Crossing Lines
Cassidy
Sunday mornings were supposed to belong to God.
Prayer. Hymns. Communion. Covered dishes sweating on folding tables in the fellowship hall.
But in Bozeman, Sunday afternoons belonged to gossip.
The church basement buzzed louder than the sermon ever did. Women leaned close over deviled eggs and fried chicken, whispering behind soft smiles. Men talked cattle prices and weather patterns, but even they listened when a name dropped too sharply.
Growing up in small-town Montana had its perks.
Privacy wasn’t one of them.
“Hey, Cassidy,” Tess James sing-songed as I stepped up to the buffet.
I kept my plate steady. “Hey, Tess.”
She lowered her voice instantly. “You hear about Jenny and James Harper?”
Of course she knew I hadn’t. Tess was Bozeman’s unofficial news outlet.
“No,” I said. “And I don’t need to.”
Her mouth twitched. “They’ve been sneakin’ around for weeks.”
“Good for them.”
I moved down the table. Fried chicken. Beans. Cornbread. If you couldn’t cook in this town, you were treated like a public inconvenience.
Tess leaned closer. “You’re no fun lately.”
“Maybe I grew up.”
That shut her up long enough for me to escape.
I felt eyes on me as I crossed the room. I always did. Conversations dimmed half a note when I passed. Not obvious. Just enough.
Jake Billings had seen to that.
I checked the exits automatically — front doors, side stairwell, kitchen hall. Old habit. I hated that I had it.
I sat at my mother’s table.
“Lord help me,” Lidia was saying, “did y’all see that green dress Milly wore Tuesday?”
Mom snorted softly. “Bless her heart.”
“What do you think, Cassidy?” Aunt Jessica asked, patting my hand like I was part of the discussion panel.
I chewed slow.
“I think if Milly liked it, that’s what matters.”
Jessica’s smile tightened. “Well. Not every woman knows what flatters her.”
The meaning wasn’t subtle.
“I’m fine in jeans,” I replied.
“A man won’t turn his head for jeans,” she said gently.
“Maybe I don’t need him to.”
A few brows lifted.
Mom cleared her throat. “Constructive criticism, honey.”
I stood before I said something that would echo all week. “I’ve had enough construction for today.”
I pushed through the church doors into bright afternoon light—
—and stepped directly into the path of a moving truck.
Brakes shrieked.
I stumbled back, heart slamming hard enough to bruise ribs.
“Jesus!” I shouted. “Watch where you’re going!”
The driver’s door opened.
Boots hit pavement. Heavy. Confident.
“Maybe watch where you’re walkin’,” a deep voice replied.
I looked up.
He was tall. Broad across the shoulders. Worn jeans. White T-shirt. Sun-touched skin. Eyes pale and clear — like river ice in spring.
Not from here.
“You okay?” he asked, scanning me. Not leering. Assessing.
“I’m fine,” I snapped. “You almost hit me.”
“You ran into the street.”
“This is a church.”
“And roads still belong to trucks.”
I crossed my arms. My pulse was still racing — and not just from fear.
“For someone leavin’ a sermon,” he said lightly, “you’ve got a temper.”
“For someone drivin’ through a church community” I shot back, “you’ve got nerve.”
His mouth twitched.
There was humor there.
That annoyed me more.
A few churchgoers spilled outside, drawn by raised voices. I felt their eyes instantly.
I stepped back. “Just go.”
He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
The words were solid. Not sarcastic.
That threw me off.
I nodded once, stiff.
He climbed back in his truck and pulled away slower this time.
I stood in the road longer than I meant to.
My hands were shaking.
I told myself it was the adrenaline.
Betty’s Grill sat two blocks down — white siding, red trim, windows fogged with grease and coffee steam.
Mom’s domain.
I parked in back and sat in my car for a minute.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Gravel crunched.
I turned fast, pulse spiking.
Deputy Clay Sheldon stood a few feet away, hands raised slightly.
“Easy,” he said. “It’s just me.”
“I’m aware,” I muttered, locking my car door.
Clay had known me since high school. Steady. Dependable. The kind of man mothers approved of.
“You good?” he asked.
“Fine.”
He studied me like he didn’t believe it.
“I’ve got news,” he said finally. “About Jake.”
My stomach tightened like barbed wire.
“What about him?”
Clay’s jaw flexed. “He’s tied to more than we thought. Drugs. Assault charges comin’ outta Billings.” He paused. “There’s a homicide investigation open.”
My throat went dry.
“Homicide?”
“He hasn’t been charged. But he’s connected.” Clay’s voice softened. “Cass, if he circles back here—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
I held his gaze. “I’m not scared of him.”
That was half true.
Clay stepped closer. “You carry?”
“Every day.”
“I still don’t like it," he stated.
“You don’t have to.”
Something unspoken hung between us. It had for years.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he said quietly.
I forced a smile. “I’m not.”
He looked like he wanted to argue.
Instead he nodded once and let me go inside.
The lunch rush hit fast.
Plates clattered. Coffee poured. Orders flew.
I was tying my apron when the bell above the door chimed.
I didn’t look up.
“Afternoon,” Shannon called cheerfully.
“Coffee,” a familiar voice answered.
My spine went rigid.
I looked up slowly.
River-ice eyes met mine.
He leaned against the counter like he’d been there a hundred times.
“You,” I said flatly.
“Me.”
He slid a twenty across the counter. “No road rage today?”
“Depends.” I answered.
“On?”
“Whether you’re plannin’ to run anyone else down.”
His grin was slow. Controlled.
Shannon glanced between us, confused but entertained.
I handed him change.
As I stepped out from behind the counter to wipe tables, he moved past me — close enough that I felt the heat of him at my back.
“You always this friendly?” he murmured.
“Only to strangers who almost kill me.”
A low chuckle vibrated near my ear.
“Fair.”
He collected his coffee and headed toward the door.
Through the window, I caught him watching me.
I refused to smile.
It almost worked.
By late afternoon, my nerves were raw.
Tourists trickled in. Locals lingered. I slipped out front for a cigarette before dinner rush.
A lighter flicked beside me.
I turned.
Him again.
He held the flame steady. “Truce?”
I hesitated — then leaned in and lit up.
“Ryan,” he said, offering his hand.
I eyed it.
He waited.
Not pushy. Just steady.
“Cassidy.”
“Good to officially meet you without attempted vehicular manslaughter.”
I exhaled smoke. “Don’t make it weird.”
He smiled — softer this time.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he added. “I’m sorry.”
His tone had shifted. No teasing.
I studied him.
“You from around here?” I asked.
“Belgrade,” he replied. Belgrade
Close enough to understand the culture. Far enough to not be tangled in it.
“Work construction,” he continued. “Helpin’ my mom keep the ranch.”
That surprised me.
There was weight in his voice when he said ranch.
“You always this guarded?” he asked gently.
“Depends on the company.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Guess I’ve got work to do.”
He stepped toward the door.
Something in me didn’t want him to walk away on that note.
“Ryan,” I called.
He turned.
“I’m… sorry too.”
His grin returned, slower now. Earned.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “She can be reasonable.”
“Don’t push it.”
He laughed and disappeared inside.
I watched him through the glass longer than I should have.
Across the street, Clay’s patrol truck rolled by slowly.
He saw us.
And he did not smile.
For the first time all day, the air felt heavier than gossip.
Something had shifted.
And I had the uneasy feeling it wasn’t just my temper that had been set off.
