June’s mind wandered. She sat three booths from the counter, looking out the window as vehicles blew by—21-ton trucks with a few semi’s and an occasional pickup or SUV mixed in.
On her third cup of coffee, she watched the deputies eating breakfast at the counter. Celeste—skinny, flat-chested, and pale—had carrot-top hair held in place with a scrunchie in back and by clips on top to keep any wisps from her eyes. It annoyed June that younger women let hair fall into their eyes and tossed their heads to flip it out of the way. Celeste had that problem beat.
Light-colored, faded freckles covered Celeste’s forehead, arms, and hands. June imagined what Celeste would do if she had to tackle some big, drunk cowboy and slap the cuffs on him. Probably she’d have to pull out one of those weapons from her duty belt—maybe tase him first. Some of the fellas they had to deal with on those 911 calls used to ride the rodeo, were still made of knotted up muscle, and kicked like mules.
Celeste’s partner, Buck, sat next to her, maybe a little close. They talked in low tones. He was three or four inches taller than Celeste but every bit as skinny. He had knobby elbows and sunken cheeks. June figured she could whip them both. She had to sling hash all day while those two spent their shifts sitting in the SUV, writing up reports. Somehow, they got it done, though. Maybe there was more to police work than brute force. Celeste, at least, could probably talk her way out of some tight spots.
They were both single and spent hours together every day. If they’d gotten together, June thought they’d done a good job keeping it quiet. Something no one else around there did.
People had nothing better to do than gossip, and when they weren’t doing that, they’d keep track of your business—when and where you went each day, with who, and what time you came home. When your neighbors drove by your place at night they’d even check to see which lights were still on so they could tell what room you were in and from that figure what you were doing.
The deputies got a call and left.
Roy, the cook, looked over at her and their eyes met.
“Junebug?”
“What, Roy Boy?”
“Did it ever occur to you that. . . ?”
“Yep. More than once. As far as I’m concerned, more power to ‘em.”
“Yeah, June, I guess it takes all kinds. What about us?”
”Hmm.”
“We’re here all day together, so why not?”
“For one thing, Roy, no one’s ever accused me of it. At least not to my face.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“There you go then, Roy.”
“So, it must not be a good idea if no one else can see it, huh?”
“I didn’t say that, Roy.”
“June, I’d like you to go in back and help me take inventory, okay?”
On her third cup of coffee, she watched the deputies eating breakfast at the counter. Celeste—skinny, flat-chested, and pale—had carrot-top hair held in place with a scrunchie in back and by clips on top to keep any wisps from her eyes. It annoyed June that younger women let hair fall into their eyes and tossed their heads to flip it out of the way. Celeste had that problem beat.
Light-colored, faded freckles covered Celeste’s forehead, arms, and hands. June imagined what Celeste would do if she had to tackle some big, drunk cowboy and slap the cuffs on him. Probably she’d have to pull out one of those weapons from her duty belt—maybe tase him first. Some of the fellas they had to deal with on those 911 calls used to ride the rodeo, were still made of knotted up muscle, and kicked like mules.
Celeste’s partner, Buck, sat next to her, maybe a little close. They talked in low tones. He was three or four inches taller than Celeste but every bit as skinny. He had knobby elbows and sunken cheeks. June figured she could whip them both. She had to sling hash all day while those two spent their shifts sitting in the SUV, writing up reports. Somehow, they got it done, though. Maybe there was more to police work than brute force. Celeste, at least, could probably talk her way out of some tight spots.
They were both single and spent hours together every day. If they’d gotten together, June thought they’d done a good job keeping it quiet. Something no one else around there did.
People had nothing better to do than gossip, and when they weren’t doing that, they’d keep track of your business—when and where you went each day, with who, and what time you came home. When your neighbors drove by your place at night they’d even check to see which lights were still on so they could tell what room you were in and from that figure what you were doing.
The deputies got a call and left.
Roy, the cook, looked over at her and their eyes met.
“Junebug?”
“What, Roy Boy?”
“Did it ever occur to you that. . . ?”
“Yep. More than once. As far as I’m concerned, more power to ‘em.”
“Yeah, June, I guess it takes all kinds. What about us?”
”Hmm.”
“We’re here all day together, so why not?”
“For one thing, Roy, no one’s ever accused me of it. At least not to my face.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“There you go then, Roy.”
“So, it must not be a good idea if no one else can see it, huh?”
“I didn’t say that, Roy.”
“June, I’d like you to go in back and help me take inventory, okay?”
