A/N: (8/31/20 — 8/31/23) It's the 3 year anniversary of uploading this story; the perfect time, I thought, to come back, LOL. Leaving things unfinished bugs me, so here I am, squeaking under the wire for the three year mark. It's been forever since I wrote anything for this little forgotten story—so if anybody's still reading it, gosh, it'd be a miracle! But this story's got its hooks in me again. :D (It will feature other now non-canon pairings from That Show too. I'm a Departie since S8 Ep12 and my writing reflects that.)

When I first began writing this story, I set it in S6 canon, starting with Lucas and Fiona's first meeting and intending to cover all their canon moments from there. That original intent is now being set aside, and, other than entwining some canon scenes/realities, this story will now be following my own take and timeline on Hope Valley and the fates of its residents.

There will be no "dating" between L and E. Fiona and Lucas's respective characters will be more akin to their S6 personas, which had undergone quite a . . . turn . . . by the time I left the show. Their S6 chemistry and energy had me by. the. throat! . . . and I want to try to recapture in writing that friction, sass, push-n-pull. I always saw them as a fiery, intelligent pairing.

The writing style for this story is changing. The original sparse style worked back when we were closer to the S6 realities/scenes (and would thus be more likely to recall the details of what my original, very abbreviated style was leaving out), but S6 is likely so receded in memory now, I thought it best to return to my usual style of writing. This chapter contains a section written years ago for this story in the old style, and the rest in my usual style. Hereafter the chapters will be in my usual style. :)

Hope you enjoy! If continuing this story makes even just one person happy, then I'm content. Sorry for the long A/N; I thought it necessary to explain some things! ;) Hugs, Paths


— Chapter 3 —

Deepening Suspicions


Suspicious glances.

Internal reserve.

From a lowered male voice, words in French.

Watching the dark-haired man across the room as he spoke into the phone made her eyes narrow. Her hand tightened around the phone receiver at her ear.

To the switchboard operator from San Fransisco, these first ten seconds she was instructed to stay on the line to make sure the call went through were always telling.

These particular ten seconds—from Hope Valley to Cape Fullerton—were of particular interest.

Evasively friendly in person, the saloon proprietor and gambler had proven anything but evasive in his phone call. In fluent French, he'd spoken of shipments and stagecoaches.

And a female voice had responded in kind.

·oOo·

"Hold for your call, please."

Fiona Miller, lately of San Fransisco, kept her voice impersonally professional as she spoke into the mouthpiece—hard to do since her intuition had been buzzing from the instant Lucas Bouchard stepped into Ned Yost's General Store, approaching her on well-heeled feet, asking her, in what she was sure he thought was a charming manner, to put him through to a telephone number in Cape Fullerton.

From her position at the telephone operator's station, she had a clear view—if she leaned forward just a hair—to the front of the store, where the telephone was installed fast to the wall beside the door, and where the sharply-groomed saloon proprietor now stood holding the receiver to his ear.

There was a crackle on the other end of the line, as if someone was picking up. Lucas turned away, the new angle ensuring she could not see his mouth moving, a certain set to his shoulders. His head dropped very close to the receiver. A male voice—his—sounded in her ear.

He was speaking French.

Unusual.

Fluently.

Very unusual.

A quick frown narrowed her eyes across the general store, quiet now during a lull. Lucas seemed oblivious of her regard, shoulders lowering around him like a cloak as he continued speaking very quietly. Her eyes grew big at what she heard and she leaned forward to try and get a closer look at him.

With frustrating timing, the ten second time-frame was up just then and although she didn't hesitate to do her duty and end her ability to listen to the call, the frown continued to tug at the skin between her eyebrows. When Lucas left the store moments later—without looking at her, a preoccupied frown on his own face—she worried her lower lip between her teeth, turning over what she'd heard. And what, if anything, to do with it.

"Miss Miller, will you be leaving for lunch at our usual time?" Ned Yost poked his bald-pated head with its soft fringe of whitening hair around the doorframe, eyes not on her but surveying her domain as if to see if she'd made any further changes.

She knew he was trying to exhibit the usual uninhibited friendliness he showed to the old-timers and familiar townsfolk who came through his doors, but there was still a residual sensitivity left in him over his bungling the telephone system installation and set-up, not to mention that not only had a girl been sent to clean up his mess, but had done so in record time, showing a deft touch and an ability to improvise . . . or so she'd overheard him grudgingly admit to the fire-haired, inquisitive woman he called Molly when he believed Fiona out of earshot.

Ned took lunch at precisely noon everyday, and while he was short-handed, had to close the store for that hour. He didn't wish anyone in the store while he was gone, much less a stranger from another country—she sometimes thought he viewed California as a foreign land more akin to the Orient than to Canada—which made it the most diplomatic time for her to take a lunch as well.

"Yes, Mr. Yost, I will." Privately, she withheld the thought that if she hadn't been, she would have told him. But never mind that. Mr. Yost seemed a genuinely good man, if a bit temperamental on certain things.

