Single-Dad Sheriff

by Amy Frazier

  Trying to avoid her own question, she made her way to the barn to ready the equipment for tomorrow’s lunch-and-wine trek with a group of retirees from Atlanta. She wanted everything to be a go when she got back from her early-morning AA meeting.

  Not five minutes into her work, Percy poked his head over the pasture-side half door. Ever since she’d brought him into the paddock two weeks ago to treat a split and infected toenail, he’d decided he liked her company more than his fellow pack animals’ and had shown an uncanny propensity to act more human than llama. And more nosy than most. Today it was apparent he was going to stick around to see what was what.

  What, exactly, was what?

  Why had she come out of hiding to help Mack Whittaker? The sheriff’s buddy, no less. As Percy eyed her, she told herself she wasn’t hiding. She told herself Samantha Weston wasn’t an alias. Samantha had been her paternal grandmother’s first name, and Weston her maternal grandmother’s maiden name. She hoped combining and using the two now was less lie and more homage to a pair of women who had led purposeful lives. She wanted to do the same.

  And if you led a purposeful life, you didn’t just let a fellow human being self-destruct as Mack seemed intent on doing. She recognized his pain. Maybe it was time she dug deep inside herself, to see how strong she really was, to see what she had to offer.

  A daunting proposition.

  “Mind your own business,” she said to Percy, who continued to stare at her. Llamas could seem unsettlingly perceptive. “Go hang out with the boys.”

  He didn’t, and she finished her business in the barn under his soulful gaze.

  True to his word, Garrett returned later that evening, but he checked in at the bunkhouse without as much as a hello to her. She told herself it was just as well. Of course, she was telling herself a lot of things lately, some of them helpful, but many of them obvious rationalizations.

  EARLY WEDNESDAY MORNING Garrett drove Rory to work at Whistling Meadows only to be met by Red.

  “We need to see to the fence—” the older man said to Rory, hefting the bicycle out of the trunk “—before the Duchess gets back. Someone damaged a length of it by ramming it with a tractor or an ATV, maybe. I have my suspicions as to who mighta done it, but I’ll take care of those in my own good time. I’ve got the fence supplies in my truck. Let’s get a move on.”

  “I’ll go see Mack,” Garrett said.

  “He’s not here,” Red replied, wheeling Rory’s bike to the side of the porch. “The Duchess took him to her AA meeting.”

  “Her AA meeting?”

  “She goes like clockwork every morning after early chores.”

  That little bomb had barely gone off when Garrett thought of something else. “But she doesn’t drive, and Mack—”

  “Her sponsor picks her up.” Red got in his truck and Rory followed. “Don’t worry about Mack. He’s in good hands. The Duchess may look like a china doll, but she’s one tough cookie.”

  Standing in a cloud of dust as Red drove away, Garrett didn’t know what perplexed him more. That elegant and in-control Samantha attended AA, or that she’d succeeded in getting Mack to accept help. Where he’d failed. Suddenly, he felt his world slip sideways. Not only had his best friend put himself in the hands of a stranger, but his son was working his first real job—had taken off just now without a backward glance—even as his ex-wife plotted a new life overseas. None of this involved Garrett, and it stung.

  It wasn’t that he needed to feel in charge. He just wanted some say in the matter. And on those three issues he had none.

  As the week progressed, he felt even less in control. More in the dark.

  In the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, he ran into Mack’s mama and helped her load her groceries into her car. She said her son had called to tell her not to worry. He was sobering up at Whistling Meadows. Attending AA. Miss Lily had tears in her eyes as she professed it a miracle. Garrett had felt a twinge. It seemed being a parent didn’t get any easier with time. He also didn’t see any reason to stick his nose into Mack’s business if Samantha and Red really were helping. Anyway, Mack hadn’t called him.

  Rory increasingly went to work earlier and stayed later. One day Garrett came across his son and Red putting up new signs advertising the llama treks. They said someone had pulled down all the old signs. Both seemed to take the petty act of vandalism personally. At home, Rory spent his time in his room, pouring over a pile of animal husbandry books and pamphlets he’d borrowed from county extension.

