In previous years, Paul had tried to avoid riding into town as much as possible when he had been home for Christmas or Thanksgiving. Welcome was a small town, and Paul didn't feel like explaining himself, his missing left hand, or the possible disruption of the Trouble rancher tradition. He was home to see his dad, not nosy neighbors, old acquaintances from high school, or childhood friends. But the Trouble-Forrester conflict and last night's visitor had made him curious about what was going on.
Welcome was grouped around the crossing of highways 87 and 191, the east-west and north-south dividers of Montana. The so-called city center was concentrated in a four-block radius around the junction. Paul parked his rental right in front of the police station. The only other car around was one police cruiser with a big golden Deacon County Sheriff Department badge sticker on the doors.
"I deduce: the Sheriff is in!" Paul said to himself, zipped up his jacket, and got out of the car.
The Welcome police station shared its building with Deacon County's sheriff department. There was one big room full of desks and file cabinets on the first floor. A small wooden barrier marked the do-not-cross area between civilian and police life. A black lady with grey hair who looked to be around forty-five sat at her desk closest to the barrier. Dressed in a dark blue uniform, she was the only law around. The rest of the department must have been on the roads or somewhere in the back of the building.
She looked up, gave Paul an initial assessment, and sat up, as if registering that Paul was not just another client. Her right hand went casually away from her computer keyboard closer to her right side, compromising to stop on the armrest of her chair.
"You are good, Officer," Paul said as he stepped up to the desk. A small nameplate read: Deputy Golding.
"Can I help you?" she said, cautious, the oral investigation trying to confirm visuals and hunches.
"My name is Paul Trouble. I would like to speak with Sheriff Clarkson."
"Paul Trouble? You're Frank's son?" Deputy Golding asked.
"Yes. Is the Sheriff in?" Paul attempted to beat the dragon into submission with politeness and neutrality.
Her eyes never left Paul. "I have heard of you," she said deliberately, as if she were weighting an imaginary list of good-Paul/bad-Paul items.
Here we go, Paul thought. This is why I never venture into town.
"Only good things, I hope."
"You became a hotshot Army guy and were a secret agent for the CIA."
"That is so not true."
"No. I know that you did!"
"Deputy Golding. You know nothing but small-town blabber. I swear to you on my mother's grave, I never was in the Army."
"But you were a secret agent?"
"In Dubai or Berlin, maybe. But not in Welcome, Montana, where this seems to be common knowledge." If Paul learned anything during his time in the Marines, it was patience. And perseverance. "Is Sheriff Clarkson in?"
"I heard you were a dangerous man."
"I heard mothers say that to their daughters, yes."
"I mean-"
"Deputy, do I need to step outside, cross the city limits into county territory, and rob someone in order to get a date with the Sheriff?"
"Well..."
"Sheriff Clarkson?" Paul suddenly shouted. It startled Deputy Golding so much that her hand darted to her side and freed her revolver from her holster.
