Support Your Local Sheriff

by Melinda Curtis

Had April known how hard this would be? Had April developed the Daddy Test as punishment for Julie because she refused to forgive Nate? Or had April wanted to know the truth about Nate and known she was too weak to ever obtain the answers herself?

  Uncertainty chilled her veins. Julie traced the bandage at her shoulder.

  “It’ll heal.” Nate claimed her hand.

  Her hand fit in his. The chill faded.

  Uncertainty didn’t fade. It increased.

  His hand was strong and sure. He was strong and sure. “And the memories,” he said. “The ones that keep you up at night. They’ll fade.”

  The air suddenly seemed too thick. Her body too heavy. “How do you know?”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. She glanced at him to make sure he was breathing.

  Nate met her gaze, his eyes the rich color of dark chocolate. She’d always been a sucker for dark chocolate and for men with jet-black hair, broad shoulders and—

  Julie had to look away and remind herself who Nate was and what he’d done.

  “Some people think if you carry a gun to make a living, you should be able to handle the consequences of using it.” His words drew her gaze back, like a moth to a flame. Nate half shrugged, but there was nothing casual about the movement, nothing casual about his viewpoint. “Others will tell you counseling will make it better—a psychologist, a minister, a mentor.” He stared at their hands. She hadn’t realized they were still joined. “I’d tell you that after taking a shot, you don’t sit in limbo. You try something until you find whatever it is that makes you feel better.” He shrugged again and gave her a sideways look.

  Chocolate and warmth and comfort, oh, my.

  Julie was afraid Nate was making her feel better. Julie didn’t want to be afraid of the feelings Nate created.

  “You aren’t the kind of cop who lets things happen to her,” Nate continued in that slow, steady cadence. “Stop being a victim. April wasn’t.”

  He was right. April might have shed tears, but she faced every setback head-on.

  “Jules.” Her name on his lips. His voice. It tried to soothe. It tried to settle. And where it settled was a place deep inside her. “What did April do when things became too much for her?”

  Nothing had ever been too much for April until...

  Julie freed her hand from his, missing his warmth the moment she did so. “You mean when April knew she was dying?”

  He nodded, without any indication her change in tone bothered him.

  Julie was bothered by memories she carried like gunshot scars. Memories of April in those final months.

  April’s gaunt face, bleached of color. Her gray eyes listless and drained of hope. Her small hands bony and lacking flesh. The more frequent nonsensical ramblings. The rare moments of clarity. The word she’d latched onto, repeating at odd times, rising from the bed to clutch Julie’s hand and whisper, “Forgive.”

  The past clamped on Julie’s throat, cutting off air and speech. Cutting off the here and now. Cutting like a knife until Julie wanted to curl her body around Duke’s and gasp for air. She missed her sister.

  “Jules.” Nate’s hand found hers again.

  She hated him for what he’d done to April. She hated that she couldn’t remember her sister’s healthy face. She hated herself for finding solace in his touch.

  “Let it out,” Nate said softly. “No scab ever healed by you picking at it in the darkness.”

  “She cried.” Julie held herself very still, blinking back the sting in her nose and the tears that threatened to spill. “Sometimes she wanted to cry alone. Sometimes she wanted to cry on my shoulder.” Being strong for April had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do.

  “It’s important to talk. It’s important to have someone listen.” He removed his hand from hers, reached into the bowl on his desk and withdrew a small black rock. “I know I’m the last person you want to talk to. But if the world feels like it’s closing in, I’d be there for you.” He pressed the stone into her palm. “And if you can’t stand the sight of my face, hold on to this stone.”

  It was smooth and warm. The size of a large watch face with an indentation in the middle just the right size for her thumb. There were other rocks in the bowl, other stones worn smooth.

  “My mother gave that to me when I was a kid.” Nate stared out the front door as a car drove slowly past. “It’s a worry stone. Rub it when you feel the need to find peace.” He continued to stare outside. “I took it to the other side of the world with me. It helped.”

