Where Love Abides (Heartland Homecoming)

by Irene Hannon

  As Christine had told him, every official document in her record was signed by Sheriff Gary Stratton—despite the fact that Dunlap had two part-time deputies. The odds that all of the alleged violations would be documented by the sheriff were small…unless Christine had been set up, as she claimed.

  The personal data on Stratton had taken a little longer to dig up, but it had also revealed some suspicious information. Age forty-four and divorced with no children, the man lived in an expensive home and drove a BMW. Not a lifestyle that could be supported by a small-town sheriff’s salary, unless his public service income was supplemented by family money. In this case, it wasn’t. Stratton had grown up on a small farm in upstate Nebraska, which had been sold to pay inheritance taxes after his father died eight years before.

  So where was his money coming from?

  One possibility was Jack Barlow. Christine had said the sheriff was on her husband’s payroll. But why would her own husband want to harass his wife? And why would the sheriff go along with it?

  His frown deepening, Dale dug into the personal data on Barlow. Age forty-two at his death and president of Barlow Equipment, an agricultural machinery dealer, he’d attended a prestigious college in the East and was active in church and civic organizations. Nothing in the documentation suggested the man was anything less than a leading citizen of the town.

  The local newspaper might offer some additional information, Dale reflected, as he keyed into the online archives of the Dunlap Messenger. He typed in the name Jack Barlow, and a flood of headlines popped up in reverse chronological order. Most were innocuous. Barlow speaking at a regional farmers’ meeting, handing over a donation to a local philanthropic organization, attending a charity event. Dale focused on the final two stories, which dealt with his sudden death and funeral.

  The funeral story provided nothing but a rundown of the facts and a few quotes from the eulogies. The story on his sudden death in the crash of the small plane he was piloting offered more—including one very pertinent piece of information. The other casualty was his sole passenger, a Candace Decker, age twenty-eight and a clerk in the legal department at Barlow Equipment. According to the article, a flight plan indicated they’d been heading for Las Vegas.

  As a cop, Dale knew that jumping to conclusions was dangerous. But he’d be willing to bet Barlow and his companion hadn’t been going to Vegas on company business. And he was also certain this latest piece of information was relevant to Christine’s situation. But how? And where did Stratton fit into the picture?

  He typed Gary Stratton’s name into the newspaper archives. The three most recent headlines, again in reverse chronological order and spaced out over the past four months, confirmed Dale’s suspicion that the man was one of the rare corrupt cops.

  “Court To Consider Plea Bargain In Stratton Case”

  “Interim Sheriff Appointed In Dunlap”

  “Local Sheriff Indicted For Graft”

  According to the articles, Stratton’s illegal activities had been exposed by his newest deputy, who’d witnessed the handoff of a pack of cigarettes and had later found the pack—stuffed with cash—in Stratton’s desk. His suspicions already aroused by other irregularities in the department, the man had taken his concerns to the county prosecuting attorney. Stratton had been suspended from duty while an investigation took place.

  The final story suggested that Stratton had been taking bribes for years from several individuals and businesses. In exchange for identifying those who’d paid him off, he was plea bargaining for a reduced sentence.

  While the names of those who’d purchased his favors weren’t revealed in the newspaper, Dale knew Jack Barlow was among them. But Barlow was dead. If Stratton’s attorney was smart, he’d advise his client to keep Barlow’s name to himself. Assuming no paper trail existed, there would be nothing to tie him to Christine’s husband—and to yet another incriminating example of graft. Nor would there be a way to prove that the charges against Christine had been false. Without such proof, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to expunge her record. And Dale wasn’t willing to settle for anything less.

  He wasn’t sure what it would take to put things right in this situation. He did know it wouldn’t be easy. But he also knew he wasn’t going to back off until her name was cleared. Obtaining justice for Christine had become a personal fight.

  As for why…that was yet one more unanswered question on his growing list. A list that included another equally troubling question.

