I thrived at my job, earning accolades at every turn. Three years ago, Captain Booker Gatto from the MET, an elite division of the Drug Enforcement Agency, offered me a spot on his team. I jumped at the chance.
Then everything went wrong. Even now the memories throbbed with raw pain. It had been an exceptionally hot summer night as the team surrounded what we thought was a makeshift drug house. The rain slid down my face making it near impossible to see into the alley behind the dilapidated home. A baby cried from a neighboring house. A back porch light dimmed as the sound of a gunshot cut the air. I glanced over at my partner—Tom had been talking about his pretty wife when the bullet penetrated his chest. The blood seemed unreal as it soaked his shirt, as if I were watching a bad movie. It spread through his clutched fingers that clutched his chest over the wound. I grabbed him, shouting, trying to find shelter anywhere. We’d been set up. By the time I knew what happened, three of my fellow officers were murdered.
I, too, was shot in the chest and right thigh, and left for dead. As I lay in the hospital, with tubes coming out of my chest and nose, I grew disillusioned with the MET. My team and I would put our lives in danger from the scum that roamed the streets day after day. We’d make an arrest, then sleazy lawyers would convince the judges to give the perpetrators a mere slap on the wrist and they’d put them back out on the streets again.
Several months later, after working my way through numerous odd jobs, and some intense physical therapy, I received an email from Chayton—an old family friend from Sugar Maple and the town’s police chief. He’d heard about my near-death experience, and how I’d gone down defending two of my team members. He offered me a job as a deputy. It took me a couple days to decide if I wanted to go back into law enforcement, but it was in my blood. Hopefully working in a small town would be better than working for the MET.
That was two months ago. Two wonderful, glorious months. So far, I’d ticketed two jaywalkers, assisted with a few domestic disturbances, and arrested three drunk and disorderlies. What a difference it made working in a small town with a population of just under three thousand.
“Hey, Jack. Got a certified letter you need to sign for,” Chayton called out. I swung my legs around, scooped up my cell phone, slipped it into the left breast pocket of my fern green uniform, and strolled into the reception area of the Sugar Maple police station.
Compared to Port Fare, this station paled in size. Our reception area with its two desks couldn’t be much bigger than my seventh period math class back in high school, and that included the booking station for fingerprints and mug shots along the back wall. Off to the right were a couple of offices, one being mine, the other Chayton’s, each about a third of the size of the reception area. On the opposite side were two holding cells—they were even smaller than our offices.
Chayton’s wife Gina, a tall beauty with light brown hair and green eyes, stood next to the chief smiling at their two daughters. Jenna was four and Marie seven. They colored away in some kind of fairy princess-y looking coloring book.
“You Jack Mahoney?” asked a freckle-faced teen holding a large yellow envelope.
“That’s what my mother claims.” I took the envelope and slid my finger under the flap on the back to remove the thick stack of papers. A grin took over my face. “It’s official. I’m free. My divorce has been finalized.” I thumbed through the paperwork, feeling more joy than sorrow. The marriage was a mistake from the beginning. I’d hoped we could work out our problems, only Debbie, my ex, struggled with the whole trying concept.
“You were married?” asked Marie, her green eyes wide.
“Yes, but not anymore.” I took a deep, cleansing breath.
Marie turned back to her drawing. “Why not?” she asked.
“Let’s just say she turned out to be a real bi . . . ah, witch,” I corrected myself, not wanting to swear in front of the little girls.
Jenna wheeled around, her mouth wide open. “You married a witch?”
“What did she look like?” pressed Marie.
I looked at her father. Chayton, a full blooded Cherokee with black hair and deep brown eyes, grinned broadly and waved his hand, signaling me to continue. I cocked a brow as if to say, Thanks a lot. Not sure how to explain my gold-digging, two-timing ex-wife to a couple of innocents, I decided to fall back on the stereotype.
“Her skin is rough and green like a cricket frog. She has a wart on the end of her nose with two, no, three black hairs growing out of it. Her hair . . .”
