The Sheriff of Shelter Valley

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  A million questions, but very few answers.

  He got to know nothing at all about the circumstances and facts, the history, that made up Beth Allen’s life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO LIE. Driving her old Granada to Bonnie’s for her second Sunday dinner in three weeks, trying to distract her thoughts with the grand beauty of the mountains surrounding them, Beth finally accepted that she’d have to make up a past—not just the couple of lines she’d recited anytime anyone asked about her. Up until now, the fact that she was a grieving widow had sufficed. Recognizing that her recent past was painful, people were sensitive enough not to ask further questions.

  But that was when those people were only acquaintances.

  Bonnie Neilson and her family—her brother—wanted to know Beth Allen. Where she came from. Where she went to school. Her most embarrassing moment. Happiest moment. The men she’d dated.

  The man she’d married.

  They wanted to know it all.

  They had no idea how badly she wanted to know all those things herself.

  What she didn’t want was the rest of the memories that would come as part of the package. She was scared to death to find out she might have stolen her son.

  If that was the truth, and if she remembered it, she’d be forced to give him back.

  Still, before she’d left home today, she’d read over the few entries in her memory notebook, trying to piece together a picture she could give people.

  “We’re going to Katie’s house, Ry,” she told her son, sending him a big smile. His feet, hanging over the edge of the sturdy beige car seat, were still. But his eyes were alert, intent, as he looked back at her, straight-faced.

  “You remember Katie from Little Spirits,” she continued, knowing that Ryan understood everything she was saying, even if he wouldn’t respond. “We went to her house for dinner a few weeks ago and you fell asleep on Mommy’s shoulder. You played with Katie’s blocks. And she has a Magna-Doodle, too.”

  Ry’s little voice filled the car, but Beth couldn’t make out the words. From his intonation it sounded like a question.

  So Beth replied to what she could only assume he’d asked. “Yes, I think she’ll let you play with the Magna-Doodle, but I want you to promise something, okay?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “I want you to promise that you’ll play with Katie today. Okay? Just like you play with Bo and Jay and Bethany Parsons.”

  Ryan watched her lips and then her eyes.

  “Okay?” she repeated.

  He nodded again. Slowly, deliberately, his little chin moved up and down. The chin that had the same cleft in the middle as hers.

  Ryan might not say much, but when he agreed to something, she could count on it. Soon after they’d arrived at the Neilsons he picked up one of Katie’s puzzles and took it over to sit by the little girl. He dumped the wooden pieces and, with the hand-eye coordination of a two-year-old, he started putting them awkwardly back on the board. Within seconds Katie turned around and placed another piece. Not a word was spoken between them.

  Beth wished her own interactions could be so clean and simple. She spent the first five minutes staying out of the way, clutching her canvas bag.

  Dinner was excellent—another cold main-course salad in deference to the weather. It was the first Sunday in September, and still too hot to even think about turning on the oven. Or eating anything warm, for that matter.

  She was saved from having to sit next to Greg by Katie’s last-minute insistence that she get to sit by “Unca” which resulted in Grandma Neilson and Greg switching chairs to accommodate Katie’s booster seat.

  “Lou can lose my high chair, Wyan,” the little girl said importantly as she climbed up and set her little bottom down in her new blue plastic booster.

  Well before the end of dinner, Beth had fallen in love with Grandma Neilson. The white-haired, barely five-foot-tall woman didn’t let anything—not age, infirmity nor death—get in her way. She’d reduced life to its simplest terms. Being loved and loving others were what mattered. Anything else was simply an inconvenience to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

  “So, Bonnie says you’ve got a cleaning business here in town,” Grandma said to Beth as she chomped on her Chinese chicken salad.

  Dressed in a long-sleeved button-up blouse and pair of navy slacks in spite of the heat, Keith’s grandmother looked like she was ready to go to the office.

  “I do,” Beth said, on edge that afternoon as she waited for a question she couldn’t answer.

