Single-Dad Sheriff

by Amy Frazier

  Garrett had watched him walk away and reminded himself that, for all the swagger, he was still a twelve-year-old boy. His son. Who could have taken some buckshot last night. For a woman who had no connection to them.

  What was this hold she had over not only Rory, but Red and Mack as well?

  He’d called the Whistling Meadows business number and left a message that he’d be back at four that afternoon and would appreciate it if Samantha cleared fifteen minutes of time to discuss a matter of importance.

  Now five-to-four, he drove up her rutted drive to see her leaning on the pasture fence, feeding a carrot to one of the llamas. Farther up the hill, Rory, Red and Mack sat on the bunkhouse porch, elbows on knees, staring at him. They looked a little like avenging angels. Or gargoyles. Or Hear-No-Evil, See-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil. Whatever. They didn’t appear to be on his side.

  Wiping her hands on her jeans, Samantha came to meet him as he stepped out of the cruiser. Dressed in a T-shirt, covered by an ordinary flannel shirt, she seemed a little less designer today, a little more country. As if she’d taken serious root in Applegate. “Rory says you don’t want him working for me anymore,” she said without preamble. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

  “You were there. You didn’t hear the gunshot?”

  “Red and I’ve talked to Rory already,” she countered. “He understands that what he did was reckless. Way beyond his job description. He’s promised to discuss any concerns he has in the future about Whistling Meadows with me. As has Red.” There was an imperiousness to her tone of voice that rubbed him the wrong way. She might have traded the designer-casual look for work clothes, but her manner said she was no naive farmer’s daughter.

  “You’re saying you knew nothing about this little scheme,” he said, unable to keep the disbelief from tightening his words.

  “That’s what I’m saying. And I knew nothing about any of the problems—except for the garbage. I saw that. For some reason both Red and Rory thought they were being gallant, keeping me in the dark.”

  “So you admit there’s an issue with Tanner Harris.”

  “Perhaps. Then again, the incidences could be unrelated. The result of kids with not enough to keep them occupied.”

  “But if another situation arises, you’ll contact me instead of sending out your private posse.”

  “I repeat. I didn’t instruct them to take on my battles.”

  Okay. If they were going to have a spitting contest, he was ready. “I repeat. If you have any more problems, you need to contact me. Or someone in the department.”

  She visibly bristled, tossing her curls and tilting her chin so that when she looked at him, he got the impression she was looking down her nose even though she was a head shorter than he was. “I can handle Mr. Harris,” she said defiantly.

  “Don’t handle him alone. You’re not from around here. You don’t understand the dynamics of boundaries and perceived insult and long memories.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the rise and Tanner’s property beyond. “I bought Whistling Meadows fair and square. The Harrises are going to have to get used to the fact it’s not their private park anymore.”

  “It’s wiser to let the law handle some things.”

  He sensed she was ready with a sharp retort, then thought better of it.

  “Look, I don’t have anything against you managing your own operation,” he said, “but I grew up with Tanner Harris. He’s a sneak. If he’s out to get you, you’re not going to see him coming. As sheriff, I’m here to protect your interests. As a father, I’m here to protect my son’s. I don’t want him in the middle of a feud.”

  “You’re saying just working for me puts him in danger?”

  “I can’t take that chance.”

  “I think he’s safe. There are, after all, three adults living here.”

  Now there was a whole other topic of conversation.

  “Besides, I’ve come to depend on Rory,” she insisted. “If you make him quit, I’m left shorthanded just as my business is taking off.”

  “You got along without him for three months. You can manage till you find a replacement. Which won’t be hard. In case you hadn’t noticed, summer jobs for kids are at a premium around here.”

  “I know. I already held interviews. And out of all the applicants, I chose Rory.”

  Not liking her proprietary air, Garrett set his jaw.

