Around the beer case at the M & S Market, conversation centered around fly-fishing versus live-bait fishing, bow hunting versus “real” hunting, and, of course, the twelve-point buck the owner of the market, Stanley, had shot back in ‘79. The huge varnished antlers hung behind the battered cash register, where they’d been on display for more than twenty years.

Over at the Sandman on Lakeview Street, Ada Dover still talked about the time Clint Eastwood had stayed in her motel. He’d been real nice and he’d actually spoken to her, too.

“You have a nice place,” he’d said, sounding just like Dirty Harry; then he’d asked for the location of the ice machine and for some extra towels. She’d about died right behind the check-in counter. There was some speculation on whether or not his daughter with Frances Fisher had been conceived in room nine.

The citizens of Gospel lived and breathed the latest gossip. At the Curl Up and Dye Hair Studio, the favorite topic of conversation was always the sheriff of Pearl County, Dylan Taber, usually because the owner herself, Dixie Howe, dropped his name while chatting over a shampoo and set. She’d cast her line in his direction and planned to reel him in like a prize trout.

Of course, Paris Fernwood was angling her bait in Dylan’s direction, too, but Dixie wasn’t worried. Paris worked for her daddy at the Cozy Corner Cafe, and Dixie didn’t consider a woman who served coffee and eggs serious competition for a businesswoman like herself.

There were other women vying for Dylan’s attention as well. There was a divorced mother of three over in the next county, and probably others Dixie didn’t know about. But she wasn’t worried about them, either. Dylan had lived for a time in L.A., and he’d naturally appreciate someone with flash and cosmopolitan polish. In Gospel, there wasn’t anyone with more flash than Dixie Howe.