  He’d taken a rock to war. To killing.

  Julie rubbed the smooth surface with her thumb. He’d found balance in a rock?

  Could she?

  The idea didn’t seem as foolish as it should have been.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NATE CARRIED A sleeping Duke across the town square.

  Julie pushed the empty stroller beside him.

  Anyone driving by would think they were a family walking home after dinner or visiting friends.

  Nate couldn’t let himself be swayed into thinking this was normal. Duke deserved someone great to raise him. Julie deserved a man who was better than Nate. And Nate deserved...

  It didn’t bear thinking on.

  Besides, no one drove past. No one saw them and wondered or reported their walk with the phone tree. The breeze had died down after dark, just as Julie’s anger had cooled down with their conversation.

  When they reached the Victorian, Julie said, “I’ll take him from here.”

  Nate walked past her, his arms filled with a weight that wasn’t a burden. “I’ve got him.” But for how long? April’s questions were designed to make Nate look bad. His past—the one he’d never shared with April—was being dredged up for Julie’s review. The whole process was painful and would continue for another week.

  Reggie played doorman this time. “Welcome back. How was dinner?”

  “No one complained about my cooking,” Nate said, carrying Duke past her and up the stairs to bed. “I’ll change his diaper.” He knew enough about little ones to know they shouldn’t go to bed without a dry pair of pants.

  “I’ll do it. You’ve...you’ve done enough.” Looking nervous, Julie put the worry stone on the bedside table.

  He’d talked. She’d listened. He’d held her hand. She hadn’t pulled a gun on him. He’d given her that stone the same way his mother had all those years ago—as a peace offering.

  Nate tried to stop himself from being satisfied that Julie hadn’t thrown the rock at him, that she might actually see its value. But deep down, he wanted her to see the value in him.

  The thought took him aback. What a dead end that was.

  Nate turned and left them to walk away alone. He took the long route around to the sheriff’s office. Couples and families were inside El Rosal. Gage and Shelby ate at a table with their daughter, Mae, in a high chair. Arturo was tending bar, laughing when his mother poked her head out of the kitchen to say something to him. Slade and his fiancée, Christina, laughed along with him.

  Their closeness. Their camaraderie. Their love. It wasn’t meant for him. Nate could have friendships but no one had taught him how to love. He’d dated April. They’d been a couple. But it had been a comfortable thing, like Terrance wearing Robin’s slippers.

  “Who’s there?” Rutgar asked when Nate entered the sheriff’s office.

  “Just me.” Nate turned on a small light on his desk and bid Terrance goodnight. “How are you feeling?”

  “My ankle hurts more than my head, if that’s what you mean.”

  Nate went into the cell and lifted the handkerchief from Rutgar’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “All of them,” Rutgar said, squinting before snatching the handkerchief bac
k. “You have a fine boy. You’ll make him a good father.”

  “Will I?” Nate glanced at the two fingers he’d waved in front of Rutgar’s face.

  “Don’t go thinking you’re special,” Rutgar grumbled. “Every man who’s ever been told he’s going to be a father has the same doubt. You’re either thinking how can I be as good of a dad as I had, or how can I be a better dad than I had. Or maybe you’re pondering the worst option, which would be you thinking you shouldn’t be a dad at all. Which is ridiculous.”

  Nate swallowed thickly. “When did you become—” a mind reader “—so wise?”

  Rutgar finger-combed his beard like a prophet who was considering his words carefully. “You’d like to think it was when I hit my head today, wouldn’t you?”

  “That would be more comforting than thinking you’d been a fountain of wisdom all this time and I’d missed it.” Nate returned to his desk, running his fingers through the smooth stones in the bowl on top. He’d given Julie the worry stone he associated with the dark thoughts of his childhood. The other stones he’d picked up here and there over the years. A stream in Colorado. A beach in South Carolina. A ruin in Mexico.