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Oh, that kind of witch.”
That kind of witch? I thought. “What other kind is there?”
Jenna held up her coloring book, showing me a beautiful fairy dressed in a flowing pink gown. I didn’t point out the wings which meant it was a fairy and not a witch. Instead, I grinned broadly. “My mistake. She’s lovely.” I bowed gallantly, eyeballing her parents as their shoulders bounced in silent laughter.
“Come on, drinks on me.” Chayton motioned to the door. I followed the six-foot-six sheriff out onto the front porch of the station. The building, constructed in the late eighteen hundreds, was originally the town meeting hall. The city council converted it into a police station around 1912. The exterior of the building oozed a charm that modern day buildings couldn’t hold a stick to.
Chayton ambled to the soft drink machine on the porch. He glanced around, no doubt making sure there were no tourists nearby, and gave the machine a strong kick. Two Diet Pepsi cans slid down the shoot into a basket at the bottom. “Whoever heard of paying two dollars for a can of soda?” He handed me one of the cans. He pulled the tab on the other and took a long draw, emptying half the can at least.
“I do believe you can drink me under the table, Sheriff.” I raised the can to my lips and took a sip of the cool, fizzy liquid. “By the way, don’t you own this soft drink machine?”
“Yup. I make a small fortune off the tourists with this thing.” He chuckled and drained the can. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I like your truck. Did you just get that before you came here?” He pointed to my brand-spanking new black Ford F-350 pickup parked in front of my office window.
“Won the lottery, not the big jackpot, mind you, but enough. I rewarded myself with that beauty.” I smiled broadly.
“Never thought of you as a gambling man.” Chayton tossed his empty soda can into the recycle bin just off the porch.
“I’m not. Remember me telling you about the odd jobs I worked before coming back to Sugar Maple?”
“Yup, while you were in physical therapy. Too injured to work as a cop, but too high energy to sit around and do nothing.”
“Something like that.” I chuckled. “I did everything from working as a dish washer, a carpenter, and even a dog walker. One of my dog walking customers gave me a lottery ticket as a bonus one day. I tossed it on my dresser and didn’t give it another thought. I didn’t even realize I’d won anything until the woman who gave me the ticket encouraged me to check the numbers. It wasn’t a massive fortune, but a nice little nest egg nonetheless. I stuck the money in a safe deposit box after buying that pickup and haven’t touched it since.”
“Why a safe deposit box and not the bank to earn you some interest?” Chayton asked. He moved to the side as a handful of tourists stopped in front of the station to take a picture of the old brick building.
I rested against the railing, hoping Chayton wouldn’t haul me into one of the holding cells for what I was about to admit. “Didn’t want the greedy ex-wife getting her hands on it, so I hid it until the divorce became final.” I grinned, pleased with myself.
Chayton’s hand slapped heartily against my back. “Good thinking.” As he laughed, a rusted-out pickup—quite the contrast to mine—came screeching to a halt in front of the office, scattering the tourists as they scurried across the street.
A big bruiser of a guy named Jed Abbott stormed out of the truck wearing overalls and flip-flops. I hated when the locals dressed like something out o
f a Hatfield and McCoy movie. It was one thing to cater to the tourists, but some people took it too far. Only Jed wasn’t playing up to anybody: he was true blue hillbilly, through and through.
“Sherriff, I want that witch arrested.” He swiped the sweat racing down his face onto the back of his dirt covered hand, smearing a black streak across his forehead. It matched his dirty blonde hair. Jed dropped out of school right before I left town. He’d married one the Fartious twins—I couldn’t remember which one—a year after she graduated. His brother Buck married the other one a month later. I chuckled to myself. It had been nine years and two marriages since the famous incident, and yet the townsfolk still referred to Fiona and Felecia as the Fartious twins.
