Front Page Love Read online

  © 2006 by Paige Lee Elliston

  Published by Fleming H. Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  eISBN 978-1-4412-3924-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Watch for Book 3 in the Montana Skies Series!

  Back Ads

  Julie Downs stood sweating and acutely uncomfortable in front of the Coldwater, Montana, News-Express building. The time-temperature sign on the bank down the street read 104 degrees. The building offered no shade, and the sun hung low in the sky, flexing its midday muscles.

  Julie felt her blouse begin to stick to her back as she stood on the sidewalk. Her long hair, a sun-kissed hue of blond, had always been a source of secret pride to her. But now she felt as if a slightly damp mop had sprouted on her head. She tapped a western boot impatiently—which reminded her how hot her feet were. The sidewalk was radiating heat like a short-order grill. A headline ran through her mind:

  Reporter Bursts into Flames Awaiting Ride in Cop Car

  Julie wasn’t good at waiting—particularly waiting for meatball interviews on topics that were of little interest to her and, she suspected, her readers.

  She glanced at her watch, then looked down Main Street. A half block away, a realtor was placing his sign on the boarded-up front window of what had been a cute little candy and ice cream store. Farther down the street, beyond where Julie could see, were other closed shops and small businesses, operations that depended on the discretionary income of the residents of Coldwater.

  Julie sighed. Many of those residents were farmers and ranchers, and the previous summer—the first of the year-and-a-half-long drought—had been a disaster. The merciless sun had turned rich, lush pasture to arid expanses of dirt and burned grass, and melted weight from the cattle that depended on those pastures. And the horse industry, large and robust in Montana for many years, now found sales low and feed prices high.

  Julie checked her watch again: 12:09.

  New Cop Unable to Tell Time—

  Ace Reporter Melts on Sidewalk

  Like this guy has something more important to do, she thought. Coldwater’s a real hotbed of crime. Just last week, the president of the reading circle was found to have a two-day fine against her at the public library. And the week before, Howie Warden’s Labrador retriever ate a darning egg belonging to a neighbor . . .

  She stepped back to the doors, the tall, dark glass panels of which made a good substitute for a mirror, and inspected her image critically. Definitely a bad hair day—there was no doubt about that. She was tall—five foot nine—and in her own mind scrawny, or at least lanky. Her figure was more girlish than womanly. She leaned closer, looking at her features. Her face was pleasant enough to look at, and her teeth were white and even in a full, but not quite sensuous, mouth. Not too bad for a thirty-six-year-old, she thought.

  The squeal of tires and the throaty, powerful roar of a large engine brought Julie back to the curb. A glinting new Ford, purchased for and donated to the department by the grateful rancher parents of a toddler who wandered off and was brought home quickly and safely by the police, slid around the corner in a four-wheel drift, straightened, and rocketed in Julie’s direction, its massive power plant howling. The vehicle was polished so highly that the reflecting sunlight made it hard to look at.

  The Ford skidded to a stop in front of Julie. The driver’s door swung open, and Patrol Officer Kenneth Townsend climbed out of the cruiser and stepped to its front.

  Julie appraised him quickly, from his poster-boy smile to his obviously tailor-made uniform and black boots that were at least as well shined as his cruiser. He was darkly tanned, tall and lean, and bore himself with an almost military posture. Good looking, she decided, and well aware of that fact.

  “Ken Townsend,” he said, sounding like Sean Connery saying, “Bond—James Bond.” Julie wanted to giggle. She’d heard the new officer was a Hollywood version of a cop. “Sorry I’m a minute late, Ms. Downs. I had some business to take care of.”

  Julie didn’t say anything.

  “Uhhh . . .” Officer Townsend said, his face turning red, “you are Julie Downs, aren’t you?”

  She wanted very badly to say no.

  “Yes, I am.” She shifted her eyes to the cruiser. “This is the super car, right?”

  The officer smiled broadly, proudly. “You betcha. Ford Interceptor. She’ll run top end over 140. Five-speed gearbox, 456 cubic inches, handling package, high capacity disk brakes—”

  Julie stopped the spiel with a wave of her hand. “I got a brochure from your captain. Let’s go for a ride and talk a bit.”

  “Sure, let’s do that.” The officer motioned with his hand to the passenger side, took the few steps to his own door, and dropped himself back into the car behind the wheel. Julie stood still. Townsend’s face reddened again, and he got out of his cruiser and walked around to the passenger door, opening it for her.

  Why did I do that? she chided herself. After all, it’s the new millennium. I’m capable of opening a door.

  Julie hooked her shoulder harness as the cop walked back around the car and got inside once again. He seemed completely at home in the driver’s seat, and his hands fell naturally to the steering wheel. The image of a jet fighter pilot flashed in Julie’s mind. Not a bad impression, she thought. A cluster of chrome switches and a scanner/radio rested on the dark dashboard. The upright shotgun resting on its stock in a clamp set slightly to the left of the instrument pod, within easy reach, set off the functionality of the vehicle.