  “You’re not going to budge on this, are you?” she asked. “I think you’re being unreasonable. Your son’s not a baby. Besides, there’s risk everywhere. What if you sent him to one of the local camps and he got thrown from a horse, gouged with a piece of woodworking equipment, flipped on a whitewater rafting expedition—”

  “I get your point.” When he saw his hard-ass stance wasn’t swaying her, he adopted a different approach. “You’re a woman. Surely you can see Rory’s mother’s perspective. She sends our kid to me for the summer and expects—quite reasonably—to get him back in one piece.”

  “You’re patronizing me.”

  “No. I’m trying to be honest, but this conversation’s finished.” He turned to look up the hill where the three gargoyles were still perched. Still staring him down. “Rory, come on! We’re leaving.”

  “Red’ll give me a ride,” his son shouted back, not moving.

  He didn’t have time for an additional confrontation. Rory could get a lift with Red, if he wanted, but he wasn’t coming back to work for Samantha. It was as simple as that. Garrett got in the cruiser and drove deliberately off her property and onto the county road. And then the most amazing thing happened. He looked in his rearview mirror to see a crazy woman on a bicycle following him. Pedaling as if she meant to run him down.

  With every rotation of the pedals, Samantha grew angrier and angrier. She’d been ready to discuss last night’s incident, to discuss how Garrett and she could each reinforce with Rory that his gallantry was not to be repeated. But she hadn’t been prepared to be lectured like some miscreant. Some irresponsible, or worse yet, manipulative employer. Or, most insulting of all, some stupidly helpless female who needed Mr. I-Run-This-County to step in and organize her business. Or her life.

  Besides, she didn’t buy Garrett McQuire’s omnipotent veneer.

  Fuming, she nearly ran into the back of the car, which had now stopped. The sheriff leaned out the window. “Is there some reason you’re tailgating me?” The crinkles at the corners of his sharp blue eyes told her he was trying hard not to laugh.

  Well, this was no laughing matter.

  She pulled up beside the car. “I don’t believe we came to any resolution back there.”

  He sighed—actually had the unmitigated gall to sigh. “We can’t come to it here. The road’s too narrow. There’s a school bus turnaround just past Tanner’s drive. I’ll pull in there.” He looked at her bike. “Try not to get killed.”

  “Thank you very much, but I’m still alive after three months of negotiating these roads,” she muttered as she followed the cruiser.

  He pulled in, stopped, then turned on the car’s flashing lights before stepping out.

  “Is that really necessary?” she asked, scowling at the display.

  “Yes,” he replied without explanation.

  Ah—this man didn’t want any passing motorist to think he had anything but official business with her. She had a sudden insight that curved right back to the issue with Rory. Garrett, for whatever reason, wanted to be seen as by the book, unassailably right and in control.

  “I think you used the excuse of Rory’s mother as a smoke screen back there.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “To cover your own fears.”

  “My fears?”

  “Yes. I can see it in your eyes. You’re afraid of losing Rory. Whether to—God forbid!—a tragedy, or to your ex-wife, or to adulthood. You’re afraid of all the things parents have to be afraid of…but, most of all
, you’re afraid to admit your fears.”

  The expression on his face was as if she’d punched him in the solar plexus.

  “Plus, you don’t want to let anyone else help you with the transitions that will naturally occur in your son’s life. People like Red or me.”

  “So you’re not only a llama handler, but you’re a shrink?” Half of his upper lip twitched. “Excuse me if I’m not impressed.”

  A car drove by. The driver waved and tooted his horn. The sheriff narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m not asking you to be impressed,” she said. “I’m asking you to let go the parental reins a little and allow Rory to continue working for me. Red and I will take good care of him, I promise. And if it even looks as if we weren’t, there’d be hell to pay in the form of Mack.”

  “Lady, I have to ask you what you put in your drinking water to have three males falling all over themselves for your benefit.”

  “I let them know I saw their fear, and I wasn’t judging. I’ve been there, too. I’ve come through to a better place.”

  Garrett took a step back as if she were bewitched. “There isn’t a frightened bone in Red Harris’s body—”

  “He was afraid of losing his land. Afraid of growing old alone. Your son is afraid of disappointing you. As is M—” She stopped abruptly. She’d said too much.