“Jed, relax and come have a sit.” Chayton pointed to a couple of wooden rocking chairs on the porch. Chayton spoke in his full southern drawl now, strictly for the tourists passing by. I pinched my lips together to keep from smiling. The brawny sheriff hailed from North Dakota. He’d moved to Sugar Maple fifteen years ago to take the job of deputy, the job I now had. Five years later he married one of the town’s local gals, Gina Sorenson. And yet, his southern drawl screamed authentic. You’d never know he wasn’t born and raised on the mountain. Chayton rested his mammoth bronze hands on his gun holster. “And ah’d be likin’ you to remember my young’uns are inside, so ah’d appreciate it if you’d keep that colorful language of yours checked.”
“I ain’t cussed none,” Jed protested.
“And let’s keep it that way,” Chayton said with a nod. “Now, what y’all bowed up about?”
“It’s that witch ag’in. She killed my prize huntin’ dawg. I want her arrested.” Jed spit a black pinch of tobacco on the sidewalk.
“Jed, you come down here once a week complainin’ about Marigold and something she supposedly done, or a spell she supposedly put on you, but you never have proof. I’m tellin’ you, I can’t do anything until you got proof.” Chayton’s southern drawl slowly dissipated as the tourists made their way down the sidewalk.
But not Jed’s. “Shoulda knowed the Gubmint wouldn’t hep me none,” he grumbled. “I’s gunna take madders in mah own hands.”
Jed turned for his truck. Chayton grabbed my shirt as I made my way forward to stop the hillbilly. No way was I going to allow this big bruiser go after Marigold. Chayton signaled for me to stay put as he slammed his hand hard onto Jed’s shoulder and yanked him around by his overalls, backing him up to the truck.
“You listen up, boy.” Chayton’s tone was low and threating. “You lay one hand on that sweet little gal, I’ll personally see that you rot in jail for the rest of your pathetic life. You understand me?” All hints of his drawl vanished as he stood nose to nose with Jed. I made a mental note to never cross Chayton.
“Y-yup. Ah git it.” Jed’s jaw ticked as he slunk into his trunk and cranked the engine over. He drove away, heading in the direction of his house.
“I’d better go and check up on Marigold,” Chayton said, straightening his uniform and heading inside.
“Can’t you just call her?” I asked, following him inside. Our heavy boots clunked over the hardwood floor.
“No phone at her place.” He shrugged. “She needs to be warned that Jed is blaming her for the death of his stupid dog. I don’t trust that stupid git.” Chayton frowned. “Prize dog my. . .” he looked over at his two young daughters, then turned back to me, “…my you know what. Those hound dogs are stupider than he is, and as you can see, that’s pretty dang stupid.”
“I’ll stop and check in on Marigold.” I fidgeted nervously with my holster. “I’ve been meaning to go and see her since I got back anyway.”
“I wouldn’t feel right having you do that.” Chayton patted me on the back. I stumbled forward a little. “You haven’t had a single day off since you started here two months ago, and I promised you a week’s break as soon as we got the new deputy trained. You take your much deserved time off. I’ll go and see Marigold.”
“It’s practically on my way. I don’t mind. I insist.” I smiled casually, hoping my excitement of seeing Marigold up close and personal didn’t show.
“If you’re sure,” Chayton said. His wife weaved her way under his arm and she smiled up at him.
Chayton seemed to be wavering and I took that as my chance. “Not a problem. In fact, I’ll head out now if you’re okay with it. My shift’s over in ten minutes anyway.” Chayton nodded and I turned to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I could have sworn the couple winked at each other as I left.
I parked my truck behind my apartment after deciding to take my bike up to Marigold’s. My doctor recommended I ride the bike regularly as physical therapy for my leg. I enjoyed my daily rides, but today the ride felt more exhilarating for some reason. I told myself it was because after completing my police business, I’d start a much needed week of sleeping and fishing. But truthfully, I couldn’t wait to see Marigold.