  Officer Townsend started the engine, snicked the shift lever into first gear, and left the curb with tires smoking and motor screaming like a wild beast. He slam-shifted into second, burning the tires once again.

  “Enough,” Julie said over the roar.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Enough! I know it’s fast. Let’s just ride for a few minutes like normal human beings, and then you can drop me off. OK?”

  The officer looked confused for a moment—and a little disappointed. “Sure. Thing is, I never know when I’ll have to call on the powers of that awesome engine to—”

  “I understand,” Julie interrupted. “But let’s talk about you. I’d like my readers to get to know you.” She’d taken a pad and pen from her purse and wrote her first line on a fresh page: “Hollywood—awesome engine—could be good cop when he calms down (??).” She looked at the page again.

  Nuts. It’s not this guy’s fault that I’m hot, sweaty, and irritable, and that my hair looks like an oiled haystack. I gotta cut him some slack.

  “Tell me, Officer,” she said, smiling somewhat larger than she was feeling, “how did you get into law enforcement?”

  The officer responded to both the smile and the question as he drove beyond the end of Main Street and out into the open land, edging the cruiser up to a relatively moderat
e sixty-five miles per hour. Julie took an occasional note, fully realizing that the computer background sweep of Ken she’d done earlier gave her all the data she needed for her article.

  Officer Townsend told her about his early desire to be a cop, his failure to be accepted by the FBI, his dozen years as a private investigator, and his training at the Montana State Police Academy. His spiel sounded rehearsed to Julie’s practiced ears, almost devoid of contractions, employing terms such as “did not” and “would have” rather than the far more common “didn’t” and “would’ve.”

  The poor guy memorized this speech.

  “Married?” she asked idly. The computer data showed he was thirty-five years old and single.

  “No,” he said. “I guess I never really found the time. PI work takes lots of hours, mostly at night, when normal people are dating.” After a moment he asked, “How about you?”

  “Nope,” Julie answered. “Never been. It’s a cliché, I guess, but in a sense I’m married to my work. I love what I do, and I love my life outside my job. I have a good—a great—horse, and I’m a barrel racer.”

  “I’ve seen barrel racing on TV but never live,” Officer Townsend said. “It looks like lots of fun.”

  “You’ll have to come to the Montana finals at the end of the summer. You’ll see good riding and top horses.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, and his tone of voice clearly indicated that he would.

  Julie shifted in her seat and moved her boots to a more comfortable position. As she did so, she glanced downward and noticed the edge of a cellophane bag shoved behind the police monitor. Before even thinking of restraining herself, she leaned forward and tugged the bag free of its hiding place. The bag contained Tootsie Roll Pops, and about half of them were gone.

  “Aha!” she said, shaking the bag. “And don’t tell me you carry these for kids, Officer.”

  His face flushed pink. He slowed, downshifted, and pulled to the shoulder of the road, still rolling as he swung into a U-turn and headed back to Coldwater, accelerating easily to sixty-five miles per hour.

  “OK,” he began. “You found the evidence. I guess I have to tell you the rest.” He paused for a moment, and then his voice dripped with artificial emotion. “I . . . I’ve been addicted to Tootsie Pops since I was about ten years old. Until now, no one knew about it . . . except my dentist.”

  Julie laughed. “Your secret is safe with me, Ken,” she said. “In fact, I’ll let you in on an even darker secret. With me, it’s Snickers bars—and I mean the full-size jobs, not the tiny ones sold around Halloween. I’m powerless over them.”

  “Wow,” Ken breathed. “Snickers are hard core, Julie.” He seemed to ponder for a long moment. “At times—and I’m not proud of this—I’ve scarfed down a Three Musketeers or even a few Atomic Fireballs. Once, when I was younger, a pair of PayDays. But Snickers bars . . .” His voice trailed off to silence.

  Julie laughed again, and then they were laughing together, like grade school kids at recess. Julie noticed that they’d slipped past the “Ms. Downs” and “Officer Townsend” phase to a natural comfort with each other’s first names.

  Julie watched the parched fields and dusty pastures pass by her window. The ride back to the News-Express building seemed to pass too quickly. Ken pulled to the curb, and Julie unsnapped her shoulder belt.

  “Thanks for the ride and your time, Ken. You’ll like my article.”

  “I’m sure I will. Hey, would you like to grab a cup of coffee or something in a few days?” His smile was dazzling, and his eyes warm and friendly. Julie was no stranger to being hit on by guys, but this felt different. If you can’t trust a cop, who can you trust?

  She returned his smile. “I’d like that. Give me a call here”—she nodded at the News-Express building—“or at home. My number is listed.”

  Julie eased out of the cruiser and closed the door with a solid, new-car thunk. She walked to the big doors of the front entrance to the newspaper office. Behind her she heard Ken drive off—quietly, with no screeching of tires.

  Well, well, well . . . She grinned to herself like a cat in sunshine.

  The blast of almost frigid air inside the building was heavenly, and Julie stood just inside the door, reveling in it. Even the dozen or so steps from the cruiser to the office had exposed her to the sun and caused sweat to break on her forehead and arms. She sighed.

