hand-scripted CLOSED HAPPY TRAILS sign, pushed open the door, and walked onto swaled and cupped pine flooring with no board less than a foot wide. The ceilings were high, at least twenty feet, tiled with pressed tin. Black fans with wooden propellers spun idly and track lighting spotted us as we entered the establishment.
Rows of bookshelves staggered against the wall to my right, sagging with the weight of antiquarian tomes and thumbed paperbacks that appeared to be organized in no particular order. There was a counter to my right with an old cash register and a few glass cases that held groceries—bread, canned goods, boxes of cereal, and stick candy that I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. There was a long counter at a forty-five-degree angle with a few rifles on stands, some pistols in a case, and above that the better part of a wall full of ammunition. Myriad taxidermy heads were on the wall, some from far-flung reaches like Africa and South America; they would’ve made my big-game hunter friend Omar Rhoades proud.
My eyes focused on a massive water buffalo whose head was slightly turned and who looked out into the street as if he might pull the rest of himself from the wall and make a break for it.
“Sheriff?”
I turned to see a woman coming down from a mezzanine at the back of the main room. She was in her sixties and holding in her hands what appeared to be a Crock-Pot, using a set of dish towels as oven mitts as she came. Handsome with a good spread to her shoulders, light brown hair streaked with gray, and, partially hidden behind a pair of cat’s-eye glasses, direct, blue eyes—almost cobalt. She glanced at my deputy, who had stalled out by the case of books to the right, and then at me.
“Expected you earlier.”
I tipped my hat. “We got here as quick as we could.” With a curt nod, she walked past me around the center counter, where she used a hip to try and slide open a large, iron-trimmed door. “Can I help you with that?”
Without waiting, I gripped the steel handle and pulled the door open, revealing a short hallway between the Merc and the bar next door.
Her voice echoed after her as she walked through. “Come along, and I’ll buy you a beer.”
Seeing no reason to loiter, I glanced at Vic, who shelved her book and followed with an eyebrow arched, as usual, like a cat’s back.
The doorway from the Merc opened up to the left of the bar, and it appeared as if I was going to get my Rainier. I ducked under a large rattlesnake skin tacked to a board and continued around the coolers on one end of a bar made from old barn siding. The surface had been sealed with polyurethane, entombing what looked to be close to fifty more snake skins. “Lot of rattlers around this place?”
She set the Crock-Pot onto the flat surface, reached into the cooler, and placed two ice-cold, longneck bottles of Rainier beer in front of us. “Not anymore.”
I glanced at the labels. “You know my flavor.”
“Everybody in this county knows your flavor, Walt Longmire.” She stuck a hand across the bar and winked. “Eleanor Tisdale. I used to be on the library board with your wife. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” I shook her hand and nudged one of the wooden stools out with my boot for my undersheriff. “My deputy, Victoria Moretti.” They shook, and I asked, “You own both places?”
She nodded and adjusted her glasses that trailed a set of pearls around the back of her neck. “Run the library, too, but people also borrow books from the Mercantile.” She was classic Wyoming, that indiscriminate age between thirty and a hundred where the women find a comfort for themselves and just settle in. “I keep the door closed to discourage drunken shopping.” She reached up with hands that had seen hard labor and effortlessly twisted the caps off, sliding the pair of Rainiers further our way. “You found my daughter?”
Vic sat beside me, and I turned my eyes to the bartender.
Rows of bookshelves staggered against the wall to my right, sagging with the weight of antiquarian tomes and thumbed paperbacks that appeared to be organized in no particular order. There was a counter to my right with an old cash register and a few glass cases that held groceries—bread, canned goods, boxes of cereal, and stick candy that I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. There was a long counter at a forty-five-degree angle with a few rifles on stands, some pistols in a case, and above that the better part of a wall full of ammunition. Myriad taxidermy heads were on the wall, some from far-flung reaches like Africa and South America; they would’ve made my big-game hunter friend Omar Rhoades proud.
My eyes focused on a massive water buffalo whose head was slightly turned and who looked out into the street as if he might pull the rest of himself from the wall and make a break for it.
“Sheriff?”
I turned to see a woman coming down from a mezzanine at the back of the main room. She was in her sixties and holding in her hands what appeared to be a Crock-Pot, using a set of dish towels as oven mitts as she came. Handsome with a good spread to her shoulders, light brown hair streaked with gray, and, partially hidden behind a pair of cat’s-eye glasses, direct, blue eyes—almost cobalt. She glanced at my deputy, who had stalled out by the case of books to the right, and then at me.
“Expected you earlier.”
I tipped my hat. “We got here as quick as we could.” With a curt nod, she walked past me around the center counter, where she used a hip to try and slide open a large, iron-trimmed door. “Can I help you with that?”
Without waiting, I gripped the steel handle and pulled the door open, revealing a short hallway between the Merc and the bar next door.
Her voice echoed after her as she walked through. “Come along, and I’ll buy you a beer.”
Seeing no reason to loiter, I glanced at Vic, who shelved her book and followed with an eyebrow arched, as usual, like a cat’s back.
The doorway from the Merc opened up to the left of the bar, and it appeared as if I was going to get my Rainier. I ducked under a large rattlesnake skin tacked to a board and continued around the coolers on one end of a bar made from old barn siding. The surface had been sealed with polyurethane, entombing what looked to be close to fifty more snake skins. “Lot of rattlers around this place?”
She set the Crock-Pot onto the flat surface, reached into the cooler, and placed two ice-cold, longneck bottles of Rainier beer in front of us. “Not anymore.”
I glanced at the labels. “You know my flavor.”
“Everybody in this county knows your flavor, Walt Longmire.” She stuck a hand across the bar and winked. “Eleanor Tisdale. I used to be on the library board with your wife. Sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” I shook her hand and nudged one of the wooden stools out with my boot for my undersheriff. “My deputy, Victoria Moretti.” They shook, and I asked, “You own both places?”
She nodded and adjusted her glasses that trailed a set of pearls around the back of her neck. “Run the library, too, but people also borrow books from the Mercantile.” She was classic Wyoming, that indiscriminate age between thirty and a hundred where the women find a comfort for themselves and just settle in. “I keep the door closed to discourage drunken shopping.” She reached up with hands that had seen hard labor and effortlessly twisted the caps off, sliding the pair of Rainiers further our way. “You found my daughter?”
Vic sat beside me, and I turned my eyes to the bartender.
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