Single-Dad Sheriff

by Amy Frazier

  She tossed and turned throughout the night and was glad to get out of bed when she heard Red’s rooster crow. There was plenty of time to spare before her AA sponsor came by to pick up Mack and her for their daily meeting. She absolutely needed that support today. The short lunch trek she had scheduled would keep her mind busy for a few hours afterward. It was the prospect of late afternoon and evening, however, when her mother knew she was free, that had her jumpy.

  Padding downstairs—the heart pine floors had been sanded, but not yet stained and sealed—too little time, Helena had complained—Samantha felt as if she was in a luxurious B and B. Antiques—some of them were family pieces Red had sold—were artfully mixed with very modern furnishings, giving the place a studied eclectic look. A very beautiful but very impersonal look. There was so much white, Samantha despaired of ever flopping down for a rest on any of her new couches after a hard day’s work.

  In the kitchen she discovered the cooler from yesterday’s trek. Red must have brought it in from the barn. She still couldn’t believe how he and Rory had taken care of the llamas, the camping equipment and the tack while she was still absorbing the shock of her renovated living space. Lifting the lid, she let out a sigh of disappointment. Inside was the carefully packaged birthday cake she’d intended to serve Rory with lunch. Forgotten and uneaten. It would still be good. She’d have to make sure he got it today at work. But that wasn’t the same.

  Poor kid. His birthday trek had been quite the hodgepodge. There was no way she was charging Garrett for it.

  Actually, there never had been any intention to charge Garrett for it.

  Transferring the remaining food from the cooler to the new stainless Sub-Zero refrigerator, she didn’t have the heart to fix herself a big breakfast. Instead, she munched a handful of granola and washed it down with a glass of milk, then, grabbing her boots, she headed outside to check on the llamas. Not long afterward she found her way to the top porch step where she turned her back on the new wicker furniture.

  It wasn’t her sponsor who showed up to drive to the AA meeting, but Mack in Red’s truck.

  “Get in,” he said, leaning from the driver’s side to open the passenger door.

  “Do you have a license?”

  “Yeah. But my truck sits on my parents’ farm. I’m considering reregistering it.”

  “Thinking of rejoining the living?” she asked, getting into the cab.

  “You might say that,” he replied, easing Red’s pickup down her bumpy drive.

  He might be thinking of entering the human race again, but Samantha still worried about Mack. There was something he was holding back. As if he didn’t trust his own humanity.

  “You going to be around later this afternoon?” she asked. “On the trek I forgot to serve Rory his birthday cake. And I made it especially from one of Geneva’s recipes. Carrot.”

  Mack looked sideways at her.

  “Oh, come on. It won’t kill you. Although I know what you three bunkhouse rats think of my cooking.”

  “Bunkhouse rats?”

  “I think Francis, Douglas and Owen have trademarked the term coots. Would you prefer possums?”

  “That makes Red, Rory and me sound like mascots. And Garrett’s already accusing us of forming your backup team.”

  “He certainly took off quickly yesterday. Is everything all right?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “My parents really overdid the house makeover,” she said evasively. “I could see where someone might look at me, as a result, and think, spoiled.”

  “Then maybe you need to stand up to your parents—tell ’em exactly what it is you want and don’t want, tell ’em to back off, if necessary. Or maybe you ought to stop worrying about what people think.”

  “The way you do?”

  “I’m not a particularly good role model.”

  “I’m guessing Garrett doesn’t see me as a particularly good role model for Rory,” she said.

  “That’s not the problem.”

  “So you admit there is a problem?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve known Garrett since third grade,” Mack replied, carefully maneuvering round a particularly sharp turn in the road. “He’s what you call a self-made man. But his whole childhood foster-care experience left pretty deep scars. He’s got some hang-ups about commitment.”

  “A lot of men have commitment phobias.”

  “Garrett’s just the opposite, although I don’t think he’d admit it. He wants a stable relationship. An intact family.”

