Juliet's Law Read Free

fake, as if someone sprinkled it out of some big box overhead, clumps falling out every so often to land with a puffy splash on the hood. She tugged her sleeves down over her hands and went to stand by the truck.
    As if marauders might be coming to fling open the door and steal the little girl away.
    Now that the drama had died down, the air was utterly, completely still. It almost held a sense of tension, as if the air were waiting for something. A gunshot? A cry?
    No, none of those. Using a trick one of her therapists taught her, she pushed the dark thoughts away and willfully reached for good ones. The silence was waiting for what good thing? Laughter. Happiness. A bluebird.
    She snorted to herself. Yeah, right. A little bluebird of happiness right here in the falling snow.
    The man came out of the house, and she thought again what a sharp, strong face he had. A ripple of nervousness—or maybe attraction?—moved through her. His hair, straight and thick, was so black it sucked light into it. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Josh Mad Calf.”
    â€œMetcalf?”
    He grinned. His eyes crinkled gorgeously at the corners, sending a fan of sun lines into his dark cheeks. “Mad Calf,” he repeated, enunciating carefully.
    â€œThanks for saving the day.”
    â€œAll in a day’s work, ma’am,” he said, and winked. “I’m just going to get my daughter from the truck. Why don’t you go in and keep your sister company?”
    â€œRight. Yes. Good idea.”
    Â 
    In the kitchen, Juliet put the kettle on the tiny, two-burner stove and turned on the fire beneath it, bemused by the bright blue flame that burst to life with a little pop. She had an electric stove at home. Gas seemed old-fashioned, though her friend the chef swore it was the only possible heating element for a serious cook.
    Not that Desi—or Juliet for that matter—would ever qualify. Both had been too busy to learn to cook, really. And it wasn’t as if their mother was the sort to have taught them. If Carol Rousseau had ever in her lifecooked anything more complicated than a cup of tea, Juliet would be very surprised.
    With the water on to boil, Juliet looked around to see what had changed since her last visit. The cabin was small, only two rooms; the kitchen/living area, and the sleeping area, with a bed and a futon and desk, plus the postage-stamp-sized bathroom. There was a very small generator for electricity, and the stove ran on propane. Two potbellied stoves, one in each room, provided heat.
    Primitive, but not as primitive as it had been. At least there was a toilet and a tub now—things that had been missing the first couple of times Juliet had come to visit. Desi and Claude had built the cabin themselves, a little at a time, and the plan—at least until the marriage had started falling apart—had been to add a room every year.
    Juliet found visiting fun for a week or two, but it got old to have to be so careful with everything she used so casually in the city, things a person took for granted. Water, electricity, heat. Desi didn’t take long hot baths, as Juliet did in her old Hollywood condo, or leave the water running when she brushed her teeth, or play the television for company. Desi didn’t actually own a television—she said they used too much power, and without a dish, there wasn’t much reception anyway.
    Despite the rustic aspect, the cabin was quite charming, with thick, western-themed blankets on the bed and futon, and a potbellied stove burning wood to warm the room. The windows framed views that were breathtaking on a clear day, and even now, the snow falling on long-needled ponderosa pines looked sereneand inviting. As if to complete the picture, a huge dog with a thick, silvery coat wandered in through a dog door in the back, and came over to sniff Juliet’s knee.
    â€œHey, Tecumseh,” Juliet said, and bent down to rub his thick