PART 1: THE MOST EXPENSIVE COMPLAINT IN MONTANA

The first customer who complained about Jack Sullivan’s cooking ended up paying more for his mouth than his meal.

And by sunset, half the town of Dusty Creek wanted to see if the crazy cowboy would actually enforce his ridiculous new rule.

It was the summer of 1887, and Jack Sullivan had finally decided that raising cattle was easier than dealing with hungry people.

Unfortunately, he’d already sold his horse, rented an abandoned building on Main Street, and spent his last forty dollars opening a restaurant.

He called it The Lucky Horseshoe.

The restaurant had six wooden tables, twelve mismatched chairs, a stove that smoked whenever the wind blew east, and a menu containing exactly one meal.

Beef stew, bread, and coffee.

Twenty-five cents.

But the real attraction was the enormous sign Jack had nailed beside the front door.

DINNER: 25 CENTS.

EVERY COMPLAINT: 10 CENTS EXTRA.

INSULT THE COOK: 25 CENTS.

ASK TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER: 50 CENTS.

THE MANAGER IS ALSO THE COOK.

Jack stood beneath the sign with his arms crossed, looking as proud as a man who had just discovered gold.

His best friend, Deputy Walter Briggs, stared at the prices for a long moment.

“Jack, are you opening a restaurant or declaring war on the entire town?”

“Depends how much they complain.”

“You can’t charge people for having opinions.”

“Sure I can. I just put up a sign.”

Walter rubbed his forehead.

“And what happens if somebody says your stew tastes like horse feed?”

“Ten cents.”

“What if they say it’s terrible?”

“Another ten.”

“What if they refuse to pay?”

Jack smiled.

“Then I give them a job washing dishes until we’re even.”

Walter looked at the restaurant, then at his friend.

“You know, I used to worry about you getting kicked in the head by a horse. Now I’m starting to think it already happened.”

Jack opened the door.

“That’s three complaints, Walter. Thirty cents.”

“I HAVEN’T EVEN EATEN!”

“Make it forty.”

By noon, the first paying customer arrived.

His name was Harold Pritchard, the wealthiest merchant in Dusty Creek and a man who believed every conversation should end with someone apologizing to him.

He entered wearing an expensive black suit and a permanent expression of disappointment.

“What kind of establishment is this?” Harold demanded.

“A restaurant,” Jack replied.

“Well, it smells like a stable.”

Jack took out a pencil.

“Ten cents.”

Harold blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“First complaint.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Twenty cents.”

“You cannot be serious!”

“Thirty.”

Harold looked around, apparently searching for another adult.

“I want to speak to whoever owns this place!”

Jack pointed at himself.

“That’ll be fifty cents.”

Three cowboys sitting near the window burst into laughter.

Harold’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“I haven’t even ordered anything!”

“Forty cents for that complaint. Plus fifty for the manager. Ninety cents total before lunch.”

One cowboy nearly fell off his chair.

Harold slapped a dollar onto the counter.

“Fine! Bring me your ridiculous stew!”

Jack picked up the dollar.

“Much obliged. You still owe fifteen cents for dinner.”

The cowboys laughed so hard that Jack had to remind them not to choke on their bread.

But the laughter stopped when Harold finally tasted the stew.

He took one spoonful.

Then another.

Then a third.

His expression changed.

“Well,” he muttered, “that’s surprisingly good.”

Jack nodded.

“Compliments are free.”

Harold stared at him.

“You’re an irritating man, Sullivan.”

“Ten cents.”

By three o’clock, the entire town knew about the restaurant.

People began arriving just to see Jack argue with customers.

The blacksmith complained that the bread was too round.

Ten cents.

The barber complained that the coffee was too hot.

Ten cents.

A traveling salesman complained that the coffee had gone cold while he waited for it to cool.

Another ten cents.

Then Mrs. Eleanor Watkins, the schoolteacher, discovered a loophole.

