In Sheep's Clothing
Read In Sheep's Clothing Online
Authors: Rett MacPherson
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Contents
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To the members of the Alternate Historians: Tom Drennan, Laurell K. Hamilton, Debbie Millitello, Sharon Shinn, and Marella Sands. My buddies, my pals, and the best darn critique group west of the Mississippi.
The author wishes to acknowledge those who have helped her bring this book to publication.
First of all I would like to thank the folksâmostly familyâin Minnesota: Jean and Gary Erickson, Mike and Lavonne Sparks, Aaron and Rachel Remig, Hans and Sherry Sparks, Bobby Sparks, and Tara and Shawn Raftery. All of the Pecarinas: Dan, Mary Kaye, Alan, and Jenny; and the Edmans: Mary Lou, Nikki, and Betsy. Without you guys I wouldn't know anything about Minnesota, nor would I have anybody to visit! Thanks for sparking my interest and answering the endless questions; unfortunately a lot of what I've learned didn't even make it into this book.
Thank you to everybody at Writers House, Michele Rubin, and Merrilee Heifetz, and all of the people at St. Martin's Press who do a wonderful job on my books. In particular, my editor, Kelley Ragland and her assistant, Benjamin Sevier.
Thank you to my husband, Joe, for putting up with me and in general helping out when I'm “cramming” pages.
Big thank you to Sharon Shinn who keeps asking for more, and, in general, couldn't be more supportive.
And thanks to you readers who keep the series going.
“Really, Torie. Have you gained weight?”
I just stared at my stepfather, Sheriff Colin Brooke, hoping that his head would burst into flames. I was sandwiched in between him and my husband, Rudy, in the front seat of Rudy's truck, on our way to Minnesota for a fishing excursion and a visit to my most favorite aunt in the world. Colin twisted and turned on the passenger side of the truck, trying to scratch an itch on his back. Colin has always been a strapping man, and it seemed that he was getting bigger with every year. The audacity of him to suggest that I was the one who had gained weight!
“Let me tell you something, Colin.
You
now live with the greatest cook in the worldâwho happens to be my motherânot me. When was the last time
you
stepped on a scale?”
“Now, now, Torie,” Rudy said. Rudy was always the peacekeeper and the first to tell me when I was jumping to conclusions. Even though I know this about him, it didn't make it easier to listen to him now.
“Oh, don't you even start,” I said. “He just called me fat and you're going to take his side?”
“He did not call you fat, and I'm not taking his side,” Rudy said.
I folded my arms, made some disgruntled sound, and watched as silo number fifty-four went by. Iowa is not boring, contrary to popular belief. In fact, it's quite pretty. All of the rolling farmland stretching out into the distance is very soothing to the eye. At least for me, anyway. But I've always loved farmland and I've always loved the subtle rolling charm of the Midwest.
My aunt Sissy had called a few weeks ago to ask if I would come up for a visit. She had sounded a bit odd, but then Aunt Sissy always sounds odd. But this time there had been just a bit more urgency in her voice and a touch of ⦠worry. At any rate, Rudy hadn't been able to pass up the chance to spend a week in the land of ten thousand lakes. Actually, there are almost twelve thousand lakes, but I guess rounding it down to ten thousand was catchier for bumper stickers and license plates. Believe me, there is no other person on the planet, other than my dear aunt Sissy, for whom I would deliberately squeeze myself between the two biggest fishermen west of the Mississippi, nor was there another person for whom I would put myself in the line of fire of Sheriff Colin Woodrow Brooke for thirteen straight hours with no reprieve.
Fifteen minutes later Colin tried to scratch his itch again. “We should have gone through Wisconsin,” he said.
Most people who go to Minnesota from eastern Missouri would go through Illinois to Wisconsin to Minnesota, but it added extra miles and an extra hour to the trip. It's just that, well, there's an actual highway to take if you go through Wisconsin. I feel comfortable on two-lane roads, but most people prefer highways. And besides, every time I take the Wisconsin route I always get off on the wrong exit and end up in Chicago first.
“The Wisconsin route takes you way out of your way,” Rudy said.
“Yeah, but there's no place to stop and eat in this state,” Colin said, flailing his arms all about. “How can there be so much ⦠so much
nothing?
There's miles and miles of nothing.”
“There are plenty of places to eat,” I said. “If you only eat three meals in one day.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Colin asked.
“It means that you eat ten meals a day. I swear, if you were shorter, I'd think you were a hobbit,” I said.
“Okay, that's it,” Colin said. “Let me out.”
“Colin,” Rudy chastised.
“She just called me a hobbit!” he yelped. “I don't have to put up with this. Let me out.”
“You're going to walk to Minnesota?” I asked, laughing. To think, I could have called him something a lot worse than a hobbit.
