by Beth Ciotta
She would.
Four-thirty finally came and—after a short discussion with Mrs. Fiedler who popped out of the Yarn Barn to ask advice on a knitting project—Chrissy jumped into her car and hit the gas. Ryan—Sheriff McClure—had agreed to meet her at the old diner on Highway 20. A few minutes down the road, her phone pinged with a text. Although it originated from her mom’s phone, the note was from Melody.
Love u mama
Chrissy’s heart pounded and swelled and pounded some more. Not just because of the message itself—although that was glorious—but because she’d only just started teaching Melody how to text as a new and additional form of communication.
Chrissy pulled over. She’d sworn off texting while driving and no way was she not going to recognize her daughter’s achievement and innate sweetness pronto.
Love you too baby. Be home soon.
Chrissy imagined her four-year-old daughter carefully breaking down each word, working the letters in her mind and piecing together the meaning. It helped that Melody was super smart, but they’d both worked hard on her reading and writing skills. A few seconds later, Chrissy was rewarded with a smiley face followed by a winky face.
Chrissy responded in kind then rubbed away an ache in her chest before pulling back onto the road. Ten minutes later, she turned into the diner’s gravel lot, parked alongside the sheriff’s truck, then zipped inside.
The diner was relatively empty, not that it was ever jammed. But somehow enough people stopped by for coffee or a quick bite while traveling from here to there. Enough people to keep Sunset Diner in business. Chrissy spotted two waitresses, both acquaintances, both wearing wilted blue uniforms, a short order cook, three random customers, and Ryan—who was also in uniform, although his brown and tan ensemble looked freshly pressed.
The county sheriff was already seated in a booth and drinking coffee. Like Georgie, the man was addicted to high octane java. Difference was, Georgie was always wired and Ryan was always laid back. The strong, silent type. Closing in on forty and not-so-happily married. His wife, Lacey, was a flaky, loose cannon. They’d separated twice and reunited twice. Now, according to Georgie, they were separating again. Anyone who cared about Ryan—which was most anyone who knew him—wished he’d end things with Lacey once and for all. But they had a kid together and Ryan was the kind of guy who’d do anything to ensure his daughter’s welfare and happiness. Which made him a superhero in Chrissy’s eyes. Unfortunately, his daughter Sienna didn’t get that her mom was a self-involved, faithless birdbrain and fell into a depression every time Lacey split. Otherwise Chrissy was pretty sure Ryan would have filed for divorce long ago.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, flattered that the man stood as she slid into her seat. She’d known Ryan all her life. He was one of her brother’s oldest friends. One thing about Zeke, he knew a good soul when he met one and worked hard to keep them in his immediate circle. Instead of taking Chrissy and their long time association for granted, Ryan treated her with the same courtesy he bestowed upon every female. He was a little old fashioned, but in the best of ways.
Lacey was an ass.
Ryan glanced at his watch while reclaiming his seat. “Two minutes hardly counts as late. Besides I was early.”
“Yeah, well. Thanks for taking the time.”
“Anything for you, short stuff.”
An old fashioned guy who also liked to tease. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“It’s that or Christmas.”
Her given name. A name she’d abandoned the year she’d gotten gobsmacked by a hard dose of reality. “Why can’t you call me Chrissy like everyone else?”
“Because you’ll always be Christmas to me.”
“You just like busting my balls.”
“The anatomical impossibility of that statement aside,” he said, “yeah, I do. But in this case, I’m serious. Just because some jerkwad—”
“Can we not go there,” Chrissy said. “A) Old news. B) This isn’t about me.”
“What’s it about?”
Jane, the younger of the two servers, presented Ryan with a loaded plate. A generous helping of lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles bumped up against a fat juicy cheeseburger. And either that was a double order of fries or Jane had talked the cook into heaping on extra. “Can I get you anything else, Sheriff?” she asked in a sing-songy voice. She didn’t bat her eyelashes, but she may as well have.
“I’m good.” He looked to Chrissy. “What’s your poison?”