  Garrett had talked to Noelle once more. She’d said the interview had gone well, but the bank was committed to a deep search before making the final decision. She wasn’t worried and had stuck around London long enough for some advantageous schmoozing, then had flown home to Charlotte to get back in the Stateside rat race. When the subject of Rory’s job came up, Noelle had said she was counting on Garrett to fully vet this Weston woman.

  Trouble was, Garrett had mixed feelings about a further search into Samantha’s background. She had Red’s full support, and Red was no fool. So she attended AA. That was her business. She didn’t even own a car, leaving Rory in no danger there. All her permits were in order. As sheriff and father, how much more did he need to know? Nothing, if truth be told. But as a man—

  “You sure that item’s part of your purchase, Sheriff?” Piggly Wiggly cashier Kate Mulroney’s voice cut into his thoughts.

  He looked down to see a box of tampons along with his milk, bread and coffee on the checkout belt.

  “Those would be mine.” A slender hand pulled the tampons away.

  He turned to find himself gazing into Samantha’s eyes. Drawn, against his better judgment, to the cool mystery of the woman.

  But Kate brought him back to his senses. “So tonight the town council’s voting on my cousin’s crazy proposal,” she said as she rang up his purchases. “If it passes, you’re going to have your hands full.” Chuckling, she shook her head. “A road bowling tournament. Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Actually, I have,” Samantha said. “I think it originated in Ireland.”

  “So my cousin Pat says,” Kate replied, eager to carry on a three-way conversation while all Garrett wanted was for her to give him his receipt so that he could escape, get home, have supper with his kid, then wrestle him awhile for the remote before making an appearance at the council meeting. “He went to a Mulroney family reunion in West Virginia,” Kate continued, unfazed by Garrett’s impatience, “where they hosted a tournament. You’d have thought he’d made a pilgrimage to the old country. Came back Irish as all get out. Now wants to be called Padraig—”

  “Kate,” Garrett interjected, bagging his few items. “My receipt.”

  “No problem.” She began to hand over the slip of paper. “Oh, wait. My bad. I rang up the tampons on your purchase. Go figure. I’ll have to cancel out and begin again.”

  He grabbed the receipt. “I’ll buy Ms. Weston her…stuff.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll settle up outside,” Samantha insisted, pushing him gently toward the exit.

  That was no solution. He wanted to get away from her.

  Outside, next to her bicycle, she appropriated the receipt, then dug into her jeans for the money. The soft breeze made her blond curls bounce, the sunlight made them shine. “What’s this about a road bowling tournament?” she asked.

  “How’s Mack doing?” he countered.

  “Fine.” She looked him right in the eye as she handed back the receipt and exact change. “And the road bowling tournament?”

  He really didn’t want to discuss it. It was the kind of quirky event small towns were infamous for. The kind of occasion that used to make Noelle cringe and say she was surrounded by hillbillies. He would rather discuss Mack, but it was obvious Samantha didn’t want to go there.

  He pocketed her money. “Right now it’s just Pat’s pipe dream. Ask me again tomorrow if the town council gives it the okay.” He strode off without a backward gl
ance.

  Samantha watched his stiff, retreating form. She knew she’d provoked his rudeness by not giving him a proper update on his friend Mack, but those were Mack’s wishes. Having involved herself this far with his rehabilitation, she couldn’t risk losing his trust.

  She pedaled her bicycle home, thinking about the two men. If she didn’t know better, she’d think them fraternal twins. Dealing with both was like handling dynamite.

  When she finally pulled to a stop in front of her house, she could see Mack and Red and Rory huddled together on the bunkhouse porch farther up the hill. They looked far too serious to be having a friendly game of cribbage. And why was Rory still here? It was nearly supper time. She was paying him for only four hours a day. Granted, they’d agreed his schedule could be flexible, but the boy seemed to live on the property. Not that she had any complaints. Right from the very beginning, he seemed to adopt an uncanny attitude of stewardship toward the llamas and the land. And Red—she didn’t pay him anything—now seemed more intent on helping her make a go of Whistling Meadows than in retiring to his fishing. For a person whose original intention was to lie low, she was acquiring quite the ragtag commune.

