Angels Fall

about."
    "I don't blame you." Linda-gail reached out, squeezed a hand over Reece's. "Not one bit. If I'd been through something like that, I'd still be curled up in the corner crying for my mama."
    "No, you wouldn't, but thanks."
    "So, we'll just talk about men and sex and food and shoes. The usual."
    "Works for me." Reece reached for another nacho. "As for food, you know what's gunked on here has absolutely no relationship with actual cheese."
    "It's orange." Linda-gail dug in, scooped the loaded chip through something pretending to be guacamole. "Close enough. Just so we'll be on level ground, men-wise, I'm going to marry Lo."
    "Oh, oh, my God!" Reece dropped the loaded chip on her plate with a plop. "This is great. I had no idea."
    "Neither does he." Linda-gail crunched into her nacho. "And I fig-ure its going to take some more time and ettort to refine him into anything worth marrying. But I'm really good at projects."
    "Ah. Um, so you're in love with him."
    Her pretty face softened, and the dimple deepened. "I've loved him all my life. Well, since I was ten, and that's a long time. He loves me, too, but his way of dealing with that is to run in the opposite direction and bang every female within reach so he won't think about me. I'm letting him get it out of his system—time's about up."
    "Well, huh. That's a unique and broad-minded system you have there. Linda-gail."
    "It's getting a little more narrow-minded these days."
    "He and I never… in case you wonder."
    "I know. I wouldn't hold it against you if you had. Or I wouldn't very much. Juanita and I get on fine, and he was lighting her up like Christmas a while back. Then again, who hasn't? "She chortled out a laugh. "But I probably wouldn't buy you a beer it he'd nailed you. We were together, Lo and me, when we were sixteen, but we weren't ready. Who is at sixteen?"
    "Now you are."
    "Yeah, now I am. He's just got to cacth up. Brody hasn't dated any-one in the Fist, in case you wonder. Word was he was seeing some lawyer type in Jackson on and off for a while, and there's been a couple of suspected oners with tourist types, but nobody right local."
    "I guess that's good to know. I'm not sure what's between us, really. Except some heat."
    "Heat's a good place to start. Being a cook and all, you should know that."
    "It's been a while." Idly Reece toyed with the ends of her hair as she studied Linda-gail's do. "Where do you get your hair done?"
    "When I'm in a hurry or when I want to splurge?"
    "I'm mulling the splurge."
    "Reece, Reece, you can't mull the splurge. You just, by definition, take the splurge. I know just the place. We can finagle Joanie into giving us both the same day off next week and go for it."
    "Okay, but I should tell you that the last time I tried to keep a salon date, I ran like a rabbit."
    "No problem." Linda-gail sucked orange goo off her thumb and grinned. "I'll bring some rope."
    As Reece broke into a grin, one of the local cowboys sauntered up toward the little stage. He was a lean six feet in cowhide boots, faded jeans. The white circle worn into the back pocket came, Reece had learned, from carrying a can of snuff.
    "Live entertainment?" Reece asked as he picked up a microphone.
    "Depends on how you measure entertainment. Karaoke." Linda-gail lifted her drink toward the stage. "Every night in Clancy's. That's Reuben Gates, works out at the Circle K with Lo."
    "Coffee black, eggs up on toast, bacon and home fries, Sunday morning regular."
    "You got it. He's pretty good."
    He had a deep, strong baritone, and was an obvious favorite with the crowd that whistled and clapped as he broke into his rendition of "Ruby."
    As she listened to him sing about a faithless woman, she tried to imagine him standing by the banks of the Snake River in a black jacket and orange hunter's cap.
    It could be him, she thought. His hands would be strong, and there was a stillness about him now as he stood, as he sang.
    It could be this one, a man she'd fried eggs and potatoes for on Sunday mornings. Or it could be any of the men hunched at the bar or scattered at the tables. Any one of them could be a killer. Any one, she thought again as panic tickled slyly at her throat.
    Music tinkled out, and the deep baritone cruised through it. Conversations continued, muted now out of respect for the performance. Glasses clinked on wood, chairs scraped the floor.
    And the tickling panic began to close into a fist to block her air.
    She saw Linda-gail's face, saw her