“Chocolate milkshake, please. Extra thick.”
“That’s it?” Jane asked.
“That’s it.” After the woman left, Chrissy motioned to her companion’s heaping plate.
“Little early for supper.”
“This is lunch.”
“Oh.”
“So why did you want to see me?” he asked while dressing his burger. “Everything okay with Melody?”
“Mel’s great.” Really, she was. Chrissy reminded herself of that every day even as she cursed her daughter’s profound hearing loss.
Ryan raised a brow.
Right. Chrissy decided to get to the point while guarding Bella’s need for secrecy. “What do you know about Joe Savage?”
“The guy who inherited Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why?”
“He’s cute and I’m interested.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re still hung up on—”
“No. I’m not. Can we not go there?”
Ryan squirted ketchup on his mound-o-fries. “Why do you want to know about Savage?”
“For what it’s worth,” she said, while snitching one of his fries, “everyone in Nowhere is curious about Savage. He moved here a month ago yet he rarely comes into town. He’s stand-offish, and intimidating, and he—”
“Won Big Red in a game of poker.”
She frowned. “Heard about that, did you?”
“I hear about most everything,” he said while feasting on his burger.
“What have you heard about Savage?”
“Nothing of interest. But I’m starting to think I should pry. Does this involve Georgie?”
“Not directly.”
“Angel?”
Chrissy noted Ryan’s subtle change of tone and she couldn’t help but feel a little sad. He’d been carrying a torch for Angel for years. Not that that was common knowledge. He’d slipped once after a few beers at a rodeo hog roast then immediately swore Chrissy to secrecy. “Angel’s not involved,” she assured him. “Except by way of extension like Georgie and me.”
“Which leaves Bella or Emma. And since Savage took possession of Archie’s truck, I’m guessing Bella.”
“I can’t be specific. Please don’t press. Although I will tell you Uncle Archie is once again in possession of Big Red. Thanks to Bella,” she mumbled.
“Huh.”
Chrissy didn’t intend to elaborate. Instead she allowed Ryan a moment to envision sweet Bella in conversation with mysterious biker dude.
Meanwhile, Jane served up a king-sized shake and a jumbo straw. “Extra thick.”
“Thanks,” Chrissy said.
“Sure,” Jane said, her attention on Ryan, except Ryan refused to engage. Flirting wasn’t his style. Another admirable quality as far as Chrissy was concerned. Jane, however, sighed and returned to the counter.
“Guess you run into that a lot,” Chrissy said. “Women have a thing about a man of authority,” she continued when Ryan didn’t respond. “Not me, but lots of other women. Take Angel for instance—”
“Back to Savage,” Ryan said.
“Right.” It wasn’t fair bringing up his secret flame when she refused to discuss her own burning ghost. “Just do me a favor and run a background search on Savage. Or a scan or whatever you do when you need to know if someone is dangerous,
” she added, while stealing a second and third fry.
“I thought you weren’t hungry,” he said while she munched.
“I’m not. But hello. Fries?”
“Whatever.”
“So will you do it? Snoop, I mean.”
“Mentally documenting your concern,” he said.
Which meant he’d snoop. Chrissy smiled and stole one of his pickles just as he jabbed his spoon into her chocolate shake. Yup. Ryan was a good guy. Too bad his kind was a rarity.
Chapter Six
Once upon a Friday…
Bella was in the stacks organizing the juvenile non-fiction shelves when she happened to glance out the window and noticed Carson’s sleek silver car zipping into the parking lot.
Was it too much to hope that he was here to seek out a book and not her?
Every nerve in her already tense body snap, crackled, and popped. If he harassed her, she just might blow.
Yesterday’s drama had continued into the night. She’d spent an uncomfortable evening ignoring Carson’s text messages and enduring her dad’s sullen silence. Retiring early, she’d wrestled with writer’s block for two hours, intermittently catching up with the Inseparables via their new cyber video hangout. They’d bounced between various topics but kept returning to Bella’s developing saga. She’d gone to bed only to be tormented by troubling dreams. One involving a weary postal worker. Another starring a haunted biker. She woke up thinking, he needs me. Only she wasn’t clear if that meant her dad or Savage.