  Maybe this was too much of a life for her—having friends, trying to have family experiences. And yet, seeing Ryan sitting there in his high chair, pulled up to the table as though he belonged, watching him grin at Keith and babble a sentence to Bonnie, she wasn’t sure she had any choice.

  She had no idea what she’d taken Ryan away from. Aunts, uncles? Maybe a grandmother or two like Grandma Neilson?

  A father?

  How could she not do everything possible to provide him with some of the same now?

  “Good for you,” Grandma was muttering. “Get on with it, that’s what I say.”

  Head bent over her plate, Beth nodded.

  “Use your spoon, Katie, not your fingers,” Keith said. Greg leaned over to help his niece do as her father directed.

  “Losing a husband is hard,” Grandma said. “I’ll grant you that, but you still have to get on with it, or the Good Lord would’ve taken you, too.”

  “Sorry about that,” Keith said. “Grandma just tells it like she sees it.”

  “I don’t mind,” Beth said. She had a feeling that if there was ever a time she needed someone to confide in, Keith’s grandmother would probably be her most sympathetic audience.

  The least judgmental, anyway.

  She’d understand how a woman could love her baby so much she’d do anything for him.

  “Do you have room for another customer?” Grandma asked. “I’ve gotten myself on so many committees, I sure could use some help keeping up the house.”

  Beth didn’t miss the way Bonnie, Keith and Greg shared surprised looks. But she didn’t really care.

  “What committees?” she asked.

  She gave up even trying to keep them straight after Grandma described the fifth one. The woman seemed to run the entire town single-handedly.

  With a little help from Becca Parsons, apparently. Little Bethany’s mother had been mentioned several times during Grandma’s dissertation. Beth had yet to meet the woman who was not only a prominent member of Shelter Valley’s city council, but wife to the president of Montford University, as well.

  “So, you got the time?” Grandma asked.

  “I do,” Beth said. She didn’t really, but she’d make time. She really needed to be putting away more for Ryan’s education than she was currently able to allot each month.

  If she were anyone else, she could just hire an employee or two. But she wasn’t. She was Beth Allen, nonexistent person. While she was diligently figuring out her taxes and setting aside the money to pay them if she was ever free to do so, she couldn’t actually file. She didn’t even know her social security number.

  “I don’t accept checks or credit cards,” she said.

  “Smart woman.” Grandma nodded approvingly. “Cuts down on bank fees.”

  “You want to do my house, too?” Greg asked. “I could—”

  “Forget it, buddy,” Beth interrupted before she was somehow trapped, in front of the sheriff’s family, into doing something she knew would be far too dangerous.

  Greg Richards was in her thoughts too much already. She didn’t need to see where or how he lived. Didn’t need to know where his bedroom was, what his sheets looked like.

  Didn’t need to know if he kept his refrigerator clean. If it was empty. If he picked up his clothes and left open TV Guides lying around.

  But Grandma Neilson’s house was a different matter. Beth had a feeling there was a lot s
he could learn from Keith’s resilient grandmother.

  THERE WASN’T SEATING for everyone in the family room, with Grandma Neilson added to the Sunday party. Conscious of the fact that she was the one who didn’t belong in that house, Beth quickly pulled out the piano bench and sat down after dinner when they all trooped in to watch a movie on Bonnie and Keith’s new LCD flat screen TV.

  “Afraid you might have to sit by me?” Greg whispered on his way to the couch.

  It was only because he was carrying Katie, who would have overheard, that she refrained from calling him a name she wouldn’t have meant, anyway. But it sure would’ve been good to say it. To at least pretend she wasn’t aware of every move the man made.

  If she didn’t get control of her reactions to Greg, she’d have to stop coming to Sunday dinner. She could not be influenced by the woman inside her who wanted to love and be loved. Too much was at stake.