“Mr. Sullivan,” she said politely, “what if I don’t complain? What if I merely express concern about the quality of your napkins?”

Jack considered that.

“Ten cents.”

“But concern isn’t a complaint.”

“It is when you use that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one that makes a grown man feel like he forgot his homework.”

Even Eleanor laughed.

By closing time, Jack had collected nine dollars and sixty cents.

Only four dollars and twenty-five cents came from actual meals.

Walter counted the money twice.

“Jack, you’ve invented the first restaurant in Montana where being rude costs more than being hungry.”

Jack leaned against the counter.

“That’s the idea.”

But his smile faded when he opened the drawer beneath the cash register.

Inside lay three unpaid bills.

The butcher wanted twenty-three dollars.

The landlord wanted twelve.

And the stove repairman wanted eight dollars before he would fix the broken chimney.

Jack quietly pushed the bills back into the drawer.

Walter noticed.

“Business trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Jack.”

“I said I can handle it.”

Walter knew that voice. It was the same stubborn voice Jack used whenever something was going terribly wrong.

“You’ve got another week before the landlord comes knocking, don’t you?”

Jack said nothing.

That was answer enough.

For a moment, neither man spoke.

Then Walter pointed toward the front window.

“Well, whatever you do, don’t let that woman inside.”

Jack turned.

Across the street stood a tiny elderly lady dressed in black, carrying a faded purple handbag and leaning on a silver-handled cane.

Her name was Beatrice Halloway.

Everyone in Dusty Creek called her Widow Halloway.

And everyone knew she could complain about sunshine being too bright, rain being too wet, and a perfectly good Sunday being inconveniently followed by Monday.

She had once returned a loaf of bread because the baker had sliced it into an odd number of pieces.

She had made a hotel owner repaint an entire room because she disliked the shade of white.

And according to local legend, she had argued with a church bell because it rang four minutes late.

Walter swallowed.

“That woman could bankrupt you in arguments alone.”

Jack watched her approach.

“Or make me rich.”

The old woman stopped outside the restaurant and read the sign.

She read it once.

Then twice.

Then she smiled.

It was not a friendly smile.

It was the kind of smile that made people check whether they had remembered to lock their doors.

She pushed the door open with her cane.

“Are you Jack Sullivan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked him up and down.

“Your hat is ridiculous.”

Jack reached for his pencil.

“Ten cents.”

“Your floor is crooked.”

“Twenty.”

“Your windows are filthy.”

“Thirty.”

“Your chairs look uncomfortable.”

“Forty.”

“And your mustache makes you look like a frightened squirrel.”

Walter exploded with laughter.

Jack stared at her.

“That’s an insult to the cook. Twenty-five cents.”

The old woman nodded approvingly.

“Excellent. You’re keeping track.”

She walked to the largest table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

“Bring me dinner, young man.”

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Are you sure, ma’am? At this rate, your stew might cost five dollars.”

She opened her purple handbag.

Inside were several thick rolls of money.

Walter stopped laughing.

The old woman placed a twenty-dollar gold coin on the table.

“Then you’d better sharpen that pencil.”

Jack looked at the coin, then at her face.

Something about her eyes troubled him.

For one brief second, he felt as though he’d seen them somewhere before.

But that was impossible.

He had never met Widow Halloway.

At least, not that he remembered.

She leaned forward, lowering her voice so Walter couldn’t hear.

“Tell me something, Mr. Sullivan.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Do you still give away food to people who can’t afford it?”

Jack froze.

He hadn’t told anyone in Dusty Creek about the hungry travelers he sometimes fed after closing.

He certainly hadn’t told this woman.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

The old lady’s smile disappeared.

She reached into her handbag again and pulled out something wrapped in an old blue handkerchief.

“Before I order my dinner,” she whispered, “I believe there’s something I need to return to you.”

She unfolded the cloth.

And when Jack saw what was inside, the pencil slipped from his fingers.