As the morning progressed and her hazy thoughts cleared, she realized she was oddly conflicted as to who needed her attention more. Loyalty and love demanded she attend her dad’s broken spirit. She couldn’t name what drove her to soothe the soul of a veritable stranger. Even as she’d carried out her normal duties at the library, Bella had obsessed on the biker and their deal. Tonight she’d be joining Savage, working off her dad’s debt and wrestling with her libido. What if he swung a hammer shirtless? What if she stared? What if he noticed? She’d been on pins and needles all day wondering if they’d spend the evening bickering or not speaking at all.
Concentration shot and people skills compromised, she’d escaped the circulation desk in search of privacy and calm. The last thing she wanted or needed was a tense showdown with her ex. One thing was certain. Carson didn’t need her. And, even though he professed otherwise, he didn’t love her. How could he when he constantly questioned her choices? More than ever she was convinced his amorous pursuit wasn’t rooted in true love, but based on closing a deal he’d spent months cultivating.
“Hello, beautiful.”
Chest tight, Bella resisted the urge to thunk her forehead to the spines of the American history collection. Whereas Carson criticized her views and goals, he was forever complementing her physical attributes. At first she’d been flattered. Unlike Emma and Georgie, she’d never been a guy magnet. But as time wore on, so did the compliments, making Bella feel like one of Carson’s collectible cars. Clearly he was more smitten with her outer blessings than her inner workings.
“Surprised you’re here on a Friday afternoon,” she said without turning. “Did you come in for a research book or something?”
“I came in for you.”
Most women would have been flattered. A committed business owner, who was typically up to his eyeballs in work-related matters, breaking away for a social visit. Bella just felt pressured.
She slid a rogue book into its rightful place then faced the Silver-tongued Golden-boy of Dawes County embarrassed that she’d ever allowed herself to be seduced by a dimpled smile and sugar words. Carson was the radiant sun to Savage’s dark side of the moon. Cropped blond hair, classically handsome, not overly tall or ripped, but fit and stylish. Creased trousers, pressed oxford shirt, buffed loafers. He owned more suit jackets and ties than any man in Nowhere. He lived in a beautiful house and drove an expensive car. He championed folks who’d fallen on hard times and hosted an annual family fun day at his auto dealership.
Unfortunately, most of his efforts as a Good Samaritan were rooted in selfish motivation. Anything to gain the praise of the townfolk. Anything to live up to his deceased father’s reputation and expectations. Most people were blind to that aspect of Carson—including Carson.
“Not sure what you have in mind,” Bella said, “but I’m on the clock until five. After that I have a commitment.”
“I heard about the poker game,” he said. “Archie gambling away the truck.”
Bella flushed, mortified for her dad. He wouldn’t like knowing he was a source of gossip. Maybe that’s why he’d stayed home last night. To avoid his cronies and random whispers regarding his drunken folly. “Everything righted itself,” she whispered, desperate to minimize the fallout. “Red’s home. We’re good. Dad’s fine.”
“You don’t believe that. And if you do, you’re fooling yourself.”
“I don’t want to talk about this. Not here.” Not ever. Not with you.
“I texted you last night and left two voice mails this morning. If you would have returned—”
“I’m working, Carson.”
“Archie’s drinking is out of control. Coupled with depression…” He sighed and lowered his voice even more. “He could hurt someone. He could hurt you. Unintentionally, of course, but the fact remains. He needs help.”
“What, like a psychiatrist? AA?”
“Or a grief counselor.”
Bella fisted her hands at her sides. Her lungs squeezed. It was the first time anyone had suggested her dad needed professional help. She didn’t want to believe it was that bad. “He won’t go for it. He’s too proud. Too private.”
“What about talking to someone who’s gone through a similar loss? My accountant, Bernie Forrester—”
“Lost his wife last year. I know.”