  “You OK, Jules?” a voice asked. “You’re lookin’ lost in space.”

  Julie smiled at co-reporter Mandy Fairwell. “Out on an interview,” she said. “It’s so hot the rattlesnakes are wearing sun bonnets.”

  “You got that new cop piece, right? The cute guy?”

  “That’s where I was just now.”

  Mandy took a step closer. “How’d it go?”

  “OK,” Julie said. “He talked a lot about his car that’ll go a bazillion miles an hour. Seems like a nice guy, though.”

  “Mmm. Married?”

  Julie’s smile answered her friend’s question.

  “Ohh—Nancy is looking for you,” Mandy remembered.

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. She seems like she’s all wound up about something.” Mandy looked at her watch. “I gotta get out on the town council meeting. Catch you later, OK?”

  Julie began to answer but then realized she would only be talking to her friend’s back. After a moment, she headed to the newsroom, wondering what Nancy Lewis, her managing editor, needed from her.

  Nancy was new to the paper; she’d come to Coldwater shortly before the drought began. The absentee owners, a communications conglomerate, had a pair of options at that time: either cut their losses and dump the paper or get someone into the front office who could bring the paper back to profitability. Nancy Lewis had the credentials, the experience, and the talent the owners wanted. At only forty-five years of age she’d yanked one small-town paper from the edge of bankruptcy and had guided two others from throwaways to well-read and respected publications.

  Julie ducked into the ladies room and stood in front of the mirror. She sighed, rearranged some wandering lengths of hair, and left, thankful that she didn’t use makeup beyond a bit of lipstick. Mascara and foundation would have long since melted.

  Nancy’s door was open, and she was sitting behind her desk. As ever, the surface of the desk was pristine and uncluttered, an uncapped Mt. Blanc fountain pen centered on a fresh legal pad. Both the in and out baskets were empty. She waved Julie in and motioned her to sit.

  Julie chose the armed chair centered in front of the desk rather than the small couch to the side. She noticed Nancy’s perfume as she sat and set her shoulder bag on the floor. The scent was light but exotic—reminding Julie of spice and, for some reason, wildflowers.

  Nancy smiled. No one would refer to her as beautiful, although her features were even and her eyes lively and open. The word that sprang to Julie’s mind was patrician—Nancy projected a presence that quietly demanded attention no matter where she was or what she was doing.

  “How are things, Julie?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and well modulated, with the slightest touch of the South that tempered the hardness of her r’s.

  “Fine. No complaints.”

  Nancy’s smile broadened. “None?”

  “Well, you know how it is,” Julie admitted. “Not much going on around here—except the drought.”

  “I’m not completely sure about that,” Nancy said. “Do you know specifically why the police department hired the new man?”

  “The way I heard it,” Julie said, “is that the chief was dead set against it, said he didn’t need a new officer and that the force was fully staffed. It was the town council that demanded the PD bring on the new guy—said they’d find the money to pay and equip him. The donated cruiser certainly helped.”

  “As it turned out, the council was right. Violent crime—fights, threats, theft, even some cattle rustling—has gone way up in the last six to eight months. That bar
out at the end of Main Street—the Bulldogger—is opening at 8:00 in the morning now, and doing lots of business. Farmers, cowhands, farm help, other guys out of work have been spending too much time there, getting liquored up and arguing. There was a bad fight a couple of nights ago—and a stabbing.”

  Julie nodded her head. “I’ve heard lots of rumors. Of course, that place has always been a dump. The town has even tried to close it down a few times.”

  Nancy nodded. “Yeah, but it’s worse now. And it’s not only the bar. There are too many people with nothing to do, too many people worrying about losing their farm equipment, their cars, their land, and even their homes, to the banks.”

  “It’s the drought—”

  “Exactly,” Nancy interrupted. “It’s the drought. Records show this one is the worst since the Great Depression. That’s scary, no?”

  Julie nodded. “I talked with Cyrus Huller in the café last week. You know him, right? Anyway, he remembers the Depression. He told me how his family barely survived it—how he got smacked if he came back without a possum or squirrel or woodchuck for each bullet his dad gave him to hunt with. Cyrus said they ate anything—including snake.”

  “I know Cyrus. He’s a wonderful source of history. I’m really pleased that you spoke with him—and I think you’ll be sitting down with him again quite soon.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  Nancy leaned slightly forward in her chair, her hands folded on her desk. “This drought is like a living thing. It’s attacking the people here, and it’s draining the blood from them. It’s scaring them.”

  Julie didn’t quite know how to respond, so she sat quietly, her eyes locked with those of her managing editor.

  “You’ve done great work here, Julie. Your column has been working well. Your features and bit stories get read and talked about. The horse people, the cattlemen, the farmers, the businesspeople all trust you.”

  Julie could feel heat in her face. “That’s kind of you to say, Nancy. I love the people and I love Coldwater, and I guess maybe that shows in my writing.”

  Nancy leaned back a bit. “OK. You’re wondering now why the big ‘attagirl,’ right? Why’d Lewis drag me in here to tell me that I walk on water?”