawman?”
“You can go off people, you know,” I muttered.
He chuckled and gave me a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere.
But we moved on to the next case, torn wanted posters from the turn of the twentieth century. It wasn’t only law enforcement exhibits, although as this was a courtroom it was understandable. There was enough in here to keep us both occupied. Greg about puddled into goo when he spotted a giant, sun-faded chili pepper costume, worn by the town’s parade mascot in the 1950s.
“What is it with you and peppers?” I asked.
Greg gave me a cryptic look and moved on. I was determined to find out what that was all about.
We both spent a long time studying old maps of Mustang County and were pleased to find one or two of Charming from the early twentieth century.
“It doesn’t look much different,” I admitted.
“Slightly bigger, that’s all. Look, there’s my house.”
Greg pointed it out. Sure enough, there was the old Jenkins’ ranch on the outskirts of town.
