Читать книгу Where Love Abides - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 10

Chapter Three

“Package came for you while you were out, Dale. I put it on your desk.”

The sheriff looked over at his deputy as he closed the office door against the lingering summer heat of early September. “Thanks, Marv. And thanks for covering for me.”

“No problem.” The deputy stood and stretched. “You sure you don’t need me to stay a while longer? Alice is finally putting her foot down about that rose arbor I said I’d replace after we moved here last year, and she’ll be waiting for me with saw in hand when I get home. But it’s too hot for a garden project.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Dale’s lips. “Sorry. Can’t help you out. You should have thought of that before you took early retirement from that cushy corporate security job and decided to move to the country and live a life of leisure.”

The other man snorted. “Leisure my foot! Alice has a list a mile long. Let me tell you, this deputy gig is a godsend. Gets me out of the house a few times a week at least.”

Chuckling, Dale regarded the older man. Except for his bristly gray hair, Marv Wallace didn’t look anywhere near his fifty-six years. Fit and tanned, he exuded energy and enthusiasm. And as far as Dale was concerned, Marv was the godsend. The flexibility and availability of the affable, hardworking deputy was a much-appreciated blessing for a single-father sheriff.

Thank goodness the city council had finally seen the logic in having a part-time deputy on call. Oak Hill might be small, but the town did need backup. Marv had been on staff only a few months, but he’d already proven invaluable on a number of occasions.

“Anything going on?” Dale moved to the coffeemaker in one corner and lifted the pot to pour himself a cup of the strong brew.

“Just one call. From a Christine Turner.”

Dale swung toward the deputy, pot in hand. “What’s the problem?”

“She was out working in her garden early this morning, and a car came by at a high rate of speed, swerved off the road as it came around the bend in front of her place and cut a swath through her pumpkin patch. I took a spin out there, and it’s torn up pretty good. She got a license number, though.”

If she’d been close enough to see the license, she’d been close enough to get hit, Dale realized. His mouth settled into a grim line and he set down the coffeepot. “Did you run it?”

“Yep. Registered to Les Mueller.”

“Sounds like Stephen is at it again.” Les owned one of the state’s biggest dairies and was the largest employer for miles around. But he’d been having problems with his seventeen-year-old son.

“That’s what I figured. She said there were three teenage males in the car.”

Fisting his hands on his hips, Dale shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with that kid. This is the third time in the past six months he’s been involved in some sort of minor incident with the law. Except this time, it could have been a lot worse. Chri… Ms. Turner could have been hit.”

“I pointed that out to her.”

“Where’s the complaint?”

“She didn’t file one.”

Dale frowned. “She called to report the incident, we made a positive I.D., and she doesn’t want to press charges?”

“Nope.” Marv sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “You ever meet her?”

“Yeah. A couple of weeks ago. Her truck skidded off the road the night we had all that rain. I found her unconscious behind the wheel as I was driving by. Brought her in to see Sam. Why?”

The deputy arched his eyebrows. “You never mentioned that.”

“Nothing much to mention.” Dale reached again for the coffeepot, using that as an excuse to look away. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Marv about the incident. But something about it had left him unsettled, and he hadn’t been inclined to dwell on the encounter.

“Hmph.” From Marv’s speculative tone, it was clear that Dale’s response didn’t satisfy him. But the deputy let it pass. “Anyway, did you pick up any odd vibes from her?”

Dale shot him a probing look as he finished pouring his coffee. “What do you mean, odd?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. She just seemed nervous around me, and she kept her distance. I never invaded her personal space, but whenever I got within a few feet of her, she backed up. I wondered if it was me, or if she’s like that with everybody.”

Interesting, Dale reflected. “She was that way with me, too. But she seemed fine around Sam and Marge.”

“Must be the uniform. You run any stats on her?”

“No reason to. The plates came back clean, and she didn’t break any laws.”

“Curious thing, though.”

“At the moment, I’m more curious about why she didn’t want to press charges.”

“Can’t give you an answer to that, either. I ran the license while I was there, and told her who the car belonged to. She asked me a few questions about Les, and after I explained who he was, she got this real cold look and said to forget it. I told her Les would make things right, but she didn’t want to pursue it.”

“Stephen needs to be called to task for this. Reckless driving is a serious matter. And if he’d hit Ms. Turner, he could be facing involuntary manslaughter charges.”

“The lady didn’t seem convinced that anything good would come of pursuing this.”

“Okay. Let me think about this one.” Frustrated, Dale raked his fingers through his hair. “In the meantime, Alice is waiting for you.”

The man rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll stop by Gus’s first and grab some lunch.”

“Boy, you must be desperate!” Grinning, Dale took a sip of his coffee. “With your fitness regime I can’t believe you’re willing to ingest all that fat to delay the inevitable.” Gus’s fried food was legendary. Dale figured the diner owner operated on a simple philosophy: if it could be breaded, it could be fried.

“I’ll do almost anything to avoid a date with that saw. See you around.”