He disappeared, then reappeared, keys jangling from a large brass ring in one hand, and hovered in the open doorway to the little side room she used for the operation of the telephone switchboard.

Smiling to herself, she grabbed her handbag from the coat rack, slipped it over her shoulder and accompanied him to the front entrance, pulling in an appreciative lungful of apples, cinnamon, and dried herbs as she passed the fruit and dry goods.

Courteously, if a bit hurriedly, he pulled open the door for her and stood to the side for her to pass. As she exited, she discreetly flipped the door sign from OPEN to CLOSED, earning her a surprised, "Thank you" from Mr. Yost.

"Thank you," she returned, touched by his mannerly way of opening the door.

"I'll see you in an hour, Miss Miller."

"Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Yost."

She wasn't sure where he was going for lunch, but she knew exactly where she was headed. Abigail's Cafe—the social heart of this tiny little frontier town, so different from her own bustling and hilly hometown. But she was fast learning that small towns had a bustle all their own.

The cheerful interior of the small cafe greeted her with a burst of warm air that carried on it the enticing aroma of . . . was that French Onion soup and fresh bread, maybe even baguette? This afternoon was looking up already.

It seemed this was a casual, seat-yourself establishment, so she made her way to a table corner, where she could have the best view of all activities, careful not to bump the table and wobble the tiny bud vase of fresh wildflowers as she seated herself.

"Hello again," a warm, feminine voice greeted her as she settled her small handbag on the empty chair beside her.

She looked up. A small-boned woman with a tiny waist and a warm grace about her was smiling down at her. Honeyed hair pulled back in a low chignon, a few tendrils were loose around the periphery of a face that was invitingly heart-shaped.

Recognition lit. "You were there the other day when I got off the stagecoach."

"I was." Gentle but intelligent clear eyes smiled at her, teakwood-brown swimming in hazel. "My daughter-in-law Clara and I both were. How are you finding Hope Valley? It must be quite a change from—San Francisco, I think?"

"It is." Idly, she fingered the soft cloth napkin before her. "News travels fast here."

Understanding and an acknowledging humor lit the other woman's face. "Oh, yes, news of anything new usually spreads like it acquired eagle wings. It can take some adjusting, I know. How are you settling in with Ned?" Her eyes were not unsympathetic.

"We're . . . adjusting."

The two women dimpled at each other.

"I'm Abigail Stanton." A small, compact hand was brushed off against a spotless white apron and genteelly proffered.

Fiona shook it as circumspectly as it was offered. "Fiona Miller. It's a pleasure to formally make your acquaintance. You have a lovely cafe here, and I understand you're the mayor as well. Quite a feat. You're a busy and accomplished woman, Mrs. Stanton."

"Oh, thank you, and please allow me to welcome you to Hope Valley. You will let me know if there's anything I can do to make your stay more accommodating?"

"I will," she promised.

"I'm glad. Now, what can I bring for your lunch today?"

Her mouth curled. "Did I smell hot soup and fresh bread when I came in?"

"You did."

"French Onion . . . ?"

"You have a good nose, Miss Miller." Twinkling, the other woman's eyes dropped to the empty table and she patted its empty surface promisingly. "I'll send my son Cody out with that bowl of soup and bread momentarily. Hopefully you won't be teaching him any sleight of hand tricks when he does."

Fiona's eyes sharpened quizzically. "Sorry . . . ? I don't . . . ?"

Abigail Stanton bit her lip, dismay flitting through her expression. "Forgive me," she murmured, low-toned, "my words got away from me."

Fiona got the impression this was a woman from whom words very rarely got away from. "Might we be talking about another new resident to this fair town?" she inquired quietly, a certain, knowing shrewdness intuiting her words. "Perhaps a certain gentleman with a proclivity for . . . cards?"

Abigail's look was startled, then quietly alert. "I'm sure it was harmlessly meant"—she lifted delicate shoulders eloquently—"but it surprised me to see a stranger teaching my young son coin tricks, that's all."

"I see." And she did. Her gaze was firm. "There will be no sleight of hand tricks at this table, Mrs. Stanton. Not now, not ever."

"You are very kind, Miss Miller. Please forgive my slip of the tongue." Shaking her head at herself, cheeks pinkening, the older woman moved with composed grace back towards the kitchen.

A man close to Abigail's age, who had been watching their exchange with eyes softer than Fiona imagined he realized—brushed-black bowler hat resting on the table beside him, leaving his headful of thick, silvered dark-grey hair bare—silently greeted the cafe owner with a slow smile as she passed his table. Abigail didn't stop, but her footsteps slowed almost imperceptibly, cheeks lifting in an answering smile. From where she sat, Fiona could have sworn it looked as though the color in her cheeks tinged darker under the man's blue-eyed greeting.

Intriguing.

The man caught her watching him and nodded. A smile pulling at her mouth, Fiona nodded back, studying him as he went back to reading the newspaper he'd abandoned in favor of watching Abigail Stanton talk to her. Not overly tall, with a thick-shouldered, outdoorsy build encased in a quality but serviceable grey suit, and rugged features set in a tanned expanse of skin, it wasn't hard to see why he would turn heads.

