A reflection loomed behind him in the long mirror behind the bar: An asymmetrical suggestion of cowboy hat, mustache, badge next to belt buckle…
“Well, well. You’re a stranger in a strange land.” The pleasant baritone was vaguely familiar.
Nolan glanced up out of his thoughts. Drawled in his best central casting cowboy accent, “Why, howdy, Sheriff.”
“Howdy, Mr. Chess.” Sheriff Henderson exaggerated his own naturally prolonged vowels.
Nolan grinned and sipped his drink. This was a welcome interruption. Not least because Sheriff Henderson was a very attractive guy.
Henderson, tall and rangy and, yes, very attractive, took the bar stool next to him. He smelled pleasantly of some classic aftershave—any aftershave was a surprise in retrosexual Montana—asking in his normal voice, “So what brings you to Bozeman?”
“The Western Art and Antique Firearms auction.”
“Buy anything?” Henderson’s eyes were the shade of brown that made you think of baseball gloves and coffee beans and smoky quartz. Good stuff. Solid stuff.
“I did, yeah. I picked up an Ace Powell oil on canvas and a small lithograph by Till Goodan.”
Henderson nodded, though understandably none of that meant anything to him. Their gazes met briefly in the mirror along the back of the bar.
Nolan asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”
Henderson said to the blonde bartender, “Bighorn bourbon. No ice.” To Nolan he said, “Thanks. I just spent a very long afternoon at the county attorney’s office dealing with a sovereign citizen who’s decided my department owes him eleven million dollars for daring to cite him for driving with a suspended license.”
Nolan murmured a commiserating, “Jesus.”
Henderson was probably in his early forties. A little older than Nolan. His hands were—well, the main thing was he did not wear a wedding ring—but his fingernails were neatly clipped and filed. His mustache was precisely trimmed. His cowboy boots were worn but polished. A man who paid attention to details. And/or cared about appearances.
The bartender set Henderson’s drink on the polished mahogany top. Henderson picked up his glass. “Happy trails.”
Nolan knew irony when he heard it. He made a sound of amusement, clicked his glass against Henderson’s.
Henderson sipped, savored, said, “How’s the gallery doing?”
“It’s coming along.”
“You got it up and running in four months. That’s something.”
Henderson didn’t know the half of it. Nolan said a little wryly, “I didn’t have any choice there. I couldn’t afford to stay closed. I’m still sorting through the inventory, trying to make sense of Perkins’ record keeping.”
“Isn’t Rona Boyd the gallery’s bookkeeper?”
“She was. In theory.”
Henderson’s brows rose in inquiry. “You have problems with Rona?”
“Rona? No.”
“But?”
“The gallery records are a mess.”
“I’m surprised. Wouldn’t all that paperwork have to be in order before the business sold?”
“In theory, yeah.” Nolan had already shared more than he’d intended. Which was what came of months of not having anyone to talk to, let alone confide in. He added easily, “From what I understand the old guy was not in great health for some time, so no wonder if some shipping invoices are tucked in the wrong files.”
“There were rumors.” Henderson’s tone was thoughtful.
“There always are.” Nolan finished his drink. “Perkins was of the generation of art dealers who operated on handshakes, verbal promises, and contracts scribbled on cocktail napkins.”
The bar was starting to get crowded and noisier as people arrived for happy hour.
Henderson glanced at Nolan’s glass. “Another?”
Nolan said to the bartender, “Johnny Walker Black Cask.”
“That’s on my tab,” Henderson told her.
The bartender winked at him.
As she set his drink on the bar, Nolan drawled again, “Thank you kindly, Sheriff.”
Henderson shook his head. “It’s Wylie.”
“Nolan.”
Wylie clicked his glass against Nolan’s. “Nice to meet you, Nolan.”
They’d already met at the gallery opening, but this felt like an actual introduction, this felt real. Nolan said, “Wylie. That’s a great name for a sheriff.”
“I guess so. It was my grandfather’s name and my father’s name.”
“You gotta love tradition.”
“We do love our traditions,” Wylie agreed. “But Montanans are also known for their independent spirit.”
Was there a state in the union that didn’t pride itself on its independent spirit? But Nolan kept that thought to himself.
Wylie asked, “You’re from New York, right?”
“Most recently. I grew up in Connecticut.”
“You’re a long way from home. What attracted you to Montana?”
Nolan winked. “Cowboys.”
Wylie laughed. “That so?”
“Sure.”
Wylie nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a pretty conservative state.”
“I’m a pretty conservative guy.”
There was a sparkle of a humor in Wylie’s brown eyes. “Reserved, for sure. There are folks in Alder Creek who’d say you were a man of mystery.”
Nolan’s lip curled. “That’s people for you. So tell me about yourself, Wylie. Did you always want to be a cop? Never considered being a robber?”
“Fifth generation Montanan. Fourth generation lawman.”
Nolan raised his brows. That was a long line of serve and protect. “Aside from chasing outlaws, what do you do for fun?”
“Hunt. Fish. Ride.” Wylie had a grin like a friendly tiger. “Attend gallery openings.”
“I noticed. I thought that was civic minded of you.” Which was true. Henderson had sparked his interest. Not so much because the sheriff was clearly a man who kept close watch on what was happening in his little corner of the wild west, but because Henderson was one hell of a handsome cowpoke, permanent sunburn and all.
Anyway, that afternoon there had not been time for much more than introductions and good wishes.
“I wasn’t on the clock,” Wylie said. “I like art. I like some of the art in your gallery.”
Nolan asked curiously, “What did you like?”
“You had some nice landscapes. A couple of watercolors of Alder Bend, where the river turns beneath the mountains. And one of the North Bluff view, looking down over the old brick town toward the valley.”
“Those are by a local artist. Newton Crowley. What didn’t you like?”
Wylie grimaced. “I’m not a big fan of modern art. Sorry.”
Nolan sipped his drink. “Don’t be sorry. What do you consider modern art?”
“Is this about to turn into a pop quiz?” Wylie’s tone grew wry.
Nolan said honestly, “Not at all. I’m interested in what you think.” He was always interested in what people thought, which was one of the things that had made him good at his job. His former job.
“I didn’t care for those big messy blotches that take up half a wall. I like a picture to be a picture. I like to see what the artist saw.”
Nolan opened his mouth, and Wylie amended, “I mean, I want to know what the artist saw and then try to figure out what it meant to them.”
Nolan nodded thoughtfully. It was a valid viewpoint for sure. Especially when people were choosing art for their own spaces.
“I think modern art is too much about the artist,” Wylie said. “I don’t want to think about the artist. I want to feel something when I look at the art. To me, this modern stuff feels hollow.”
“Some of it is, sure. But there’s great work too. Almost a century’s worth.”
“You’d know better than me.”
“I can’t say I personally love every piece in the gallery. Perkins had his own taste.” Some of which had been alarming. Nearly as alarming as his record keeping.
Wylie studied Nolan. “What do you think about crypto art or whatever they call it? Are you going to sell any of that stuff?” He seemed genuinely interested.
“NFTs?” Nolan shook his head, joked, “That’s so 2022.”
