Page 15 of Montana Justice

Despite the inauspicious start that first day, my first year as sheriff had been everything I’d hoped for and more. Sure, there’d been some genuine excitement—mostly when we’d worked with Beckett and the Warrior Security team on cases that spilled over from their work at the Resting Warrior Ranch. A kidnapping attempt on one of the veterans that had us all on edge for weeks. Some corporate espionage involving a pharmaceutical company that had turned dangerous fast. Those cases reminded me that even in small towns, real threats existed.

But for the most part, it had been exactly what I’d signed up for: a chance to lead and care for the people in a town I loved. The rhythm of it suited me—the mix of genuine police work and community problem-solving that came with being the sheriff of a place where everyone knew everyone else.

The day-to-day reality was a blend of serious calls and the kind of small-town disputes that would seem ridiculous to big-city cops but mattered deeply to the people involved. Just last week, I’d spent forty-five minutes mediating a heated argument between Mrs. Patterson and Mr. Garfield over whether his prize-winning roses were technically growing onto her property. The quarrel required a measuring tape, the original property survey, and two cups of Mrs. Patterson’s famous sweet tea to prove that, no, three inches of rosebush overhang did not constitutetrespassing.

The week before that, I’d been called to settle a dispute between the Methodist church and the Baptist church over whose turn it was to use the community center for their annual fall festival. Turned out both congregations had booked the same weekend six months ago, and neither was willing to budge. Took some creative scheduling and a promise from me to work security for both events to sort that one out.

“Sheriff Calloway!”

I turned to see Harold Powis hobbling toward me on his cane, his weathered face set in lines of righteous indignation. Harold was eighty-three, a retired railroad worker who’d lived in Garnet Bend his entire life and had strong opinions about everything from the town council’s landscaping choices to the best types of whiskey.

“Morning, Harold. What’s got you all worked up today?”

“I’ll tell you what’s got me worked up. That damn Allen boy keeps parking his motorcycle in front of my driveway! Third time this week I’ve had to hobble out there and ask him to move it so I can get my car out.”

The Allen “boy” was Todd Allen, who was twenty-six years old and worked at Murphy’s Hardware. But Harold had been calling him “boy” since Todd was twelve and had crashed his bicycle into Harold’s prized garden gnome.

Some habits died hard in small towns.

“Have you talked to Todd about it directly?”

“’Course I talked to him! Kid just grins at me like I’m some doddering old fool and says sure, he’ll move it, no problem. Then the next damn day, there it is again! Right in front of my driveway like he owns the place.”

I pulled out my small notebook and jotted down a reminder. Todd was a good kid—man—but he had a tendency to be forgetful when it came to things that didn’t directly affect him. “I’ll stop by the hardware store and have a word with him. Maybe suggest he park in the employee lot behind the store instead of on the street.”

Harold’s expression softened immediately, the anger melting away. “Appreciate it, Sheriff. Also, while I’ve got you?—”

The radio clipped to my shoulder crackled to life, saving me. “Sheriff Calloway, this is dispatch.”

I pointed to it. “I need to take this, Harold. We’ll talk soon.”

The older man shuffled away, his cane tapping against the sidewalk.

I pressed the button on my radio. “Go ahead, Jenny.”

“Got a call from Garnet Bend Grocery. They need you down there for a shoplifting situation.”

“Copy that. On my way.”

I changed direction, heading toward the grocery store three blocks over. Shoplifting wasn’t uncommon—tourists sometimes got sticky fingers with local crafts or souvenirs, teenagers occasionally tried to pocket candy or energy drinks when they thought no one was looking. Usually Dave Bellomy, the store manager, handled minor theft himself with a stern talking-to and a phone call to parents for underage offenders. For him to actually call in law enforcement meant either the theft was significant or there were other complications.

The automatic glass doors of Garnet Bend Grocery slid open with their familiar whoosh, releasing a burst of air conditioning that carried the scents of fresh bread and floor cleaner. I spotted Dave immediately—he was pacing behind the customer service counter, running his hands through his graying hair in the agitated way that told me this wasn’t a routine shoplifting case.

Dave Bellomy had given me my first real job when I was sixteen—bagging groceries and pushing shopping carts in the summer heat, teaching me the value of honest work and treating customers with respect regardless of how much money they spent. He was a good man, fair but firm, the kind of employer who remembered your birthday and asked about your family when you came through his checkout line. In all the years I’d known him, dating back to when I was a punk teenager more interested in girls than work ethic, I’d rarely seen him this genuinely agitated.

“Dave? What’s going on?”

He looked up, and relief flooded his weathered features. “Lachlan, come on back to my office. I need to talk to you.”

I followed him back. Evidently, whatever was said, he didn’t want to be fodder for small-town gossip. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“We’ve got someone in the break room. Caught shoplifting about twenty minutes ago.” Dave glanced around, lowering his voice even though we were in his office. “Thing is, it was baby formula. The hypoallergenic kind for babies with allergies and stuff. It was a small can, but it isn’t cheap.”

My eyebrows rose. Dave’s level of distress seemed disproportionate to the crime.

“What else did they take?”

“That’s just it—nothing else. She paid for everything else she had. Bread, peanut butter, some crackers. Had the money right there in her hand, counted it out proper-like. But when she was heading for the door, trying to juggle all her bags, the formula can fell right out of her coat pocket and hit the floor.”

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