  Not yet hungry—the thought of her own cooking held little appeal—she hiked up toward the bunkhouse, along the fence marking the inner pasture where the llamas were rolling in the dust. Along the track Red’s free-range chickens scattered, squawking, before her.

  “Hello!” she called out as she approached the guys on the porch. They quickly pulled apart. As if they’d been talking about her. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” Red replied a little too quickly. “Anything new in town?”

  “What’s this about a road bowling tournament?” She really wanted to know. Anything that might bring people into town would be good for business, hers included. Not that profit was what this new venture was about, but old ways of thinking died hard.

  Mack got up and, without so much as a nod in greeting, went into the bunkhouse.

  “The road bowling tournament would be Pat Mulroney’s idea,” Red said. “And I’m thinking, if the plan passes the council, I might get up a team.” He looked at Rory. “You in, sport?”

  Rory looked interested. “A team?”

  “If you could even call it that.” Red leaned back in his chair as if to spin a yarn, and Samantha took a seat on the top porch step. “You need two people. They alternate throwing a two-pound iron ball down the road on a ‘course’ agreed upon beforehand. The team that comes in with the fewest throws wins.”

  “That’s it?” Rory asked.

  “That’s pretty much it, as I understand the game,” Samantha said. “There are almost no rules and no out-of-bounds whatsoever.”

  “But lots of pocket flasks,” Red added. “That and the fact Pat says they didn’t close the roads to traffic during the West Virginia tournament might make your pa a little nervous, Rory.”

  “Where do you get the iron balls?”

  Red chuckled. “There’s rumors the old cannonballs in front of the courthouse are exactly two pounds. More for the sheriff to worry about if the tournament gets the green light.”

  Rory seemed undisturbed by the law-and-order logistics. “I think Whistling Meadows should have a team.” He flexed a puny bicep. “Work’s got me ripped. We can call ourselves the Whistling Meadows Wonders.”

  “Don’t look at me!” Samantha said. “I can’t even throw a Frisbee. But I’ll spring for drinks. Lemonade.”

  “Maybe we can convince Mack to partner with you,” Red suggested. “You can call yourselves the Teetotalin’ Twosome.”

  Samantha doubted that pairing. Mack was an enigma. Once she’d convinced him to attend AA with her, he’d approached rehabilitation with a vengeance. That didn’t mean he communicated with her—other than to tell her not to talk about his business to anyone, specifically Garrett. In fact, there was something lifeless about Mack. Samantha worried that, AA or not, he hadn’t faced the root of his despair. She wasn’t sure she could see him rejoining the sheriff’s department. She certainly couldn’t imagine him participating in any road bowling high jinks. She had yet to see him even smile.

  “I gotta shove off,” Rory said. “Dad’s home for supper tonight. Geneva’s making pot roast. His favorite.”

  Oh, pot roast—that somebody else had made—sounded so good.

  Samantha watched Rory race away on his bike as if he were trying out for NASCAR. “It’s funny,” she said. “I haven’t had experience with kids, but I miss his energy when he’s not on the farm.”

  Red eyed her intently. “Kids are a blessing.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “No.” His look became faraway. “It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.” He shook himself. “But you—”

  “Don’t even have a guy in the picture. I’ve watched your hens and rooster enough to know there has to be a likely man around.”

  “Seems there is a likely man.”

  “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Harris?”

  “In my dreams.” He shot her a lopsided grin. “You mean you haven’t noticed the logical fella? The one right in front of you?”

  “You can’t possibly be talking about Mack.”

  “Not Mack.”

  Good. Because although Mack and she had spent some intense time together the past week, there was absolutely no chemistry. Not a fraction of the sexual tension she felt when she was in the company of—“No! You can’t mean the sheriff!”