As the man disappeared through the front door, Dale strolled toward his office. After twelve years in a cramped, cookie-cutter cube in L.A., illuminated only by harsh fluorescent light, he never failed to appreciate his sunny Oak Hill office, with all its homey touches—including multiple pictures of Jenna displayed on the oak bookshelves that occupied most of one wall.

He took a few seconds to enjoy them, as he always did after settling in behind his desk, starting with a photo of her the day she was born, her pink face scrunched into a howl. From there he moved on to each year’s birthday picture, a smile tugging at his lips as he perused them, enjoying her progress from infant to toddler to a little girl with long blond hair and merry blue eyes. What a blessing she’d been in his life.

And her birth had provided an unexpected blessing in his often-difficult marriage as well, he recalled. As he and Linda had lavished their love on their daughter, they’d grown closer. Linda had come to appreciate—and believe in—the depth of Dale’s caring, and he had been touched by the fierce protectiveness she’d displayed toward Jenna.

The tiny baby had breached the walls around her heart far more effectively than he ever had, Dale reflected, giving him a glimpse of the woman his wife could have been under different circumstances. In fact, the last few months of his wife’s life had been the happiest time in their marriage.

A wave of sadness lapped at the edges of his consciousness, and Dale forced himself to move on to the next photo, from Jenna’s fifth birthday early in the summer. Her sunny smile helped dispel his melancholy, and he turned his attention to the package Marv had placed on his desk.

It was a large, flat envelope with a return address he didn’t recognize. Slitting the end, he slid the contents onto his desk. A colorful children’s book emerged, along with a packing slip.

Puzzled, Dale looked inside the envelope, but found nothing else. He picked up the book, an oversized volume with colorful, imaginative illustrations titled, The Reluctant Princess. The medallion on the cover indicated it had won a prestigious children’s book award. Jenna would love it. But who had sent it?

Picking up the packing slip, he found his answer.

Thanks for your assistance the night of the accident. I hope your daughter enjoys this. Christine Turner.

Taken aback by her unexpected thoughtfulness, Dale examined the gift. She might not want anything to do with him—or Marv either, based on the man’s account of his experience today—but apparently she hadn’t been as ungrateful as she’d seemed the night he’d come to her assistance.

And now he felt guilty. Although he hadn’t been happy about Christine’s refusal to file a complaint, he’d told himself it was her business and had planned to write it off. If it had been anyone else, however, he’d have paid a call and pushed the victim to take the next step. His well-honed sense of right and wrong had always prodded Dale to go the extra step, to put himself on the line if necessary to ensure that justice was done.

Not that he always succeeded. Almost a dozen years as an L.A. street cop had taught him that life wasn’t always fair. And those lessons had been reinforced as he’d watched the woman he loved struggle with the lingering, destructive effects of betrayal and abuse.

Without his faith, he would have become a cynic years ago. But prayer sustained him. And he need look no further than the Bible to find plenty of examples of unfairness. Jesus Himself had been treated unjustly.

Yet Dale wasn’t passive about injustice. As far as he was concerned, wrongs that could be righted should be. That was one of the reasons he’d become a cop. To put authority on the side of those who might feel powerless. To help redress wrongs.

And Christine Turner had been wronged.

Whatever her reasons for refusing to press charges, Dale couldn’t let it rest without attempting to convince her to reconsider. Stephen Mueller wasn’t a bad kid, but he needed to be taught a lesson or these minor incidents could evolve into far more serious offenses. A formal complaint from Christine might be the wake-up call he needed. Besides, Dale owed it to the town to follow up on this before Stephen caused a serious problem. Even if it was uncomfortable.

Grabbing his cup of coffee, Dale strode toward the door, convinced he was doing the right thing. But he also knew that a certain organic farmer wasn’t going to be thrilled to see him.

Disheartened, Christine leaned on her shovel and surveyed the remains of her pumpkin patch. She’d been working steadily since those wild teenagers had skidded through the garden early that morning, but the damage was extensive. As she’d filled in the ruts and salvaged as many vines as possible, her dreams of an autumn pumpkin patch, complete with apple cider and cookies, had begun to evaporate. She estimated that at least half her crop had been destroyed.

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she resettled her wide-brimmed hat on her head, hoisted the shovel again and went back to work. There was little traffic on this byway during the week, but she’d done her research and knew that come fall, the colorful Missouri foliage would draw leaf-watchers from as far away as St. Louis. That’s why she’d planted her pumpkin patch close to the road. Adorned with a colorful scarecrow and welcoming signs, she’d hoped to attract passersby. Now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to salvage enough to follow through with her plan.

The hum of an approaching car caught her attention, but she didn’t spare it a glance—until she heard the vehicle slow and turn into her driveway.

When she looked up and saw the police car, her heart skidded to a stop and the breath jammed in her throat. It was a familiar reaction, one she’d experienced every time she’d had any contact with the world of law enforcement over the past few years. Trying to rein in her panic, she watched as the sheriff emerged from the car. He assessed the damage, fists on his hips, before striding toward her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Turner.”

“Sheriff.” Her voice was stiff and tight.

His tone, on the other hand, was conversational. “I heard there was a problem out here this morning.”