  “You know how to play that thing?” Grandma asked, settling herself in the armchair next to the piano. Her wrinkled face was alight with interest as her watery blue eyes rested on Beth.

  “Maybe.”

  A rush of tears caught Beth by surprise, she blinked them away and turned to face the keyboard. Lifting and pushing back the wooden cover with practiced ease, she wished so badly that she had a mother or grandmother of her own. Someone to love and comfort her, someone who’d counsel and watch over her… She wondered if she’d left either—or both—back home. Wherever home might be.

  No, she decided. Surely if she’d had someone like Grandma Neilson to run to, she’d have done so. She certainly wouldn’t have awakened, badly bruised and alone, in that nondescript motel room. Registered under the name of Beth Allen but with nothing to prove who she really was.

  Unless she did have a Grandma Neilson someplace, and she’d had to run to protect her, too?

  The ivory and black keys did not look strange. Or feel strange, either, as she rested her fingers lightly upon them.

  “You know how to play?” Bonnie asked, stopping beside the piano bench. “Keith’s parents bought that for us when Katie was born, but none of us play.”

  “A little, I guess,” Beth said, confused. She caressed the smooth white keys with the pads of her fingers, comforted by their coolness.

  And their familiarity?

  Did she know how to play? Have lessons as a child?

  “All I can play is chopsticks,” Keith said, standing beside his wife.

  “Mama. Uh. Mama. Uh.” Ryan toddled over to the bench, both hands grabbing hold of it.

  “You want to watch Mama play?” Greg asked. Handing Katie to Keith, he picked the boy up.

  “Pway,” Katie said.

  “You heard her.” Grandma’s voice brooked no argument.

  Beth looked down at the keys—and panicked. She had no idea what to do. The people around her faded as the red haze filled her peripheral vision. She recognized the feel of those keys. Didn’t think she could take her hands off them, her need for them was so intense.

  And yet…what was she supposed to do now? No picture came to mind of ever having done this before, of what keys to press to make anything close to a song.

  Did she use two fingers? Or all ten?

  “Mama,” Ryan said, not quite whining. But he sounded close.

  Heart pounding, Beth knew she had to do something. Some force in her, deep and elemental, wouldn’t let her get up without doing something. And Ryan wasn’t going to give her much time.

  Closing her eyes, Beth took a deep breath and stopped thinking. Focusing on that inexplicable drive buried deep inside her, she poised her hands and pushed down. The first sound that came crashing from the instrument was harsh. And yet—right. Completely right. The sounds that followed were perfection, flowing together in a rush of turbulent and compelling music. Beth’s hands moved over the keys—flew over them—of their own accord. She hadn’t listened to music in months. Never turned on the radio in the car. Had that been on purpose?

  Someone gasped just behind her right shoulder, but she was only vaguely aware of it. Only vaguely aware of herself. Again, without her prompting, or even her understanding, tumultuous chords gave way to poignant ones, filling the room with sweet longing. And filling Beth with a longing she barely understood.

  She couldn’t stop. Music flowed out of her, gushing, it seemed, from every pore, the notes chasing each other almost faster than she could release them. She didn’t know what was happening. Didn’t know how.

  She only knew she’d just discovered something very vital. For the first time in six months, Beth Allen was alive. Living.

  The person she was meant to be.

  She had no idea how much time had passed before her fingers, sore and almost raw, dropped to her lap. She was afraid to turn, to break the spell.

  “My God.” The whisper was Keith’s.

  Embarrassed, Beth glanced halfway around. Ryan was asleep on Greg’s shoulder. Another pang of familiarity shot through her. Her son had done that before. He’d fallen asleep while she played to him.

  She’d soothed him with her music when he was sick.

  The knowledge came and went so quickly—just a brief impression, really—that she wasn’t sure, in her oversensitized state, whether she’d imagined it.

  Wishful thinking?

  It was hard to know what was real when you didn’t know your own mind.

