“Come on,” Bentley said, steering her back toward the stable entrance, the band switching into “Jolene,” the singer really hitting those high notes. “Give me five minutes and you’ll have that roof paid for. Wouldn’t be a bad thing. Would it?”

“I’m not here for that,” Caddy said.

“Then why are you here?” Bentley said, whispering into her ear, already knowing the answer. His arm, wrapped around her waist, pulled her in closer.

*   *   *

Vardaman saw Quinn before Skinner did, the old man’s back turned, talking about some potential companies visiting the industrial park and who they’d selected to be grand marshal for this year’s sweet potato festival. Vardaman nodded at Quinn, his eyes not leaving him as he walked close, causing Old Man Skinner to turn his stiff neck around and stare at Quinn and Lillie. Vardaman held out his hand by the fire, Quinn getting close enough to feel the heat on the cool September night. Skinner stepped back, blank-faced, not offering any bit of recognition of him or Lillie.

Against his better judgment, Quinn shook the man’s hand, noting again how unusually small it was. Vardaman’s eyes burned bright with energy, roving over Quinn’s face, trying to get a read on why he was there, whether he was going to make trouble or just eat some barbecue chicken. His face a doughy mask of deeply tanned skin with hooded eyes, the silver hair swept up off his large forehead.

“Glad to see you, Sheriff,” Vardaman said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate Mr. Skinner’s hospitality.”

“Oh, just burning some old brush and cookin’ chicken,” Skinner said, his jowly face closely shaved, looking red and chapped in the firelight. “It’s all about tradition. Can’t disappoint half the gosh-darn state.”

Quinn turned to Vardaman and introduced Lillie. Lillie gave a cursory nod as Vardaman asked if she was his wife. Lillie started to laugh.

“Damn,” Lillie said. “You’re much funnier in person, Senator.”

Vardaman smiled.

Lillie said, “Taller, too.”

Quinn watched three of the Watchmen gather by the bonfire, exchanging looks with Old Man Skinner. They were definitely all familiar with one another. Skinner looked uneasy, stepping back, nearly tripping over a stray piece of firewood onto his ass. Quinn had to reach out and grab the old man’s forearm to keep him upright, his Stetson nearly falling off his old bald head. Skinner found his footing, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“Can I ask you something, Sheriff?” Vardaman said.

Quinn nodded.

“You mind if we talk confidentially?”

“You mean away from my wife?” Quinn said.

Lillie scowled at Quinn, squinting, but seeing the humor, too.

“You don’t mind, honey?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Lillie said. “I’ll just go talk to the ladies about how they dish out that juicy peach pie.”