“Well, hello, there! Abe Houton.”

      For at least the fourth time in the space of the past ten minutes, Tyler put down what could well be the best, not to mention the cheapest, cup of coffee he’d ever tasted in order to shake the hand of a stranger. Dallas owned a reputation as a friendly city, Tyler mused, but tiny Eden, Oklahoma, put it to ridiculous shame.

      He cleared his throat, managed a brief smile and returned the greeting. “Tyler Aldrich.”

      Built like a fireplug, short and squat, Abe Houton sported a fine handlebar mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp as proud as the tall brown beaver cowboy hat poised on Houton’s bald head.

      “Good to meet you, Tyler. Welcome to Eden. Haven’t seen you around here before. What brings you to town?”

      Tyler would have wondered if the shield pinned to Abe Houton’s white, Western-style shirt had more to do with the question than simple friendliness but for the fact that he’d been asked the same thing repeatedly since he’d come into the Garden of Eden café. And he hadn’t even had his buckwheat flapjacks yet.

      When he’d sat down at this small, square table in the window, he’d intended to fill his time with people-watching while he dined on an egg-white omelet or a nice bagel with fat-free cream cheese and fruit. Unfortunately he’d become the center of attention for everyone who passed by and the healthiest breakfast he could come up with from the menu was whole-grain flapjacks. The forty-something waitress with the hairnet had openly gaped when he’d asked her to hold the butter and inquired about organic maple syrup.

      Tyler looked the local policeman in the eye and repeated words he’d already said so many times that they were ringing in his ears. “Just passing through.”

      “Aw, that’s too bad,” the diminutive lawman remarked, sounding as if he meant it. “This here is a right fine town.”

      Tyler sat back against the speckled, off-white vinyl that padded the black, steel-framed chairs clustered around the red-topped tables. A floor of black-painted concrete and, oddly enough, knotty pine walls provided the backdrop. What really caught the eye, though, was the old-fashioned soda fountain behind the counter.

      “I hope you don’t mind if I ask what’s so special about this town,” Tyler said, truly curious.

      Houton rocked back on the substantial heels of his sharp-toed brown cowboy boots, one stubby hand adjusting the small holster on his belt. The pistol snapped inside looked like a toy. Then again, Houton himself resembled a stuffed doll. Tyler had to wonder just how lethal either might be.

      “Why, this is Eden, son,” the little man declared, as if that answered everything. Then, with unabashed enthusiasm he added, “You should see our park.”

      “You mean the park at the end of the street?”

      “So you have seen it! Bet you didn’t notice the footbridge. My daddy helped build that footbridge out of old train rails. Prettiest little footbridge you’ll ever see. Really, you should stop by and take a look.”

      Tyler didn’t know whether to laugh or run out and take a look at this local wonder. Fortunately, the waitress arrived just then with his flapjacks, along with a dish of mixed berries, a jug of something that passed for syrup and a refill of aromatic coffee. Houton excused himself with a doff of his hat to straddle a stool at the counter, his feet barely reaching the floor.

      Lifting the top edge of a suspiciously tall stack, Tyler saw that succulent slices of ham had been sandwiched between the airy brown flapjacks. A sane, sensible, health-conscious man would remove the meat. A hungry man would just dive in. A self-indulgent one would pour on the so-called syrup and enjoy. Tyler reached for the jug, thinking that he had nothing better to do all day than work off a few extra calories.

      An unexpected sense of freedom filled him as he watched the thick, golden-brown liquid flow down. Maybe, he thought, surprising himself, he’d even check out the park.

      Nearly half an hour later, Tyler made his way out of the small café, nodding over his shoulder at those who called farewells in his wake. Stuffed to the gills and ridiculously happy about it, he decided that he might as well walk off some of what he’d just consumed and left the car sitting in the slanted space across the street where he’d parked it in front of a resale shop. Hands in his pockets, he strolled along the broad, street-level sidewalk, nodding at those who nodded at him in greeting, which was everyone he encountered. Even old ladies driving—or, more accurately, creeping—down the street in their pristine ten-or twenty-year-old cars waved at him. Tyler nodded back and kept an eye peeled for someplace to work up a good sweat.

      He came rather quickly to the park and spied at a distance the aforementioned footbridge spanning the creek that bisected the gently rolling lawn studded with brightly leaved trees. Erosion from the banks of the creek colored the shallow water red-orange, which seemed oddly apt in this autumn setting.

      Concrete benches scattered beneath the trees invited him to sit for a spell, but he resisted the urge. Picnic tables clustered in one section of the broad space.

      A few children and a pair of adult women peopled a playground near the small parking area, where carelessly dropped bicycles awaited their young riders. Tyler turned away, wondering what he was doing in Eden, Oklahoma. He pondered that as he strolled back toward his car.

      A plump woman in baggy jeans and an oversize sweater swept leaves off the sidewalk in front of a small white clapboard church on the corner nearest the park. Tyler thought he recognized the sedan parked in front of the modest brick house beside it as one he’d seen at the motel last night, but he couldn’t be sure. Walking on he realized that the boxy two-story building behind the church actually belonged to it, easily tripling the building’s size.

      He got in the car and set off to purchase toiletries, taking in the town along the way. All of Eden had been laid out in neat, square blocks that made navigation laughably simple. Turning off Garden Avenue, he meandered along Elm and Ash streets. Elm offered primarily commercial buildings, but Ash hosted the most substantial homes he’d yet seen. Constructed of brick and mottled stone, most with square or round pillars supporting deep, broad porches, none could be described as stately and all dated from the 1920s and ’30s.

      Noting