  “Then he must see his divorce as a huge failure on his part.”

  “Exactly. And now he won’t go out on a limb again for anything temporary or insubstantial.” He looked over at her.

  Did Garrett see her llama operation as temporary, and, worse yet, her as insubstantial? Was Mack trying to warn her off?

  “Hey,” he said suddenly. “Rory wanted me to talk to you about the road bowling tournament.”

  “What about it?” She was still trying to get her mind around their conversation about Garrett. “I thought he and Red were forming a team.”

  “They are. But Rory wants to up the odds of a Whistling Meadows victory. He wants you and me to compete.”

  “And you’d do it?” This was not the Mack she’d come to know.

  “Sure. It’ll make my godson happy.” He grimaced. “And it might just get my best friend off his can.”

  What was going on? Samantha felt strangely like Alice down the rabbit hole.

  FRANCIS, DOUGLAS AND OWEN WERE sitting across from the county courthouse, on a bench under a live oak, out of the afternoon sun. As Garrett descended the courthouse steps, the three retirees waved him over.

  “What can you tell us about Cameron Lawrence?” Douglas asked.

  “He’s Samantha Weston’s father. You know Samantha, she bought—”

  “Whistling Meadows. Yeah, yeah, we know. That’s old news. That and her mother gussying up the place.”

  That was old news? It had happened yesterday.

  Owen leaned forward from his seat on the bench. “And don’t tell us about Lawrence snooping around the land management office. We know all about that, too.”

  “Then you know what I know,” Garrett replied.

  “Oh, come on.” Francis looked doubtful. “You went on a camping trip with her…” Did everybody know about that? “Surely she said something about her father’s intentions hereabouts.”

  The strange thing about conversations with Samantha was that they never revealed anything about her or her parents. She’d talk about llamas, the Whistling Meadows’ day-to-day operation, Rory’s job performance and even Mack, but she always deflected talk of herself. And here Garrett, as sheriff, had considered himself an expert at getting to the facts.

  “What we really wanna know,” Francis continued, “is if this Lawrence fella is all talk and no action.”

  “All hat and no cattle,” Douglas added.

  “I don’t know,” Garrett admitted.

  “Well, don’t you think you ought to find out?” Owen exclaimed. “Before he buys up all the available land and turns it into—God forbid—one of those highfalutin’ gated retirement communities. What are we payin’ you for, son?”

  Some days he wondered.

  After leaving the three men more riled up than when he’d found them, he stopped to check his phone messages before heading to his office. There were seven voice mails from Noelle.

  Although he didn’t have the stomach for a go-round with her over Rory’s future, she would be the one to know about the Lawrences. From high school on, she’d followed the rich and famous in print and television tabloids.

  Feeling not a little sleazy, he punched in her number. She took a while to answer, and when she did, he could hear the sounds of a party or a bar in the background.

  “Hello?” She sounded tipsy. “Garrett? Wait! Let me go to the restroom—pardon me, the loo.” For a few minutes there were odd voices, miscellaneou
s sounds and then Noelle’s voice, clearer now. “I hope you didn’t interrupt my evening to argue with me about Rory.”

  “No.” This wasn’t the battle he’d chosen today. “I need some information.”

  “Yes?”

  “Does the name Cameron Lawrence ring a bell?”

  “Of course. He’s only the founder of Ashley International Hotels named for his daughter and heir apparent. The thing is she was arrested for driving under the influence and sent to some secret rehab location. Since then she’s dropped out of sight. Very mysterious. Who’d want to give up that lifestyle?”

  Apparently, Samantha.

  Garrett didn’t know whether to dismiss her as wildly irresponsible…or protect her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “DAD, WHAT ARE YOU AND MOTHER really doing here?” Samantha lay sprawled on a porch settee while her father sat sharply erect, reading the Washington Post. She knew he wanted a scotch on the rocks but wouldn’t indulge in front of her. Helena was in the house, presumably tweaking the decor. An impending thunderstorm made the air heavy.