  Why hadn’t Christine fought back?

  “You’re sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone?”

  Smiling, Dale bent and kissed his mother’s cheek as he and Jenna prepared to leave her at the security checkpoint in Lambert—St. Louis International Airport. “We’ll be fine, Mom. We’ll miss you a lot, but we’ll get by.”

  “I could still cancel my trip. Lillian would understand.”

  “No way. In the two years I’ve been back in Oak Hill, you haven’t taken a single trip. You need a vacation, and you can’t disappoint Aunt Lillian.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” The woman stooped to hug her granddaughter. “You be good for your daddy while I’m gone, okay?”

  “I will. I love you, Grandma.”

  “I love you, too, honey.” She directed her next comment to Dale. “Call me if you need me to come back early.”

  “Scout’s honor.” Grinning, he raised his hand. “Give Aunt Lillian a hug for me.”

  “I will.” With a wave, Arlene joined the security line.

  A few minutes later, a quick glance at his daughter’s bereft expression as her grandmother disappeared in the crowd headed for the gates convinced Dale that diversionary tactics were in order. “What do you say we get hamburgers and French fries for lunch on the way home?”

  “Could we?” She looked up at him, her eyes shining. Fast food was a rare treat.

  “Mmm-hmm. I think this would be a good day for a splurge.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Dale pulled off the highway at a familiar burger chain. Their order was filled with the usual assembly line efficiency of such places, and as he divvied up the food and unwrapped Jenna’s burger, she dipped a French fry into her ketchup and smiled at him.

  “This is more fun than eating at home, Daddy.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like my cooking? My heart is broken.”

  His exaggerated theatrics elicited a giggle. “You cook good. I like your meat loaf best.”

  “That’s one of my favorites, too.”

  “Where did you learn how to cook it?”

  His hand stilled for a brief instant as he opened a packet of ketchup. “Your mommy used to make it. I have her recipe.”

  “I wish I could remember her.” Jenna’s face grew wistful.

  “I do, too, honey.” The last word came out raspy, and he cleared his throat.

  “Ms. Christine read a story yesterday at story hour about a little boy who didn’t have a mommy, either. But he found one in the end. Do you think that might happen for me?”

  “I don’t know, Jenna.” Dale’s appetite was vanishing as fast as an ice cube on a hot summer day, leaving a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. The lack of a mother in Jenna’s life was one of his greatest regrets.

  “Ms. Christine would be a good mommy. She has a pretty smile, and she listens when I talk, and she smells real good. I think about her a lot.”

  So did he, Dale reflected—for very different reasons. In fact, he’d thought of little else since their confrontation on the church parking lot four days ago. Although he’d continued to dig for information in the interim, he’d learned little more. But after calling in some favors among his friends in law enforcement, he’d confirmed that the Dunlap sheriff hadn’t named Jack Barlow as one of the people who’d paid him off. Nevertheless, Dale had shared his suspicions with the prosecuting attorney on the case, who’d promised to look into the matter.

  “Don’t you think so, Daddy?”

&nbs
p; “Think what, honey?” With an effort, Dale tried to refocus on the conversation.

  “That Ms. Christine would be a good mommy.”

  He kept his tone neutral. “I suppose so.”

  “Why couldn’t she be my mommy?”

  “It’s not that easy, honey. I’d have to marry her first.”

  “If you did, she’d live with us, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you like her?”

  A bite of burger stuck in his throat, and he swallowed with difficulty. “She seems very nice. But when you marry someone, it means you’ll stay with them for the rest of your life. That’s a long time. So you have to be very sure you like that person a whole lot.”

  “I like Ms. Christine a whole lot.”

  How had they gotten into this conversation? Dale wondered. And how was he going to get out of it?

  “Are you all finished, honey?”

  She looked down at her food. “I still have some French fries.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s wrap them up and you can eat them in the car on the way home.”