  Perhaps he’d chosen the wrong career path. Perhaps he should have become a baker or a carpenter. Someone who made things that people enjoyed. Perhaps then he’d have been more comfortable with people, more at ease expressing his feelings. Instead, he’d chosen law enforcement. A field that required him to detach his emotions and compartmentalize his emotions. When faced with his first crisis on the force, a domestic violence call, he’d reacted on instinct. He’d taken all the frustrated emotions from his childhood and channeled them into positive action in a way he’d been unable to do when faced with a crisis as a kid.

  Late on the night of his eighth birthday, crisis had arrived with a big bang, shaking Nate’s bedroom wall.

  He’d startled awake. It was cold in the house. His nose stung from it. The smart thing to do would have been to roll over and burrow beneath the covers. He had school in the morning.

  But something banged against his wall again. And something whimpered in the hallway.

  They didn’t have animals. Mom had said it wouldn’t be fair. She’d never explained why.

  But there was a noise and Nate was a man. Still only eight, but a man nonetheless. Men got out of bed when they heard a noise. They checked doors and windows. He’d seen men do that on TV.

  Nate crept out of bed, wishing for his gun. Dad had taken it away when they’d returned from shooting. They’d been pulled over on the way home because Dad was speeding. He’d blamed Nate and threatened the whole time to blister his butt. Only when they’d gotten home, Mr. Chilton from next door had been talking to Mom in the front yard. Nate had run inside and begun to do his Sunday chores, dusting and cleaning toilets. Dad had put away the guns, settled on the couch and drunk more beer. Thankfully, nothing more was said about whuppings.

  The wall shook once more. Nate got up and opened the bedroom door a crack.

  At the end of the hall, Dad had his hands around Mom’s throat, her head against the wall. Blood trickled down one side of Mom’s face. Her lip was purple and puffy. Dad had hit Mom before, but nothing like this.

  Both his parents focused in his direction. Dad’s stare had a dangerous gleam; Mom’s widened with horror.

  Nate wanted to run. But they stood between him and the front door.

  What to do? What to do?

  Nate’s body tingled with fear.

  Dad released Mom and charged toward him.

  Nate ran for the master bedroom. He slammed the door and punched the lock.

  Dad crashed into it a moment later. “I owe you, boy!” The door handle shook.

  He owed him a whupping. Nate’s legs shook so hard, he almost collapsed. But he didn’t and he grabbed the cordless phone, ran into the bathroom and locked himself in. Then he climbed into the bathtub and dialed 911.

  “My dad is trying to kill my mom,” Nate said breathlessly when the operator came on the line.

  The memory of the bullet whizzing by Nate’s head returned. He yelped. “And my dad is trying to kill me!” He huddled in the bathtub, shaking.

  By the time the police arrived, Dad had kicked in the bedroom door and was working on breaking down the bathroom door. Nate heard the police tell Dad to freeze. He heard Dad refuse. He heard the slap of bodies and the grunts of a fight. And then the click of handcuffs. No sound had ever rung sweeter in his ears. A policeman told him it was safe to come outside. Nate was shaking so hard he couldn’t unlock the door. Some man he was. Mom had hugged him tight and Molly hadn’t made fun of his tears.

  Later, after a trip to the police station, after a trip to the hospital for Mom, after being taken to a safe house in another county, and after weeks of Mom going through therapy, she’d pressed the worry stone into Nate’s palm. “Keep this under your pillow. When you can’t sleep at night, rub this stone and know that you saved my life and I love you for it.”

  Had she known he’d been feeling guilty for making that call and sending his father to jail? Or had she known he’d need it even more in the years to come?

  “I’ll take my dinner now,” Rutgar said meekly.

  “Sure.” Still, it took Nate a few more minutes to move.

  He’d given Julie his rock. She had no idea what it meant to him.

  * * *

  JULIE KNEW SHE was in a dream.

  It didn’t matter.

  She couldn’t move. Shadowy shapes stalked her, carrying guns.

  She couldn’t move. But she carried a weapon.