“I’ve already discussed it with your deputy.”

“He told me you don’t want to file a formal complaint or press charges.”

“That’s correct.”

“May I ask why? It’s obvious your property has been damaged, and we were able to identify the owner of the vehicle.”

“I don’t think there’s any point.”

Twin grooves appeared on his brow. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Let it go, Sheriff.” Her eyes went flat.

The grooves deepened. “Ms. Turner, my job is to see that justice is done. When a wrong has been committed, I try to correct it. In this case, that would be very easy to do—with your cooperation.”

The brim of her hat shadowed her eyes—but not enough to hide the brief flash of cynicism that flickered in their depths. “Right.”

He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a speculative squint. “I’m not sure what that means. But if you won’t press charges on your own behalf, look at it this way. Up until now, Stephen Mueller’s worst crime has been joy riding and property damage. However, you were close enough to read the license plate this morning. That means you could have been killed. The next time this happens, the witness might be. Do you really want that hanging over your head?”

“I’m not responsible for other people’s behavior, Sheriff.” She held her ground, trying not to let his perceptive gaze drill past her walls. Nor let the guilt he was dishing out sway her resolve.

She was tough, he’d give her that, Dale conceded. Whatever her reasons, she wasn’t backing down. He took a step closer, noting the sudden whitening of her knuckles as she tightened her grip on the handle of the shovel, the flash of fear that swept across her face. He stopped several feet away, stymied.

“Look, Les Mueller, the owner of the car, is a decent man trying to cope with a rebellious adolescent. Stephen is a good kid at heart, but he’s making some mistakes. I’d like to get them corrected before he finds himself in real trouble.”

When his comment produced no response, Dale sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “Okay, could you at least explain why you think filing a complaint would be pointless?”

After a brief hesitation, she responded. “I understand the owner of the vehicle is a man of some importance in town.”

“That’s true.” Dale watched her, gauging her reactions, hoping this was leading to an explanation that made sense.

“Powerful people do what they want. And get away with it.”

“Not in this town.”

She responded with a silence and a cynical expression.

Indignation tightened Dale’s jaw, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “For the record, that’s not the way things work here. We prosecute crimes and do our best to see that the injured party receives restitution.”

“With people in power, retribution is more likely than restitution.” Her face hardened, and acrid bitterness etched her words.

A few seconds of silence ticked by while his unrelenting gaze bore into hers. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Why would you think that?”

His question seemed to startle her. She took an involuntary step back. Swallowed. Blinked. “I’m not going to press charges, Sheriff. No matter what you say.”

The finality in her tone told Dale he’d lost his argument. And her sudden pallor suggested she was once again afraid. The question was, why? Dale didn’t have a clue. Nor was he likely to find out, he acknowledged, given the stubborn tilt of her chin.

“If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her dismissive inflection suggested she’d do the exact opposite. That she wouldn’t spare it another thought once he walked away. But he’d given it his best shot, offered his most persuasive argument. In the end, it was her call.

Switching gears, he summoned up a smile. “On a different subject, thank you for the picture book. It came this morning. It wasn’t necessary, but Jenna will love it.”

There was a warmth in his tone as he spoke his daughter’s name, a subtle softening of his features. Christine’s own manner thawed a fraction of a degree. “I’m glad. It’s hard to go wrong with a book about a princess for a little girl that age.”

“It was right on. Our current nightly story-time ritual alternates between Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I could recite the books in my sleep at this point.”

A sheriff who read his child bedtime stories. Surprising. But nice. “I’m sure her mom feels the same way.”

A brief shadow darkened his eyes, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Her mother died when she was eighteen months old.”

Shock rippled across Christine’s features. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. My mom has stepped in to help, and that’s been a great blessing.” He nodded toward the torn-up garden. “If you have a change of heart about reporting this incident, let me know.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward his car.

Long after he left, Christine stood in the middle of her topsy-turvy pumpkin patch, thinking about the motherless little girl who called the sheriff “Dad.” Her own situation had been similar but reversed. Her father had died when she was six, before she’d formed any clear memories of him. But her mother had tried her best to compensate for the loss.

All her life, Christine had known that her mother would do anything, sacrifice anything, for her. She’d been loved with such deep devotion that nothing later in life could take away the foundation of self-worth her mother had laid. That foundation had held her in good stead through the hard times, allowing her to retain her self-esteem even as Jack had done his best to destroy it.

For some reason, Christine had a feeling that Jenna would grow up with the same solid foundation of confidence and dignity. Christine might not trust Dale Lewis as a sheriff, but she knew at some intuitive level that he was a loving, devoted father. And that if Jenna could have only one parent, she was lucky to have him.

There was a time, in a situation like this, when Christine would have uttered a silent prayer in her heart, asking the Lord to protect the little girl and to give her father strength to carry on alone. But she didn’t talk much to the Lord anymore. In her time of need He’d let her down, and her once-solid faith had faltered. Now, she regarded prayer as no more likely to yield results than standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch wishing for a fairy godmother to appear.

And as for Prince Charming… It was a whole lot safer to leave him in the pages of a fairy tale.