  Her father lowered the paper. “We’re taking a little break. The opening of the Singapore Ashley was exhausting. But not as exhausting, I’m afraid, as the building of it. You did a wonderful job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wish—”

  “Dad, don’t go there. Please.”

  “I just wanted to say it’s okay that you’re taking a breather, too.”

  “Applegate isn’t just a breather. I think it’s where I’m supposed to be.”

  “It’s too early to tell,” her father replied with conviction. “That’s why Dr. Kumar prescribed a year’s rest. Don’t be too hasty to ink in the rest of your life.”

  Was that what she was doing? Were her feelings—the attractions she felt—any less valid because she’d placed herself in a new situation?

  “Did I ever tell you my father wanted me to be a surgeon?” Cameron continued. “He was a shoe salesman, but he had big dreams for me. I could no more have been a surgeon than I could have flown, and I broke his heart.”

  “Is that what—?”

  “You have a visitor,” her father said, looking over her shoulder, an edge to his voice.

  She looked up to see Garrett getting out of his cruiser and suddenly felt the way you did when trying to get into a canoe. With one foot on solid ground, the other in a very precarious position.

  “Samantha. Mr. Lawrence,” he said, mounting the porch steps. “Excuse me, but is Rory working late? He’s not at home, and there’s no note.”

  “They must have lost track of time,” Samantha replied as she sat up. “He and Red went up Russert’s Mountain to take care of the graffiti.”

  “What graffiti?” Cameron asked.

  “Just a little vandalism,” Samantha said, not wanting to get into it. Not wanting her father to fix her problems. “No big deal.”

  “But vandalism? On your land?”

  “Yes.” Uh-oh. This was the proverbial can of worms. Private property, in her father’s mind, was sacrosanct. To be protected at all cost.

  He turned to Garrett. “I assume this is something my daughter reported to you.”

  “I know about it.”

  She could have hugged Garrett for failing to divulge more than that, but she knew her steamroller father. He wouldn’t stop until he had the full story. “Dad, look…the guy on the next farm isn’t happy I’ve fenced my pastureland. It cuts off his easy access to the trails his boys used to use. We think the kids might have been acting out their father’s displeasure.”

  “But if this Russert’s Mountain is your property, and you’re fenced, how did someone manage to get up there?” Cameron was not a man to give up.

  “The fencing doesn’t go around all sixty acres, Dad.”

  “Besides, there are roundabout access points,” Garrett explained. “If you’re determined.”

  “And why would these people be so determined?”

  “Because,” Samantha replied, becoming exasperated, “they think they can drive me off Whistling Meadows with their adolescent games. Garbage in the pastures. Damaged f—”

  As her father’s whole body language took on a battle readiness, Samantha realized she’d said way too much. “As I said, it’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a very big deal,” her father snapped back. “This operation of yours is an investment. And you never let anyone threaten your investments. Haven’t I taught you anything?” He turned on Garrett. “What are you doing about this?”

  “Dad, it’s under investigation.” Samantha stood up between the two men. “Garrett, could I have a word with you?” She motioned toward the cruiser.

  “Sure,” he replied, although she could tell he’d relish staying put and going toe-to-toe with her father.

  She gave him a little nudge toward the steps. Big mistake. Although he moved, she was left with the impression of his warm, hard body. Glancing over her shoulder as they headed toward the car, she saw her father watching them, his eyes narrowed.

  “Sorry about my father,” she said, taking Garrett’s arm and leading him not to his cruiser but around the house and across to the barn. Out of sight.

  “He’s right, you know. About your investment.”

  “Of course, I know,” she replied, stepping into the cool, sweet-smelling barn. Through the doorway she could see tall cumulonimbus clouds massing on the horizon. The atmosphere was humid and filled with electricity. She ran her palm up her neck, lifting her hair, trying for a breath of air. “But I don’t need him handling the farm for me. My father will eventually go away. Tanner won’t. It would be far wiser to use a little tact with my neighbor. A little patience. None of which my father possesses.”