  “What about Mack?”

  “He made me promise I wouldn’t discuss him or his business.”

  “I’m his best friend.” She saw deep hurt in his gaze.

  “I know.” She also realized he was scared of losing that friendship. “I wish I could offer you an explanation, but a promise is a promise.”

  She understood then, by the hardening of his features, that she’d made a grave misstep. If she wouldn’t give on Mack, he wouldn’t give on Rory.

  “I don’t make decisions because I’m afraid,” he said, looking her right in the eye. “I make decisions because I’m the adult in charge. Of my son’s welfare. Today’s his last day at Whistling Meadows.” Breaking eye contact, he got in the cruiser and drove away, lights still flashing.

  What was it about the man that made him so inflexible? And that got under her skin?

  Red had told her about Garrett’s foster home upbringing. Had told her, too, about how his wife had left him for more opportunity than she felt a small town could provide. But was that the whole of what made him tick?

  And why did she care?

  Maybe because he reminded her just the tiniest bit of her father. The steamroller in a tux. The steamroller part was oh so similar, only with Garrett the tux had been replaced with a starched uniform, a Stetson and a sexy pair of aviator sunglasses.

  Had she just used the word sexy to describe Garrett McQuire? Was the sun getting to her?

  “You have a little dustup with the sheriff?”

  Samantha whirled around to find herself face-to-face with Tanner Harris, who leered at her rather menacingly as he leaned on the mailbox at the end of his drive. Had he been watching? And waiting for the sheriff to leave? The thought made her shiver.

  “A dustup? Not at all,” she lied, rubbing her arms. “He wanted to know if the llamas would march in the July Fourth parade.”

  Tanner narrowed his eyes, and Samantha could almost see the cogs in his brain turning slowly as he wondered whether to believe her.

  “Speaking of llamas,” she said, seizing the opportunity to catch him off balance by throwing a second idea on top of the first. “I’ve been having a little trouble, and I wanted to get your opinion on the matter. I think neighbors should stick together, don’t you?”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Just a few minor incidences. I don’t even know if they’re related. It started with the garbage in the pasture near the road…”

  As she listed the petty acts of vandalism, she watched Tanner’s face. He didn’t look at her, and while she recounted her “little troubles” in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice, he fidgeted. Typical bully, brave until confronted.

  “I just wondered if you’d heard any rumors,” she said sweetly, “that might make sense of all this.”

  “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Well, if you do—” she drew one of her business cards out of her pocket and handed it to him “—please, give me a call. And you can let it be known round town that I’m here to stay.”

  He scowled at her card. “You got a gun?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Last night I scared some varmint off our boundary. Coyote, maybe. Possibly bear. Or mountain lion. Didn’t get a good look. Those llamas of yours are nothin’ more than sittin’ ducks.”

  Was that a threat? Even if it weren’t, this was the second suggestion to arm herself for the safety of her livestock. Although coming into this operation, she knew llamas were often used to protect sheep, she needed to do more research on what, short of firearms and beyond vigilance and sturdy fences, was necessary to protect her small herd.

  “I appreciate your concern,” she said, getting on her bicycle.

  “Well, would you look at that!” Tanner’s attention had turned from her to a spot beneath them where the road snaked in hairpin turns up the steep hill from town. A sleek black limo, its polished grill glinting in the sun, was making its slow ascent. “Who d’ya suppose is traveling in style?”

  Samantha knew, and knowing, wished she had a stiff drink.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PEDALING HER BICYCLE WITH A profound resignation, Samantha felt the draft from the limo as it passed her on the way to Whistling Meadows. It didn’t stop. There was no reason for it to. Even if they’d discovered her location, her parents wouldn’t expect her to be traveling the byways by bicycle. They’d expect her to cope with her loss of license by hiring a chauffeur wherever she might settle.

