Small Town
Word gets around in a small town. Interesting words get around a whole lot faster. Some seem to travel at the speed of light. This would be how Laine Anderson got word, right in the middle of Albertson’s grocery store, that she had been proposed to by Anraí McEibhir not because he loved her but because the sneaky foreigner was after her considerably valuable chunk of land. News to her, of course, and her shocked expression said as much.
It only took her a moment to recover, smile politely and inquire as to where Mrs. Martin had come across such news. Well, see…Mrs. Martin heard it from Mrs. Campbell over at the deli counter after she saw Laine come into the store. She’d been told by her brother’s wife, Michelle, down at the yardage store two days ago. Michelle heard it from Paula at the hair salon on Tuesday and Paula had heard in Monday night while working her shift down at Hoopty’s bar.
Jackson Anderson had been talking to Alan Morgan, one of the hands at Flint Creek, over a couple of cold ones and Paula had the pleasure of waiting on the men. They tip well, don’t you know. Jack had asked a lot of questions about the Irishman who never quite seemed to leave the ranch. Sure, there had been a few weeks where he'd been absent after Colt had been arrested-nasty busy that. So sad. But MacEibhir would show up out of the blue just to see Laine. Maybe he was there for the evening. Maybe he brought her flowers. What sort of man would travel all the way from New Mexico to bring a divorcée flowers?
Jack had theories about that. Sneaky men who looked to take advantage of trusting women. Women who might be grieving. Women who had money and property and not the good sense to handle it well. Lonely women past their prime easily swayed by a pretty face. Women like Laine Anderson. MacEibhir, with his nice face, fancy accent and clever charm, skulking around Flint Creek as he sussed out just how much the ranch was worth and now…now he was going to move his horse breeding operation to Montana. Convinced Laine to give up her brother’s cattle ranching business, the one they all tried for years to tell her a woman wasn’t cut out to run.
Mrs. Martin cheerfully related all of this to Laine, as if she’d forgotten whom she was gossiping to as she relished each scandalous word. Laine kindly thanked her for the information and left her standing in the middle of the aisle, her own shopping cart left behind as she left the store in a bit of a haze. Sally, the girl at the checkout counter, wondered how long it would take for word to get out that Laine Anderson had murdered her ex-husband. The woman looked mad as hell as she pulled out of the parking lot in a dark green Jeep.
Then Sally called over to Marsha at the deli counter who leaned over and asked Paul, the butcher, if Anraí MacEibhir drove a green Jeep.
Laine Anderson//Flint Creek//524
It only took her a moment to recover, smile politely and inquire as to where Mrs. Martin had come across such news. Well, see…Mrs. Martin heard it from Mrs. Campbell over at the deli counter after she saw Laine come into the store. She’d been told by her brother’s wife, Michelle, down at the yardage store two days ago. Michelle heard it from Paula at the hair salon on Tuesday and Paula had heard in Monday night while working her shift down at Hoopty’s bar.
Jackson Anderson had been talking to Alan Morgan, one of the hands at Flint Creek, over a couple of cold ones and Paula had the pleasure of waiting on the men. They tip well, don’t you know. Jack had asked a lot of questions about the Irishman who never quite seemed to leave the ranch. Sure, there had been a few weeks where he'd been absent after Colt had been arrested-nasty busy that. So sad. But MacEibhir would show up out of the blue just to see Laine. Maybe he was there for the evening. Maybe he brought her flowers. What sort of man would travel all the way from New Mexico to bring a divorcée flowers?
Jack had theories about that. Sneaky men who looked to take advantage of trusting women. Women who might be grieving. Women who had money and property and not the good sense to handle it well. Lonely women past their prime easily swayed by a pretty face. Women like Laine Anderson. MacEibhir, with his nice face, fancy accent and clever charm, skulking around Flint Creek as he sussed out just how much the ranch was worth and now…now he was going to move his horse breeding operation to Montana. Convinced Laine to give up her brother’s cattle ranching business, the one they all tried for years to tell her a woman wasn’t cut out to run.
Mrs. Martin cheerfully related all of this to Laine, as if she’d forgotten whom she was gossiping to as she relished each scandalous word. Laine kindly thanked her for the information and left her standing in the middle of the aisle, her own shopping cart left behind as she left the store in a bit of a haze. Sally, the girl at the checkout counter, wondered how long it would take for word to get out that Laine Anderson had murdered her ex-husband. The woman looked mad as hell as she pulled out of the parking lot in a dark green Jeep.
Then Sally called over to Marsha at the deli counter who leaned over and asked Paul, the butcher, if Anraí MacEibhir drove a green Jeep.
Laine Anderson//Flint Creek//524