  “He would have shot the rattlesnake.”

  “In a heartbeat.” She didn’t know who had her more hot and bothered, her father—one way—or Garrett—quite another.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, Garrett scowled. “When did Rory and Red leave?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “On foot?”

  “No. They took this contraption the two of them built. A hybrid. Kind of a cross between a golf cart and an ATV. Red will know enough to get Rory off the mountain before a storm comes, won’t he?”

  “He should. He’s lived here all his life. Knows the mountains and the weather inside out. I trust him.”

  “Maybe I should be more proactive with Rory,” she said, leaning up against a stall and watching the dark purple clouds roil the sky framed by the barn door opening.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He comes to work. He does his work. Then he hangs out with Red and Mack. Maybe I should supervise his activity more.”

  “No. That’s Noelle’s style. Micromanagement.” Garrett reached out to brush a tendril of hair from her face. “I like how you let Rory explore. Work hard. Make decisions for himself.”

  “You do?” Suddenly, the air in the barn seemed very close.

  “Yeah. You don’t coddle him.” Putting his hand on the timber behind her, he leaned in just as her BlackBerry vibrated. If Rory and Red hadn’t been up on the mountain, she would have let the darn thing go to voice mail.

  Instead she answered, to Rory’s voice. “Samantha? I left a message for Dad, and I’m calling you to say we’re okay. We’re in an old cabin on the back of the mountain. Red said you might not even know you owned it. It’s kinda run-down, but the roof doesn’t leak. It’s raining like crazy up here.”

  “Do you want to talk to your dad? He’s right beside me.”

  “Just tell him we’re safe,” he said as the reception began to break up. “We’ll come down when the storm passes.”

  “Will do.” She hung up. “That was Rory. They’re in a cabin—”

  “On the other side of the mountain. I’d forgotten that place. When we were kids, Mack and I used to take shelter there in bad weather. I’m glad Rory thought to call.”

  “He said he left a m
essage on your phone, too.”

  “Wow. Thirteen and turning responsible. Who’d have thought?”

  “You’ve done a good job raising him.”

  He winced.

  Lightning and a clap of thunder directly overhead preceded a downpour by only seconds. It was as if a veil had been dropped over the doorway. The rain hit the yard outside so hard it sprayed and splattered several feet into the interior.

  Garrett pushed her farther into the barn. “Where are the llamas?”

  “They’ll take shelter under the lean-to.”

  “Then it’s just us.”

  “It’s just us.”

  Before she could take in the full import of that statement, her BlackBerry vibrated again. Without thinking, she picked up the call. “Rory?”

  “No, darling, it’s your mother. Where are you?”

  “In the barn.”

  “With the llamas?”

  “With the sheriff.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Mother…. I’ll see you when the rain stops.”

  Sometimes technology was more aggravation than it was worth.

  Watching Samantha, Garrett wondered just how much it bothered Helena that her daughter was consorting with the locals.

  “Everything okay?” he asked when she rang off.

  “Of course.” She pocketed the BlackBerry, then crossed her arms and walked to stand not far from the doorway, where the rain was still coming down in sheets.

  The crazy moment of possibilities had passed. Perhaps he’d better seize the moment of reckoning. It wasn’t likely she’d try to escape in this downpour. “Is your real name Ashley?” he asked.

  “I prefer to be called Samantha,” she replied, her voice becoming guarded.

  “Is Samantha a middle name?”

  She turned to level her intriguing hazel eyes at him. “Does it matter?”

  It shouldn’t. But it did. To him. Maybe because, growing up, a name was all he’d had to define himself. One of the conditions of his divorce had been that he’d let Noelle have custody of Rory most of the time if she’d swear to keep the last name McQuire, unless she remarried. Keep the name for Rory. So that he would have a strong sense of family. Of belonging.