  When the limo turned into the farm lane, it slowed considerably, the driver apparently having difficulty maneuvering the car’s low-slung chassis over the ruts and rocks. By the time it came to a halt before the farmhouse, Samantha had nearly caught up. The driver’s door opened, and Ruggiero got out. He looked with disdain at “his baby’s” surface now covered with a film of dust before opening the rear door and offering his hand to Samantha’s mother.

  Helena Lawrence appeared from the backseat as gracefully as a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. As if in slow motion, she pressed her hands to her chest and turned to take in her surroundings. When she caught sight of Samantha pedaling toward her, her face broke into a brilliant smile. “Darling!” She opened wide her arms and waited for her only child to come to her.

  Samantha dropped the bicycle in the middle of the yard and strode toward Helena. “Mother, I’m not sure you want that embrace.” She looked at her mother’s spotless white linen trousers, her pale apricot silk shell, then at her own soiled and sweaty work clothes.

  Her mother bent ever so slightly forward to air kiss both of Samantha’s cheeks. “What have you been up to, silly girl?”

  Cameron Lawrence’s head, with its mane of white hair, appeared over the top of the limo. “Ashley, is this some kind of a joke?”

  “Dad. What a surprise.” Not.

  Her father came around the car to envelope her in a bear hug while Ruggiero began to buff the limo with a chamois he’d retrieved from the trunk.

  When she finally caught her breath, Samantha looked over her shoulder toward the road. “Did anyone follow you?” The last thing she needed was a media circus led by her chauffeured parents.

  “No!” Cameron’s subsequent laugh exploded across the barnyard. “Your mother should be a writer. Intrigue suits her. Helena, it’s your story…”

  “Oh, my, we had fun.” Her mother’s hands fluttered in the air. “Well, we knew the press was still interested in your…situation, so I cooked up a little scheme to foil them—”

  Samantha sighed. “Little schemes” were her mother’s stock in trade.

  “Don’t you worry, darling,” Helena cooed. “This is truly marvelous.
But, please, get me out of the sun for the telling. I’m parched beyond words.”

  Samantha glanced at her watch. Five o’clock. Afternoon teatime at any of the Ashley hotels. She might be able to scrounge a few Earl Grey bags and some Oreo cookies from her farmhouse pantry. “Come inside,” she offered without enthusiasm. “I’ll see what I can provide by way of refreshment.”

  Her parents glanced at each other.

  “And you can tell me your story.” She indicated the porch. “Please.”

  As Helena and Cameron gingerly mounted the steps, Samantha noted with dismay the third tread from the bottom needed nailing down. She also noted—with relief—that Red’s truck was gone. He must have driven Rory home. She needed time to prepare herself, let alone the rest of Applegate, for her parents’ visit.

  Holding the front door open, she saw the interior of the farmhouse for the first time as though through someone else’s eyes. The living room was empty. She was so happily tired by the end of each day the only lounging she did was in bed for maybe three minutes before she fell soundly asleep. If she sat at all it was on the porch swing, listening to the night noises. While Red had taken the kitchen table, he’d left her the big dining room trestle table that seated twelve. And that was the entirety of her furniture on the first floor. Her real life took place beyond these walls.

  Her father said nothing, but after a stunned silence, her mother said, “This may have been a brilliant decision…to start with a blank canvas.”

  Samantha propelled her parents to the table. “Have a seat.”

  Her mother looked about dubiously. “There are no screens on the windows.”

  “I haven’t gotten around to putting them up yet. But the citronella geraniums on the sill deter the bugs. Relax. Enjoy the view.”

  Her father pulled a chair out for her mother as Samantha suddenly remembered a basket of raspberries she’d picked from the ancient canes that circled the kitchen garden. And the homemade pimento cheese sandwiches, granola cookies and fabulous peach iced tea Rachel had sent as a sample of some of the things the diner might provide if Samantha decided to have box lunches catered for special treks. A feast! With a light heart she left her parents for the kitchen. She reminded herself not to apologize for her surroundings or her cuisine. Or her decision to stay in Applegate.