“Sorry, no. The mayor and Mr. Matthews just wanted to have a little chat with me about the way I’m doing my job, that’s all.”
She gave him a sympathetic look, her kind, pretty face colored with concern. “I know; I heard them talking about it earlier.” She grimaced. “Mr. Matthews has one of those voices that carries.”
Liam chuckled in wry agreement. He’d been in enough meetings with Clive Matthews to know that he always talked louder than anyone else in the room, like a steamroller on steroids.
Lynette dropped her own voice and said quietly, “You should know that they’ve already set up interviews with possible candidates for your job.” Her glance skittered away from his and she looked at the floor. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff.”
He sighed. “Me too, Lynette. Me too.”
ELEVEN
BABA WALKED OVER to the door. Opened it, looked out, glared at the empty green meadow, then slammed it shut and stomped back over to throw herself down on the couch again. A litter of empty chocolate wrappers crinkled as she sat on them, and she disposed of them with an irritated snap of her fingers.
She’d been in a foul mood since waking up from a hideous nightmare, and waiting around for a client who was clearly not going to show hadn’t done anything to sweeten her temper. It didn’t help that it had been three days since she’d seen the stubborn yet appealing sheriff. Yes, she’d told him to leave her in peace, but for some reason, she found it incredibly annoying that he’d actually done so.
It had taken two hours to mix up that decoction for a local woman who’d pleaded for something to ease her nerves. If she didn’t show soon, Baba was going to drink it herself.
She’d spent the last few days treating the folks who lived nearby for everything from third-degree burns to warts. Apparently Bertie down at the diner had taken it upon herself to spread the word about Baba’s herbal remedies, and when Bertie spoke, people listened. Of course, even without Bertie, patients would have found their way to her; they always did. But for some reason, Baba had made a little more effort than usual to be helpful. Bizarrely (for her, anyway), she actually liked these people.
Except the woman who was currently standing her up. She was going on Baba’s list.
The antique silver pocket watch she pulled out of her black jeans said it was after two, and Bob the mechanical wizard had sent her a message yesterday to say the motorcycle would be ready by one. She clicked the cover shut decisively and shoved the timepiece back into her pocket—that was it; she was done waiting. Time to go get her baby back.
“I’m going out for a bit,” she said to Chudo-Yudo, who was sprawled on his back in a lemon-meringue splash of sunshine, looking more cat than dragon. “If that lady comes looking for her order, you have my permission to bark at her.” Bah. She hated when people didn’t do what they said they were going to do.
“Going to hunt down that yummy sheriff?” Chudo-Yudo asked slyly, cocking one eye open to check out her outfit. He seemed to find the jeans, embroidered crimson cotton peasant top, and clunky motorcycle boots acceptable, since it slid closed again a minute later. He yawned, showing off sharp white teeth. “I noticed he hasn’t been around lately. You scare him off already?”
Baba bared her own teeth at him, which didn’t make much of an impression since he couldn’t see it. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to get my damned bike back; I’m tired of driving around in the truck. It’s like being cooped up inside a big silver tank. I miss feeling the wind against my skin.”
Chudo-Yudo snorted, rolling over onto his belly and producing another bone out of nowhere to gnaw on enthusiastically. “You’d think you were some Otherworld creature, sensitive to the touch of cold iron, the way you talk.” He glanced around the Airstream. “Of course, you couldn’t very well live in this glammed-up tin can if you were, could you?”
She threw a pillow at him, which he incinerated in midair. The ashes drifted down like volcanic ash. You’d think she’d learn.
“Do not insult my hut, damn it,” she said, rummaging through the cupboards to find the stash of hundred-dollar bills she’d hidden someplace clever, long enough ago that she’d now forgotten where. She could magic up some more, of course, but she always worried that the money would crumble into nothingness in typical Otherworld fashion once she was gone, and she didn’t want to cheat the man who’d worked so hard to fix her precious motorcycle.