  “Yessirree!” Red’s sun-wrinkled face was filled with enormous self-satisfaction. “I think the whole town’s noticed the sparks when you and he just pass on the street.”

  “But I’m not looking for anyone!”

  “Neither’s he. I’m here to tell you the laws of nature don’t care what plans either of you’ve made.” He rose from his seat. “Guess I’d better see what can Mack wants me to open tonight. I’m thinkin’ corned beef hash. See you later, Duchess.”

  Samantha sat on the porch step. Stunned. She and the sheriff were not mutually attracted.

  Liar.

  GARRETT LET HIMSELF INTO THE house after the town council meeting.

  “How did things go?” Geneva asked, shrugging into her sweater, gathering her things to leave.

  “They all thought the tournament was a great promotional idea. As if Applegate were some kind of sideshow.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fun.” Geneva shook her head. “I hear Ziggy Newsome was going to suggest using the dirt road that runs up his hollow. Even away from the main traffic, you’ll have your hands full.”

  Didn’t he know it. “How’s Rory?”

  “Went to bed early. All that manual labor and fresh air’s plum tuckered the boy out.”

  He checked his watch. Nine-fifteen? “It’s good for him.”

  “He seems happy.”

  Garrett wouldn’t know. Rory was seldom around enough anymore for a father to gauge his moods. “Thanks, Geneva. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night.”

  Restless—and not just because of the upcoming road bowling debacle—Garrett paced the small living room. He couldn’t believe he’d spent the evening standing in the back of the council meeting room, thinking not about the logistics of traffic control and crowd control and liquor control, but of self-control. Where Samantha Weston was concerned. Lord, the woman was attractive.

  And, he suspected, in a whole other league than the one in which he chose to play ball.

  So what was he going to do about her constantly invading his thoughts—both waking and dreaming? If he had the guts, he’d ask her out. One date would prove how ill-suited for each other they were. And that should end the attraction. Crazy idea, sure, but it might just work.

  He climbed the stairs to look in on Rory. Pushing open the bedroom door, he noted how his son no longer slept with a night-light. Noted, too, how both the window and screen were pushed up. Mosquitoes would eat the kid alive by dawn. Moving across the room to pull down the screen, he lingered a
t the foot of his son’s bed, wanting to gaze on him in sleep as Rory would never allow awake. Under the covers, he seemed more bulked up than when he’d arrived for the summer. Maybe work on Samantha’s farm was—

  Wait a minute.

  Garrett threw back the covers to discover not his son, but pillows craftily bunched to resemble a human form.

  Where the hell was Rory?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GARRETT STOOD IN RORY’S darkened room and told himself to think like a sheriff, not a father. If some parents called to tell him to put out an APB because their kid had sneaked out of the house after bedtime on a summer’s night, he’d tell them first to calm down, then to call the kid’s buddies.

  But this was his own son.

  And Rory, only in Applegate for vacations, had made few lasting friends except for Geneva’s grandsons—one a year older than Rory, one a year younger—who occasionally came in from Brevard to spend time with her. When they did, she brought them to work to keep Rory company. Garrett hadn’t seen the boys in a couple weeks. Just the same, he whipped out his phone and punched in his housekeeper’s cell number.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked the second she picked up.

  “No. Rory’s gone.” He flipped on the bedroom light and scanned the room for a note or anything that indicated this was—God forbid—more than just a lark. “Did he give any indication this evening he was upset? Or maybe excited about meeting up with someone?” A girl? His son was the right age for this to be about a girl.

  “He just seemed happy. Talked a blue streak about the farm. Those animals. That Weston woman. Said he needed a good night’s sleep to get an early jump on work tomorrow.”

  Then, what the hell?

  “I’m at the Piggly Wiggly right now,” Geneva said. “Before I head home, I’ll swing by the bowling lanes. See if he might be there. If not, I’ll check the church parking lot. You know kids are always skate-boarding there during the week.”