  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to eat in the car.”

  “Just for today we’ll make an exception.”

  “What’s a ’ception?”

  “It’s when the person who made a rule tells you it’s okay to break it.”

  “But why is it okay?”

  As he gathered up his almost untouched food, Dale prayed for guidance. “Because it’s a long drive home and I promised Deputy Wallace I’d stop in and see him as soon as I got back.”

  “But what about your lunch? You always told me not to waste food.” She gave him a disapproving look as he started to stuff his burger into the bag with the trash. “Is that another ’ception?”

  “No.” Withdrawing his hand, Dale rewrapped the burger with more care. “I’m taking this home to eat later. Now tell me what you did in preschool yesterday. Grandma said you learned about Thanksgiving.”

  As they exited the restaurant and he strapped her in, setting the French fries in her lap, Jenna chattered about preschool. He said a silent prayer of thanks that children could be easily distracted.

  He only wished the same were true for him.

  But try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get a certain auburn-haired woman with soft brown eyes out of his mind.

  Double-checking the address, Christine pulled up in front of Dale’s tiny bungalow on a quiet street in Oak Hill. On a Friday morning, no one should be home. Arlene had told her that Jenna attended preschool on Monday, Wednesday and Friday until noon, and Dale would be at work.

  She’d tried calling Arlene on Wednesday after she’d found her checkbook pushed halfway under a row of shelving in the library. The woman must have dropped it during story hour, Christine had concluded. Then she’d remembered Arlene mentioning a trip to the Southwest to visit her sister. Christine had no idea how to reach her, but Dale would. She’d discarded the notion of calling and leaving a message, unwilling to take the chance he’d answer. Nor had she wanted to drop by the sheriff’s office and see him face-to-face. The safest course of action was to leave it inside his mailbox with a note.

  Wrapping her sweater around her to ward off the unseasonable chill, she picked up the manila envelope containing the checkbook and slid from her truck. To her relief, the box was on the street rather than by the front door, meaning she didn’t have to approach the house. Pulling open the small door, she slipped the envelope inside, prepared to make a fast exit.

  But as she turned to go a flutter at the curtains in the front window caught her attention. That was odd. No one should be home at this hour.

  Before she had a chance to ponder the situation, the front door opened. Jenna was framed in the opening, still in her pajamas at eleven in the morning. Was she sick? Christine wondered. And if she was, who was taking care of her?

  Without hesitating, she strode down the front walk toward the little girl. The closer she got, the more concerned she became. Jenna’s pale cheeks were tear streaked, and she was trembling. Dropping down to her level, Christine smoothed the hair back from her forehead and gave her a comforting hug.

  “Jenna, honey, what’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  “N-no. But daddy is.”

  Looking over the little girl’s shoulder into the tiny living room, Christine saw no sign of Dale. “Where is he?”

  “I—in the bathroom.”

  Torn, Christine debated her next move. She was pretty sure Dale wouldn’t appreciate her interference. Yet she couldn’t ignore Jenna’s distress. As she stroked the little girl’s back, trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation, Dale stepped into the living room from the hall. And after one look at him, she knew she couldn’t walk away.

  Bent slightly, his white-knuckled grip on the door frame suggesting he needed the support to remain upright, he appeared to be in severe discomfort. A permanent grimace seemed to be etched on his colorless face, and despite the cool day, his hair was damp, as was the T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest.

  Standing, Christine kept one hand on Jenna’s shoulder. “You look terrible! Have you called Dr. Martin?”

  “I’ll be okay. What are you doing here?”

  “Your mother dropped her checkbook at the library. I was putting it in your mailbox when Jenna came to the door.”

  As a sudden spasm of pain tightened his features and he drew in a sharp breath, panic clutched at Christine. Dale had always radiated a quiet, reliable strength. To see him hurting and vulnerable was more than unsettling; it scared her to death.

