Page 8 of Montana Justice

Lachlan

The crisp October morning air carried the scent of wood smoke and fallen leaves as I walked down Main Street, making my rounds.

A year into the job as sheriff, and I still got a kick out of this part—being visible in the community, checking in with people, making sure they knew their law enforcement was accessible and approachable.

“Morning, Sheriff!” Mrs. Yang called from the doorway of her florist shop. “I just put on a pot of coffee in the back—that dark roast you like. Want a cup?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Yang. Maybe I’ll swing by after I finish my rounds.”

The older woman beamed and disappeared back into her shop, and I continued down the sidewalk.

The morning light filtered through the changing leaves, casting everything in warm golden hues.

Tourists browsed the antique shops, their cameras clicking as they captured the quintessential small-town charm that had become Garnet Bend’s calling card.

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 constitute trespassing .

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. ”

“Fell out?” I pulled out my notebook, more from habit than necessity. “Could it have been an accident?”

“That’s what I’m thinking, but Angela was working register three, saw the whole thing happen.

The customer was juggling her purchases, trying to get everything organized, and the can just tumbled out.

Could’ve been completely innocent, but…” Dave shrugged helplessly, his hands still fidgeting with anxiety.

“Angela called it in to the station before I could stop her. Standard procedure, you know? Any theft over twenty dollars gets reported to law enforcement. She was just following protocol.”

I could see Dave’s dilemma written all over his face. Store policy dictated one thing, but his conscience was telling him something else entirely. “You don’t think it was intentional.”

“Hell, Lachlan, I was ready to just let it go. Pay for the formula myself and send her on her way with a gentle reminder to be more careful. Thirty dollars isn’t worth destroying someone’s life over.

But Angela had already made the call, and I couldn’t exactly tell her to forget about it.

What kind of message would that send about following procedures? ”

Dave had always been caught between being a by-the-book manager and being a human being who cared about his community. It was one of the things I’d always respected about him—he found ways to do right by people while still running a successful business.

“Where is she now?”

“Break room in the back. Told her to wait there while we sorted this out.” Dave’s weathered hands drummed against the counter. “She looks pretty rough. Pale, tired. I don’t want to make her life harder.”

“Any idea who she is? Local?”

“Definitely not from around here—I know pretty much everyone in town and all the regular customers. She seemed nervous, kept looking around like she expected trouble. Paid with cash, small bills mostly, like she’d been saving up.”

“Let me go talk to her. See what her story is.”

“Thanks, Lachlan. You remember where the break room is? Behind the deli.”

“I remember.”

I made my way through the employee area, past the time clock where teenage employees punched in for their after-school shifts, past the bulletin board covered with work schedules and safety reminders and a flyer for the upcoming Halloween costume contest. The break room door stood partially open, and I could see someone sitting at the small table inside, but the angle prevented me from getting a clear view of her face.

I knocked on the doorframe, keeping my voice gentle and professional. “Ma’am? I’m Sheriff Calloway. I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened today.”

She stiffened and turned slowly to face me. My hand froze on the door handle for a heartbeat before I pushed it open.

Piper Matthews sat at the break room table, and the sight of her hit me like a physical blow to the chest.

She looked like a ghost of herself. My heavy winter coat—the theft of that had pissed me off way more than the cash she’d taken—hung way too big on her frame, but at least under it, she looked like she had gained some weight, which she’d desperately needed.

Her face, though, looked gaunt and hollow. Sharp cheekbones stood out in harsh relief, and dark circles shadowed her eyes like purple bruises. Her hair was back to being its natural blonde, and pulled back in a messy ponytail that looked like it had been styled by exhaustion rather than design.

Anger exploded through me, swift and brutal and tinged with something that might have been hurt if I’d been willing to examine it too closely. I tamped it all down as best I could.

“What are you doing here, Piper?”

She flinched at my tone but didn’t look away, meeting my gaze with those hazel eyes I’d thought about far more often than I cared to admit over the past year. “Hello, Lachlan.”

“Don’t.” I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me, suddenly aware of how small the space was, how her presence seemed to fill every corner despite her diminished appearance. “Just don’t. What are you doing in Garnet Bend?”

“I—”

“And what’s this bullshit about stealing baby formula? What kind of sick scheme are you running now? Planning to resell it to desperate mothers who can’t afford it? Because that would be a new low, even for a Matthews.”

If possible, she got even paler. “No, it’s not like th?—”

“Oh, it’s not? Then enlighten me, Piper.

” I didn’t even care that I wasn’t allowing her to get a word in.

This definitely wasn’t how I would normally talk to a suspect.

I’d ask a single question and let them do most of the talking.

“Tell me what brilliant con you’ve cooked up this time.

Decided that sleeping your way through town to steal money was not the way you wanted to go?

Decided to go the stealing baby formula route instead? ”

“It was an accident.”

I almost laid into her again, but her voice made me stop. It was barely above a whisper, tinged with defeat and an utter lack of fight.

“Accident,” I repeated, my voice flat with disbelief. “Explain.”

“I was going to pay for it. I have the money.” She reached into her pocket with trembling fingers and pulled out a small wad of bills, setting it on the scarred break room table between us.

The money was mostly ones and fives, the kind of small bills that suggested someone living hand-to-mouth, scraping together whatever they could find.

“I paid for everything else. The formula was in my pocket because I was trying to keep my hands free to carry…everything, and I forgot about it when I was checking out.”

I stared at the money, then back at her face, looking for signs of deception. But all I saw was bone-deep exhaustion and a wariness that spoke of someone who’d been running on empty for far too long.

“What do you need baby formula for?”

The question came out harsher than I’d intended, driven by suspicion and the old hurt I’d thought I’d buried. Piper’s hands moved to the front of the coat—my coat—and slowly, carefully, pulled down the zipper.

Strapped to her chest in a worn baby carrier was an infant. Dark hair, maybe a couple months old, sleeping peacefully against her chest.

The sight knocked the wind out of me completely.

Piper had a baby.