“It beats the heck out of traveling with you!” he snapped.
Being trapped in the cab of a truck with Colin would be enough to do a lot of people in, except my mother, who loved him, and my husband, who could talk fishing lures and bait and tackle forever with this man. The fact that I couldn't get away from him seemed to make my fuse shorter and my tolerance nil.
“Well, nobody invited you,” I said. “You heard Rudy say he was going fishing in Minnesota and you just assumed that meant you were going.”
“You know, I always thought Rudy was a saint, but now I
know
he's a saint!”
“Oh, that is just so typical of a man,” I said and huffed. “Rudy, pull over and feed him so he'll stop barking.”
In response to that, Colin could do nothing but sputter and spew and look out the window with so much venom it was as if he were trying to melt the glass. I know he's the sheriff and all, but it was really difficult to take him seriously when he was wearing a pin on his fishing cap that read:
FISHERMEN DO IT IN THE RIVER
.
“Okay, stop it,” Rudy said to me. His beautiful brown eyes held no humor this time. He was genuinely annoyed. “You're behaving like our children. You'd ground the girls for fighting like this.”
“Yes, but heâ”
“What? He started it? Oh, come on, Torie. Come up with something more original than that.”
Colin cast his eyes to see me without turning his head. He was smug and happy that I had been properly chastised. And I didn't care what Rudy said, I still wanted Colin's head to burst into flames. I mean, you just don't ask a woman if she's gained weight and expect to live.
“I don't believe this,” I said.
“And as for you, Colin,” he said, “you're not on duty, so quit acting like you can just boss everybody around. And next time you're hungry, just say you're hungry so we can stop, rather than huffing and puffing and pouting and shifting and complaining about taking the Iowa route. Okay?”
“Whatever,” Colin said. Without missing a beat his eyes caught a glimpse of a sign and he nearly lurched out of his seat belt. “Oh, there's a Pizza Ranch at this exit!”
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
So, obviously, we stopped at the Pizza Ranch, which is like a Ponderosa buffet, only with pizza. Colin must have eaten two whole pizzas, but there was no way to tell since he could claim that two of the seven times he got up, he had actually gone to the rest room. No sense in arguing with the man. I knew how much pizza he had eaten. We were back on the road after what seemed like a two-hour meal, only to stop two more times for gas, once to get more food at a drive-thru, and five times so that I could get my french vanilla cappuccino refilled. I never drink coffee; in fact, I like my caffeine cold. But on a trip like this, the only thing that kept my eyelids from plastering shut was the real stuff.
The thirteen-hour trip to my aunt Sissy's house along the St. Croix river turned into a seventeen-hour trip due to the fact that we had to stop and feed the horse known as Colin Brooke. As a result we didn't get into my aunt's house until about four in the morning, when I had expected to be there by midnight. I could only hope that she wasn't up waiting for us, because I would feel incredibly guilty and then I'd have another reason to be mad at Colin.
When the lights from our truck flashed across a sign that read
MORGAN FARMS AND NURSERY
my heart gave a little skip. I was like a giddy schoolgirl, so excited to get to see one of my most favorite relatives. I was a little concerned, though. Aunt Sissy had called and left a message on our machine that said, “This is your aunt Sissy. I need some help. Come up for a week.” She hadn't even given me time to answer. The next morning she called and said, “You comin' or not? I'm an old lady and I don't have as much time as you.” That was Sissy Morgan for you. Gruff and brusque, to the point, and brutally honest. But I adore her nonetheless. Maybe it is just because she is so different from most of the people in my family.
But, still, I couldn't help but wonder why she needed my help. If it was feeding the horses or pulling weeds, not a problem. I'd be out there at the crack of dawn. Our conversation had held a clear underlying urgency, but not to the degree that I could question her about it. And that worried me.
Rudy pulled the truck onto a gravel road that had deep ravines cut in it. Off to the left was a two-story Victorian home, surrounded by outbuildings, fencing, animals, greenhouses, and fields on top of fields of growing things. The front porch light was lit and a small lamp glowed in the front living room.
“That's it!” I exclaimed. “That's her house.”
Five minutes later we were standing on the front porch with our suitcases, smelling the country air and feeling the nip of spring on our cheeks. May in Minnesota is a bit cooler and wetter than May in Missouri. There was a note on the door that read: “Obviously, you're late. If you're not up by six, you miss breakfast. Aunt S.”
“Gee, what a warm welcome,” Colin said.
“Listen here,” I said. “You say one thing bad about my aunt Sissy and I
will
torture you.”
Colin looked taken aback and then started to laugh.
“No, you don't understand,” Rudy said. “She's serious.”
“Oh.”
“Come on,” I said. “I know which ones are the guest rooms.”