  Without waiting for an invitation, she moved into the house, stopping inches away from him. “If you aren’t going to call Dr. Martin, I am.”

  “He throwed up. A bunch of times,” Jenna offered. “I wanted to call Grandma, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  Uncharacteristic irritation flared in Dale’s eyes. “Jenna, go read your book while I talk to Ms. Christine.”

  “I think you should call Dr. Martin, too.” The mutinous set of his daughter’s chin reminded Christine of the sheriff.

  “Look, I don’t need you two ganging up on me. I…” All at once he clutched his stomach, and without another word he headed down the hall. Fast. A few seconds later, the muffled sound of someone being violently sick permeated the house.

  Dropping onto one knee beside Jenna, Christine tried to keep the alarm that had set every nerve in her body on edge from seeping into her voice. “When did your daddy get sick?”

  “This morning. He was fixing my breakfast, and all of a sudden he got real white, like a ghost, and ran down the hall.”

  At least his illness was very recent, Christine thought in relief. “It sounds like the flu to me. It’s not very much fun, but after a few days it goes away and you feel fine again. I’m going to call Dr. Martin, though, in case he wants to give your daddy some medicine to help him feel better faster. Why don’t you sit down and look at that book you took home from the library, about the magic school bus? And after I call Dr. Martin, we’ll see about having some lunch. How does that sound?”

  “Okay, I guess.” The little girl’s lower lip quivered. “But I’m scared. Daddy’s never been sick.”

  Her throat constricting with emotion, Christine pulled the little girl close. “You don’t need to be scared anymore. We’ll take good care of him, okay?”

  “I’m glad you came over.” Sniffling, Jenna tightened her grip on Christine.

  “Me, too. Now you go get that book while I call Dr. Martin.”

  By the time Dale emerged from the bathroom, shaken and weak, Christine had placed the call. Sam was seeing his last patient of the morning and had promised to run over on his lunch hour as soon as he finished.

  “Dr. Martin will be here in a few minutes.” Christine met him in the hall.

  The intimidating glare Dale gave her had little impact, considering he was using a door frame to hold himself up.

  “What is
this, some macho male thing?” Christine propped her hands on her hips and glared back. “You’re sick. And even if you want to try and tough this out, you have a very frightened little daughter to think about. You need to do this for her if not for yourself. So will you please get back into bed before you fall on your face?”

  As she concluded her tirade, Dale’s defiance changed to shock. Then, to her surprise, a glint of humor sparked in his eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re bossy?”

  Although she’d been prepared to argue her point, Christine was glad she didn’t have to. It seemed Dale was going to capitulate. Some of the tension melted from her shoulders, and she lifted her chin. “Headstrong, maybe. Never bossy. Most of the time I’m quite reasonable.”

  “I might debate that, but I’m not up to it at the moment.” He wiped the sleeve of his shirt against his damp forehead.

  Without thinking, she moved closer and laid a hand on his forehead. His skin was clammy beneath her fingers, and hot. Too hot. “You’re burning up. Where’s your thermometer?”

  “In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. But don’t bother. I already checked. A hundred and two.”

  “You must have the flu.”

  “Nope.” He pushed off from the door frame and started down the hall, steadying himself against the wall as he moved slowly down the short length, every step an obvious effort.

  “How do you know?” she called after him, confused.

  “I have a pretty good idea what’s wrong.”

  When he didn’t offer more, Christine followed him, distracted for a brief second as she passed Jenna’s pink and mauve bedroom, with its fairy-tale princess border and white furniture. “Do you want to let me in on the secret?”

  “Food poisoning.”

  “Why do you think that?” Twin furrows appeared on her brow.

  “All the evidence points in that direction.”

  She let out her breath in a huff. “Could you stop being a cop for five minutes and explain your conclusion in plain English?”

  He eased himself down on the bed, wincing a bit as he sat. Christine came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the austere room, which contained only a queen-sized bed, a dresser and a chair.