Even as the thought registered, someone coughed. It broke the hush like the snap of a twig in a silent forest. The room suddenly swelled again with noise, a relieved blast of sound as things returned to normal. Joey shook her head and stared as the new arrival moved across to the single pay phone in the alcove near the entryway, turning his back to the room. She could just make out the man’s height, a certain lean grace in his movements, a head of darkish hair; but nothing about him indicated a reason for the peculiar reaction his entrance had provoked. The stranger picked up the receiver and began dialing, seemingly as oblivious to her scrutiny as to what had just occurred. She turned back to Maggie and met the woman’s distracted gaze.
“What was that all about?” she asked. Maggie was slow to answer, but the moment of gravity was shortlived, and the barkeep smiled again and shook her head.
“Sorry about that. Must have seemed pretty strange, I guess. But he tends to have that effect on people around here.”
Joey leaned forward on her elbow, avoiding a wet puddle on the counter. “Who’s ‘he’?” she demanded, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
Setting down the mug she’d been polishing, Maggie assumed an indifference Joey was certain she didn’t feel. “His name is Luke Gévaudan. He lives some way out of town—up the slope of the valley. Owns a pretty big tract of land to the east.”
Joey slewed the stool around to better watch the man, chin cupped in her hand. “I know you’ve said people here don’t much care for outsiders,” she remarked, “but you have to admit that was a pretty extreme reaction.” She strained to hear the man’s voice over the din but could make nothing out. He kept his back turned to her. “Gévaudan, you said. Isn’t that a French name?”
“French-Canadian,” Maggie corrected. “There are a few people living farther out on the slopes and in some of the more isolated valleys. Sometimes they’ll come into town, though not so much over the past few years.”
“So he’s one of these… French-Canadians? Is that why the people here don’t like him?” She studied Maggie over her shoulder.
“It’s not like that,” Maggie sighed. “It’s hard to explain to someone from outside—I mean, he’s strange. People don’t trust him, that’s all. And as a rule he doesn’t make much of an attempt to change that. He keeps to himself.”
Unexpectedly intrigued, Joey divided her attention between the object of her curiosity and the redhead. “Don’t kid me, Maggie. He may be strange and he may be standoffish, but you can’t tell me that wasn’t more than just mild distrust a minute ago.”
She pulled absently on her braid where it fell over her shoulder, examining what little she could see of Gévaudan. There was nothing particularly unusual about his appearance that she could see from here. He was tall and big and dressed in jeans and a green plaid shirt, like any number of the other men in town. She couldn’t get a clear look at his face.
Maggie leaned against the bar and sagged there as if in defeat. “I said it’s complicated. I didn’t grow up here, so I don’t know the whole story, but there are things about the guy that bother people. I hear he was a strange kid. And there’s the matter of his lands—he owns a lot of prime timber up there that would make work for local folks. So I’ve been told.” She hesitated. “He’s also got a bit of a reputation as a—well, a lady-killer, I guess you could say.” She grinned and tossed her red curls. “I’m not sure that’s the right word. Let’s put it this way—he’s been known to attract the ladies, and it’s caused a bit of a ruckus now and then.”
“Interesting,” Joey mused. “If he’s so popular with the local women, I can see why the men around here wouldn’t be overly amused.” She couldn’t help but consider the local men she’d met; some of them had been pleasant enough, but none had come close to attracting her interest. Not that that would have been likely in any case, after Richard…