But it seemed there was only one head he was interested in turning. And that head had just disappeared into the far end of the building, where the muted clang and clatter of a kitchen could be heard.

Fiona glanced around at her fellow diners, enjoying the soft din of the room and the background mutter of conversation even as she took note of the clean but simple clothes and the easy rapport born of long familiarity everyone had with each other.

She was a bit of a duck out of water here. In more ways than one. But then, so was that eyebrow-raising saloon proprietor.

She shook her head to displace the stray thought. She didn't want to think about Lucas Bouchard. It might disrupt her lunch, and she wanted to focus on other things during this hour of free time. Still, there was an unsettled feeling in her as she recalled his telephone conversation earlier, or at least what she'd heard of it. It seemed oddly out of place, if not outright—

No, not during lunch! Stern with irritation, she brought her thoughts to heel.

True to her word, Abigail's son Cody—thin, earnest, blond, and endearingly gangly—appeared at her table with a steaming bowl of soup and a crusty chunk of fragrant bread that turned out to be the baguette she'd hoped it would be. He reminded her of her youngest brother, and she had to fight the impulse to hug him as he shyly cleared her table once she finished eating.

And true to Fiona's word, there were no sleight of hand tricks taught at her lunch table.

With a friendly wave to Abigail and a nod to the quiet, grey-haired gentleman who was still at his table and looked up as she left, she hung her handbag back onto her shoulder and pushed open the door. Her fashionable, heeled shoes sank into the gravel as she stepped out of the cafe and began the short walk back to the General Store.

She glanced at the saloon consideringly. There was no sign of the dark-haired proprietor. Another frown formed across her brow and she blew out a short breath of wordless suspicion.

·oOo·

Within the hour, the tall form of the local Sheriff stepped into the General Store like an answer to her lingering concern. And what she heard at the start of his phone call to New Orleans cinched it.

When he returned the receiver to its cradle and turned as if to leave, Fiona rose to her feet and catching his eye, beckoned him over. Craggy-faced, sandy-haired, and about the age of her father, Sheriff Bill Avery approached without murmur and stepped inside her little room, eyes questioning.

She held up her hands, silently asking for his understanding. "Don't want you to think I'm a snoop—"

"Why would I think you're a snoop?"

"Because I couldn't help but overhear you talking to the police in New Orleans about Mr. Bouchard."

"I thought the telephone company had rules against eavesdropping."

She gave him a look, hand popping atop her hip. "We do! But I'm supposed to listen to the first ten seconds to make sure the call went through."

"Go on."

"If you're investigating Lucas Bouchard, you should know that he had me place a call to Cape Fullerton today."

"And what did you hear in the first ten seconds?" He crooked a brow.

"He was calling a woman who spoke in French."

"So you don't know what they said."

"Au contraire," she corrected him. "I speak fluent French. He told her that she was right—Hope Valley is perfect."

"Perfect for what?"

She shrugged with a wry twist to her mouth. "He didn't say. But he told her to send the package on the morning train." Silently, she held out a scrap of paper, on which, in Lucas Bouchard's handwriting, was written the telephone number he'd had her place to Cape Fullerton. "He addressed her as chérie."

Bill grunted. "Romantic," he said dryly. "It seems our man of mystery is many things, including a man of evasion."

Her eyes flicked up. "Yes," she said slowly. "I had the opposite initial impression when I met him, soon flipped by his oddly guarded reaction as soon as I mentioned I was from San Francisco."

"Did he?" Bill rubbed his jaw, the turning wheels of his mind visible on his face. "Seems par for the course. I ran into him at the cafe, and he rubbed me the wrong way. Asked him about himself, he responded there wasn't much to tell; that he's a bit of tumbleweed. I asked him where he was from, he answered "here and there." How did he hear about the saloon? He said, oh, he always keeps an ear open for good business opportunities. I latched on to that, asked him if he was a businessman then. Typical, he evasively answered, "among other things." It was impossible to get a straight answer out of him."

Fiona could see how much that rankled the crusty Sheriff. "That jives. I'll keep my eyes and ears open, Sheriff."

With a brief nod, Bill started to turn away then hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder. "Was Mr. Bouchard speaking French on that call?"

"Yes. And quite well."

He shook his head. "Another anomaly. He told a friend of mine that the only thing French about him was his name—and that he did not speak French."

Did he indeed. Fiona watched Bill Avery leave with thoughtful eyes, thoughts moving rapidly through her mind.

The new saloon proprietor was nothing if not a puzzle.


·oOo·


A/N II: F overhearing L's phone call did happen, as did her conversation with Bill about him (well, at least up until she gave him the phone #, then I took it in a non-canon direction.) Bill's conversation w/L at Abigail's went as written as well, per my notes. Also, I'm REALLY not used to writing Abigail. Hopefully I captured her fairly true to character. :)