Scumble by Ingrid Law Page B

there’s nothing here for you to be concerned about.” Her smile grew wider. “You can forget about the barn now.”
    â€œYes, yes . . .” Brown’s speech grew muddled. “Nothing here to worry about, nothing at all. I just came looking for a lost girl.” Forgetting about the fallen barn as Mom instructed, the sheriff turned back to my uncle. “Cabot’s girl has run off again, Autry. I’m sure she’ll turn up when she’s done chasing stories. But I’ve been making the rounds, in case anyone’s seen her.”
    â€œSarah Jane?” A deep frown creased Autry’s brow. “Sorry, Jonas. I haven’t seen her. How long has she been gone?”
    Brown snorted his reply. “Just since this morning, but you know Noble Cabot. He’s got me out combing the hills. Sarah Jane slipped past the housekeeper before breakfast.”
    â€œWhat makes you think she might have come this way?”
    Brown scratched head. “Willie said she was in his shop earlier today making copies of those tomfool papers of hers.” He smiled. “That one about Bigfoot staying at the bed-and-breakfast really had me going—I almost dropped by to take a look. That girl writes whoppers and steel traps where other folks write words and sentences.” Finding himself chuckling, Brown stopped and straightened his belt.
    â€œApparently, Sarah Jane took off at the same time as a couple of other kids who were in his shop today: a young girl wearing a football helmet and an older boy—brother and sister maybe. Willie said the girl mentioned your ranch and the wedding here tonight. So I thought I’d give it a shot.
    â€œI was also hoping the kids might’ve seen what happened here,” he added, pointing his flashlight toward the large hole in his vehicle. “My truck got busted up about the same time the kids were in Willie’s shop—my truck and one of Gus Neary’s motorcycles, which fared a heap worse. The entire thing’s in pieces. Looks like someone took the whole bike apart quicker than grass through a goose.”
    I held my breath as everyone but the sheriff looked from the truck . . . to the barn . . . to me.
    Sheriff Brown, and maybe seven-year-old Tucker Beaumont, who stood picking his nose by his poppa, were the only ones who didn’t understand immediately that I was responsible for the destruction. All the destruction. Both here and in town.
    Autry raised his eyebrows. Dad cleared his throat and pulled me behind him quickly. Mom, Mibs, and Aunt Jenny all moved to block the sheriff’s view of Fedora where she knelt, picking up scattered jar lids the same way she’d scrabbled for her fallen change inside the five-and-dime. Having removed her helmet, she now filled it with as many loose lids as she could, like it was the pot of gold at the end of the disaster.
    The sheriff didn’t notice. He had other concerns.
    â€œI thought Willie was going to have a stroke worrying that he’ll be sent to the top of Cabot’s list just for letting Sarah Jane step foot inside his store,” Brown went on. “Like everyone else in these parts, Willie owes Cabot his pound of flesh—and more than a few mortgage payments. Listen, Autry . . .” The sheriff stepped closer to my uncle, lowering his voice. “The last thing you need right now is Noble Cabot thinking Sarah Jane’s been hanging round up here. It doesn’t take much for any of us to become a spindle in Cabot’s fire, and there’s enough trouble between you and him already.”
    â€œNothing I can’t handle, Jonas.” Autry brushed aside the sheriff’s warning, but his hands clenched into fists. Marisol and Mesquite moved forward to stand closer to their dad.
    â€œLook, Autry,” the sheriff continued, “every time that girl takes off, old Noble gets cranky. And a cranky Noble Cabot is bad for Sundance. A cranky Cabot