“He’s acquainted with Archie. I’m sure he’d be willing—”
“No. Thank you. Maybe.” Bella shook her head. “I’ll think about it.” She absolutely believed her dad would feel better if he spewed his bottled up grief. The sadness. The anger. She’d hoped he’d talk to her. She missed her mom, too.
She looked up at Carson, squirming under his compassionate regard. She’d expected an invitation to dinner not a proposed intervention. This is how he’d seduced her in the first place. Stepping in as a calm and confident force in the wake of her mom’s passing. Feeling awkward, Bella folded her arms, shifted. “I appreciate your concern.”
He moved forward and cupped her shoulders. “Things were good between us before I suggested you were wasting your writing talent. I apologized for hurting your feelings. When are you going to forgive me?”
“I do forgive you.” Bella licked her lips, cursed her erratic pulse. She hated confrontation. She hated being forced into expressing her thoughts, especially when they’d inflict hurt or intensify the conflict. Breaking off with Carson hadn’t been easy and she’d tried her best to make the split amicable. When was he going to respect her position? “I know you didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, but that doesn’t change how you feel. Not just about my writing, but about a good many of my interests and opinions.”
“Bella—”
“I’m not the person you want and you’re not the person I imagined.”
He tightened his hold, softened his gaze. “I’m everything you need and more. You just can’t see it right now because you’re blinded by stress.”
Since shouting was discouraged within the library, Bella refrained from blowing her top. She did, however, tremble with frustration.
He angled his head and crooked a persuasive smile, the kind that could sell an Amish man a car. “How about instead of you taking care of your dad, you let me take care of you and him?”
“Carson—”
“Right. You don’t love me. So you said in the heat of anger.”
“So I know in my heart. We’re not compatible.”
“You’re intimidated by my wealth and position. You don’t thi
nk you deserve me. But you do.”
Bella closed her eyes, willing patience, willing words. “Please unhand me.”
When his touch fell away, she chanced his gaze, and instead saw that he’d given her his back. Thankfully, he was leaving. But not without reaffirming his stance. “I’m not giving up on you,” he said over his shoulder. “On us. I am the man you imagined—a flesh and bone knight in shining armor. I will sweep you off your feet.”
As she went about the rest of her day, Carson’s parting promise lingered in the back of Bella’s mind. She anticipated more flowers, more spontaneous visits, random acts of kindness and attempts to right her world. He expected her to succumb to his generous and romantic gestures. She’d become the ultimate challenge and he was determined to win her heart.
Ironically, that against-all-odds scenario fueled many of the starry-eyed tales Bella held near and dear. If she didn’t know Carson better, his romantic declaration would’ve summoned a choir of angels, signaling Bella’s spectacular change of heart.
Instead, his persistence left her hollow and aching for the attentions of a sincere champion. Which reminded her of the application she’d filed with Impossible Dream. She’d complicated her desire to hook up with a gifted illustrator by listing qualities she associated with an ideal lover—sense of humor, generous heart, optimist, hard worker, kid friendly, magical kisser. She cringed now wishing she hadn’t been so specific. She hadn’t just colored outside the lines, she’d scribbled into the abstract.
By the time Bella left the library, her mind was dizzy with ruminations regarding her past and future. Carson, her dad, Savage, Prince Picasso Charming. Considering her troubles revolved around men, who better to confide in than Angel.
Bella loped down the front steps, smiling as her grounded and experienced friend pulled her zippy white sports car—a gift from her second husband—curbside. Baxter Drake, rest his soul, had worshiped the ground Angel walked on, showering her with possessions she hadn’t even wanted. She’d be happier driving a snazzy Jeep than this sleek import, but since Baxter had gifted her with the sporty convertible the night before he died, Angel refused to part with it. She was sentimental like that. She was also very stylish in a bohemian sort of way. Hence she looked all trendy and rebel like—her blazing red hair, wind-tossed and wild—sitting behind the wheel of the sophisticated and uber expensive car.