  She couldn’t move. But she was able to fire. To shoot and shoot and shoot until her fingers cramped and her shoulder ached and her throat cracked from screaming.

  “Stop that.” Bony fingers gripped her right shoulder above her stitches.

  Julie grabbed the arm attached to those fingers, twisted and pulled. Fingers fell away. Pain fell away. A body fell on top of her.

  A dead body?

  This wasn’t how it had happened.

  “Miss Smith,” Leona said in a choked voice. “Miss. Smith.”

  Light from the bed-and-breakfast hallway illuminated the shadowy figure sprawled across Julie. Leona wore a green velour robe over a white flannel gown. Her streaky gray hair was looped as loosely as a used Brillo pad. Julie’s arm was around her thin neck cutting off her air supply.

  Julie gasped and released her. “What are you doing in here?” It was better than asking herself what she’d been doing.

  Leona scrambled off the bed and to her feet, picking up the white terry slippers that had dropped to the floor during their struggle. “You were crying for help.”

  Julie sat up, clutching the neck of the Raiders football jersey she wore as a nightgown. “I wasn’t... Was I?” She had been. Her throat was raw from it. She rolled over to check on Duke. He slept peacefully within the confines of his pillow wall, worn out by his big day.

  “I think the answer to your question is obvious.” Leona had the slippers on and was straightening her robe. “It isn’t safe for the boy here.”

  She hadn’t added, “With you.” But Julie knew she should have.

  “What’s going on?” Reggie clung to the door frame. “I heard shouts.”

  “I...” Julie swallowed. She couldn’t argue. And it was a relief, really, to be given a reason to leave town. She wouldn’t have to stay the week Nate wanted. She wouldn’t have to soften her stance on him. But she also wouldn’t have a signature on those custody papers. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “She had a nightmare,” Leona said, pushing her granddaughter to the hallway. “Go back to bed.” She waited until Reggie retreated before turning in the doorway. “I lost a little boy once.” The coldness in Leona’s sharp features turned as desolate as a sno
wy peak in the Sierras. “Children are fragile. Be careful with him.” And then she closed the door behind her.

  Fear coursed through Julie’s body. Doubts bubbled up. Would it be better for Duke to be in Nate’s care? It was selfish to say no.

  She had to beat the nightmares. Julie picked up the rock Nate had given her. It was cool and smooth in her palm. It was calming. She could almost hear his voice saying everything would be all right, almost feel his fingers cradling hers.

  It didn’t matter. Julie didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THERE WAS NOTHING like the smell of coffee in the morning when you hadn’t slept the night before. Add in the aroma of fresh-baked sugary things, and Julie could believe she was capable of caring for her nephew again.

  It was barely seven in the morning. There’d been no sign of Nate at El Rosal as she’d pushed the stroller past. She was glad. He’d take one look at her face and he’d know something bad had happened.

  Julie wrestled open the door to Martin’s Bakery and wheeled the stroller inside, breathing deeply. Coffee and sugar. Two of her favorite things.

  Not only did it smell like heaven, Martin’s Bakery looked charming. There were several old wooden tables and chairs in the bakery, most of them mismatched. Framed yellowed photos on the wall displayed who Julie presumed were previous generations of Martins.

  “Hey. Don’t scare the customers.” A woman wearing an apron and a cheerful smile behind the register snapped her fingers. But she wasn’t snapping at Julie.

  Julie hadn’t realized all eyes had turned her way, or that all conversation had stopped. She recognized the town councilwomen at a table near the counter. A woman with purplish-gray hair sat on the bench seat in the window, pinning together quilt squares. The toddler at her feet was one of the boys they’d met at the playground. At a table against the wall, a scarecrow of a man played checkers with an elderly Asian man with a walker. In the back corner, Nate, Rutgar and Terrance watched her, coffee cups midair.

  Nate’s gaze was cautious. His smile almost nonexistent. Busted. He knew she’d had a bad night. She looked like she’d been hung on a flagpole during a weeklong hurricane.