  “Thank you.” Grandma Neilson’s voice, soft and uncharacteristically reverent, broke the long silence.

  Somehow, Beth wasn’t surprised to see tears in the stalwart old woman’s eyes.

  “You’re a concert pianist.” Greg, standing just off to her left, was staring at her, his expression a mixture of awe and scrutiny. He was going to want answers.

  And that was something she couldn’t give.

  Beth turned, and started to play again.

  GREG WAITED ONLY LONG ENOUGH to be sure Ryan was in bed that night before parking his truck outside Beth’s duplex. He leapt over the couple of steps leading to her front porch before delivering a purposeful knock.

  “I had a feeling you’d come,” she said, holding the door open for him, resignation in the droop of her shoulders, her bent head. Sinking down into her rocking chair, she grabbed a pillow, angled perfectly in the corner of the couch, and hugged it.

  She glanced over at him as he slumped on the couch, looking as dazed as he felt.

  “Why?” He didn’t bother with preliminaries.

  “Why am I not surprised you came? Is that what you mean?”

  Greg bit back a curse. Even now she was delaying, avoiding a response. What was it with this woman? And why in the hell did he care?

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a pianist?”

  “I play the piano,” she said, although there was an odd note in her voice.

  He didn’t understand it. Doubt? Where there should’ve been confidence?

  “That doesn’t mean I’m anything more than a lady who cleans houses and once took piano lessons.”

  “That was more than piano lessons. It was an entire repertoire. A concert. Pieces very carefully chosen and arranged to express every nuance of emotion. The peaks and valleys, the passion—it was the most incredible musical experience I’ve ever had.”

  Beth met his gaze for a moment. He thought she might cry. And then she looked down, saying nothing. Her foot pushed gently against the floor, slowly rocking the chair.

  “Why, Beth? Why hide such a remarkable talent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her eyes, when she looked up at him, were tortured. Tearing at him.

  Greg sat forward, needing to touch her, yet knowing he couldn’t—although he wasn’t sure why. “Help me understand,” he said gently.

  She wanted to. Greg could see that in the way she held his gaze, honestly, hiding none of the pain or compassion she was feeling.

  “I…can’t. I just have to keep me to myself.”

  What the hell was driving her? What had happened to
trap her so deeply inside herself? Was it the shock of losing her husband? Or something more?

  “Can’t or won’t?” He deserved that much, at least.

  “I don’t know, Greg,” she said. “I…” She swallowed, closing her eyes. “I hurt…”

  Every word was difficult. Greg wanted to tell her it was okay. That she didn’t have to do this.

  But he couldn’t.

  It was too important.

  “So badly,” she continued. “But I’m still here, you know?”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. And suddenly Greg did know. He’d had that feeling, too. Of having something essential taken away from him, and yet enduring because there was no other choice. First with Shelby. And then for the ten years he’d looked after his father or, more accurately, the shadow his father had become.

  “I have Ry to think about,” she said. “I have to go on. And somehow, in the process of making that happen, I just froze inside.

  “It wasn’t anything I consciously chose. Or even recognized at the time.” Her voice was a whisper, each word an obvious effort.

  He nodded. “Self-preservation,” he said. He’d seen it dozens of times on different levels. Had experienced it himself.

  Beth’s arms rested on the sides of the chair as she rocked. The pillow was in her lap. Greg had a sudden and very unusual urge to lay his head there, too. Just for a moment.

  To know that she was there, watching over him. To take comfort, for once, instead of offering it.

  Unusual reaction. Odd. Embarrassing. She was clearly the one in need of comfort. Not he.

  “I don’t know how to get out,” she said. The duplex was quiet. The street outside empty.

  “Isn’t that what you did today? Playing like that?”

  “Maybe.” Drawing up her legs, she pulled the pillow to her chest.

  “Can you tell me a little about yourself?” he asked, hoping with a hope he thought he’d lost. “About the things that made Beth Allen the person she is now?”