The Walt Longmire Mystery Series Boxed Set Volumes 1-4 by Craig Johnson Page A

sleep?” It was fun saying it to someone else. Silence.
    “He had a cheeseburger with jalapeño peppers.”
    “I’ll go by the Busy Bee and talk to Dorothy. Anything else?” Silence.
    “Go talk to Omar. He’s a crazy motherfucker, but he knows his shit.” Silence. “So, do you miss me?”
    I laughed. When I hung up the phone, Vonnie was holding a plate where a steaming stack of pancakes lay waiting. “I figured this was the only way you were going to get to eat.” She relaxed and leaned her back against the wall. With the apron on and her hair up she looked like an Amish centerfold. “You have a lot of women in your life.”
    “You think that’s a good thing or a bad thing?” I said between bites.
    She peered over her coffee cup. Her eyes were enormous. “Depends on the women.” I nodded and chewed. “It’s just got to be difficult. I don’t know how you do it.”
    “Well, it’s not my usual routine, running ten miles at dawn, three hundred sit-ups . . .” She let go with this snorty laugh and apologized, holding her hand to her face.
    “How are your pancakes?”
    I took a breath. “They’re great, thank you.”
    “I heard you used to make animal shapes with pancakes.” She smiled mischievously.
    “You’ve been talking to one of the women in my life.”
    “I have, it’s true. I learned all kinds of little secrets about you when she was working for me.”
    I nodded, thought about little secrets, and took my last bite. “The deal was this, if she went to church on Sunday mornings with her mother, she didn’t have to eat her heathen father’s breakfast. It’s a wonder she didn’t turn into a devout Methodist.”
    “That’s not what she told me. She said she liked having you all to herself.”
    “And now she does.” It was out before I knew I had said it. I had gotten so used to joking about Martha’s death, but here it just seemed wrong. “Sorry.”
    “Do you ever get lonely, Walter?”
    “Oh, sure.” I tried to think of something else to say, but nothing seemed honest enough. All I could think of was how soft and inviting she looked. I had this unfocused image of her, my bed back at the ranch, and all my worldly needs being gratified at once. This didn’t seem appropriate either.
    “Maybe we should get together sometime.”
    Maybe it was appropriate. “Why, Ms. Hayes, are you making a pass at me?” I emphasized the Ms.
    Her eyes sparked. “Maybe, Mr. Longmire, though I must admit your indifference and the gauntlet of women I may have to face seem daunting.”
    “Well, they’re a pretty tough bunch, so I can understand.”
    “The term a pride comes to mind.” She took a sip of coffee. “Maybe we should start with lunch?”
* * *
    It was a short drive back to the office where I parked behind the jukebox Turk called his car. It was some kind of Trans Am, at least that’s what it said all over it. That wasn’t all it said, since it looked as if every available surface was covered with some sort of sticker. It had stickers on the bumper to proclaim every ill-considered political opinion that had ever crossed Turk’s apolitical mind. Advice on the ex-president, his family, gun control, ProRodeo, state nativism, and honking if you were horny. On the back window, it had little cartoon characters peeing on each other and on the emblems of other vehicles. It seemed to me that there wasn’t anyone that could look at this car and not be offended. It was a lot like Turk.
    When I pushed open the door, no one was in the reception area. I stood there with the doorknob in my hand and listened. There was a shuffling noise in my office, and I heard one of my file cabinets shut. A moment later he turned through the doorway in full saunter. His eyes stayed steady as I shut the door behind me.
    “Man, it’s about time. I been sittin’ around here for hours.” I wasn’t sure if he considered being offensive to be the best defense or if it was just his natural state. “Running Horse