Since coming back I’d only seen her a couple of times, the first being about a month ago. She was crossing the road bringing her herbs to the tourist shop next to the station to sell. My heart flipped over in my chest. She looked good. Better than good. Beautiful. Her skinny, stick-like body had filled out nicely with its womanly curves. She’d changed the way she wore her hair. In high school, she usually had frizzy, untamed curls or she’d keep it tethered in a fluff-ball of a ponytail. Now it hung in long soft curls that made me want to reach out and touch each and every one. I watched her cross to the shop and disappear inside the station. I just stood there like a dummy without saying a single word to her.
The next time I saw her was at the market on the corner as she made her way through the store. That time I got up the nerve to actually speak to her.
“Hey, Marigold.” I purposely turned down the same aisle so I could bump into her accidently. “It’s been, like, forever.” I stuffed my hands in the pant pockets of my uniform so she couldn’t see them shaking.
“Hi, Jack,” she said in her southern drawl. I’d forgotten how hypnotic her voice sounded. “I heard you were back in town.”
“Got sick of the big city and came home to roost,” I said, kicking at absolutely nothing on the floor.
“I heard you was hurt pretty bad. I’m sure sorry.” Compared to some of the locals, Marigold’s southern accent was mild, but it could still put a smile on my face. She touched my arm and our eyes met. “Are you alright now?”
Unable to speak, I nodded. Her blue cornflower eyes. I’d thought about them, even dreamt about them time and again over the past nine years. They seemed even prettier than I remembered. I stood spellbound. Maybe she really is a witch, I chuckled to myself. For the life of me, I couldn’t recall why I’d never kissed her, because I sure remember wanting to.
Swallowing hard, I snapped out of my trance. “Maybe we can do lunch some time. You know, get caught up on each other’s lives.”
“I’d like that,” she said softly.
“Here’s your chicken cutlets, Marigold.” Dean, the pimply-faced guy, well, mere boy really, handed her a package wrapped in white paper from behind the butcher counter. “You sure look pretty today.”
“Thank you, Dean.” She took the meat and set it in her cart.
“I’ve been fixin’ to ask you if you’d like to go to a movie next Saturday?” the twerp pressed.
Then the memory of why I never kissed Marigold back in high school flooded my brain. She cheated on me with some boy over in Grantsville. Well, not technically since we weren’t really dating, per se, but we’d spent every minute we could with each other at the time and we’d talked on the phone until the wee hours of the morning. We were almost dating.
As she chatted with Dean, the memories of my two-timing, ex-wife Debbie and her massage therapist grinded away in my stomach. Without another word, I slipped away
My crush on Marigold began in seventh grade, but I worried about showing her any interest because of the rumors. It’s not that I believed the witch stories, but
like most kids my age I didn’t want anyone to make fun of me for hanging out with her. Not until my tenth grade year, one week before my family packed up and moved to Port Fare, did I muster the courage to speak to her. It was the best week of my life. And oddly enough, it was also the longest. I spent every free minute with Marigold. When I was with her it was as if time stood still. I desperately wanted to kiss her, only never got up the nerve. But I did fall in love with her. Mad, crazy, young love. I rubbed at the ache in my chest, remembering my time with her. I knew she was dating someone else, but the night that I learned we were moving, I still wanted to jump out of my parents’ car and go straight to her house, desperate to tell her the heartbreaking news. How was I going to survive without her? But then again, she had a boyfriend, so what did it matter how I felt? I experienced my first broken heart that year. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last.
After Marigold’s mom died, some friends told me that her father had lost his mind. They had to sell their home and move to a small fishing cabin he’d built years earlier. When he died three years ago, Marigold refused to move back down, even though Jed and his brother offered to buy the cabin and the third of the ridge it sat on. Still, Marigold didn’t budge. I did like her grit—it was probably why I liked her, despite our past.
I turned on the back road up Sugar Maple Ridge to Marigold’s house, pumping hard up the unpaved path. I gripped the handlebars tightly as the road grew increasingly difficult to maneuver. It’d rained that morning, turning the road into thick mud. After getting stuck several times and caking my tires with rich West Virginia soil, I decided to hike the rest of the way. I hid my bike under some overgrown buttonbushes near the bottom of the hill.
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