“You could have dropped the box.” He raised the container slightly. “Things are replaceable. You aren’t.”
“Too much invested in that box,” she replied as she pulled the bag back up. She didn’t feed the strap over her head this time. Over her shoulder would be good enough. Her voice rasped slightly when she spoke. The sound made him frown.
“That strangle did a number on you. You should go to the nurse,” he advised. He fell into step beside her, and even though the entire crowd of reporters was shouting his name and pressing against the police tape that someone had erected to keep them off school property, he kept his gaze on her and still managed to get the door open with his free hand without glancing away. “What if it did internal damage or something?”
“I’m fine.” She took a deep cleansing breath and the next words came easier. “Just a little shaken that something like that could happen. I would have never imagined it. Thank you, Deputy.”
“Tug,” he told her. “Just doing my job.” He brushed it off as if he went around saving people from rogue bag straps on a regular basis. He winked and smiled, which only managed to send her thoughts straight back to the flirting that couldn’t possibly happen, while he saluted Mrs. Harrington at the main entrance desk. “Good morning, Miss Ivy.”
The elderly woman hurried around the curved desk and threw her arms around him. “Tug, I’m thrilled that you’re going to be working here! There’s a group over at the middle school that bears watching. They’ve been trying to mess with some of our fifth and sixth graders, and not much has been done.”
“Mrs. Menendez told me about the gang symbols in the boys’ bathrooms,” he replied. “I’ll keep my eye on things. We’ll figure out what’s going on and see what we can do to stop it.”
“Riffraff from the coast, that’s what’s going on,” complained the old woman. “Bringing drugs to small towns. It’s not right, Tug. It’s just not right.”
Christa didn’t stick around to hear his reply, because she was some of that coastal riffraff. It wasn’t wrong for a town to protect itself, but was this a common assumption here? That everyone who came from a troubled past was suspect?
She’d broken free with the help and inspiration of some wonderful teachers. Now she wanted to do the same for others. This section of Central Washington had a more diverse population than the state as a whole. Here she could begin anew and inspire children. That was her goal.
Broad footsteps followed her down the hall. She didn’t have to turn to know who was approaching. When she turned into her classroom, Evangeline’s eyes lit up. “Daddy!”
He came in behind Christa, set the science box down, then hugged his daughter. “You be good, smart and respectful because right now I have to go outside and face those reporters, young lady.”
She peeked up at him, guilty.
“And then I’ll be here on school grounds for the foreseeable future. Here’s my cell number.” He raised his gaze to include Christa as he handed her a slip of paper. “Just in case.”
The hot cop’s cell number.
The born romantic in her loved the notion.
The pragmatic woman with a record knew better.
But when he touched his daughter’s head and said, “I love you, Vangie. You are the very best of your mama and me put together, and she’d be proud of your initiative,” she heard the longing in his voice.
And that touched her even more than his magnificent smile.
Chapter Three
“Here he comes!”
A female voice announced Tug’s appearance as he crossed the wide driveway leading to the school’s drop-off areas. A host of voices began hurling questions his way, and when it seemed more like mayhem than an interview, he raised his hands for quiet.
Surprisingly, most of them hushed up. “I have ten minutes,” he told them. “Let’s not waste them. I’m sure you’ve all got the basics on me because it’s public record, so let’s start with you.” He motioned toward a middle-aged woman with short spiky hair.
“Two questions,” she announced briskly. “One, do you intend to let your daughter live—”
A soft chorus of laughter rolled through the group of reporters.
“And two, why would a sheriff train a child on how to use a dangerous instrument like the internet?”
“She’s alive and well thus far,” he replied and didn’t soften the droll note to his voice. “And while I didn’t train her, I did teach her how to shoot videos to send to her grandparents who live out of town. That way they stay in touch with her visually. The ease of social media did the rest because my mother had my vlogging app on her phone.”
“For your teen-empowerment videos?”
“Correct.”
“Are you searching for a wife, Deputy?”
That came from a man a little farther back, and the entire group seemed to wait for his reply. He gave them a rueful grin as he scrubbed a hand to the back of his neck. “I’m not.”
“And yet we have a list of women who would love to meet you,” stated a local reporter. She raised a sheet of paper in her free hand. He recognized her from the midday news that was often on in the station-house break room.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
She made a face at him. “Not kidding. And some of the comments have gone viral, as well. You’ve become a meme.”
He’d thought this couldn’t get worse.
It just had.
“There are worse things I could be, I suppose. But I had not figured on being a meme, so that’s something new.”
“Deputy,” a middle-aged man he didn’t recognize called out from the back of the group. “There is speculation that you put her up to this to garner more local votes in the November election. Is there a grain of truth in that? The timing does make it suspicious.”
The hairs along the back of Tug’s neck stood up.
No one who knew him, or Evangeline, would think that, but Ross Converse, the other candidate for sheriff, liked to throw shade. Ross was fairly new to the Columbia Plateau area. He’d been a police chief near Seattle, then moved inland three years ago. He quickly became known for his I-know-best summations at local governmental meetings and didn’t seem to understand that Central Washington folks didn’t always appreciate being told what to do by outsiders. He’d stirred up a lot of negative discussion lately, and now he was running for sheriff. It didn’t make a lot of sense to Tug, but he met the reporter’s gaze and shrugged. “A man can’t control what folks might say, but I’m going to let my record as a deputy sheriff and unit commander speak for itself. I know a lot of these voters. They’re smart people and I’d never insult their intelligence by rigging an attention-grabbing scheme.”
“Deputy, we’d love to have you on WPAB,” cut in another woman. “I know you’ve gotten lots of interview requests, but it would be wonderful to have the local stations get the scoop.”
“I’m a scoop?” He flashed a grin. “I’m taking all requests seriously, but right now I have a job that I take even more seriously, and as you can see—” he motioned toward the school as a chorus of village church bells announced the eight o’clock hour “—my workday has begun. Thank you all.”
He ignored the clamor of voices that followed. He could reconvene with them later, but right now, he needed to meet with the principals and design a game plan that kept him in proximity to all three schools despite the spacious layout that left room for high-school athletic fields.
He wanted the administrators’ trust and to trust them in return, but by the end of the day he realized that the junior-high principal was too busy trying to be the kids’ friend to be an effective leader. Was the middle school’s spike in problem behaviors and lack of proficiency due to her ineptitude? Or because there was a bad crop of kids in the current seventh-and eighth-grade classes?
He let himself into the eas
t wing of the elementary school for a quick meeting with Mrs. Menendez as the buses pulled out that afternoon. The first thing he heard was a grief-stricken child. The little one was sobbing as if his or her little heart would break, and Tug hurried in that direction.
Jubilee Samson came around the corner right then. She had one little boy in her arms. He was the one crying, his sweet face buried against her shoulder.
The other boy spotted Tug and recognized him from their interaction the previous day. “Hey!” he yelled. He jerked free of Jubilee’s hand and raced toward Tug. “Hey, you! Hey!”
He didn’t just grab Tug. He leaped into his arms as if searching for safety or salvation or something the least bit familiar. “You’re the copper guy. You’re the copper guy!”
“Deputy,” he told the boy as he hugged him. “From yesterday, right?”
“I remember. I remember!”
And even though the standoff ended well for the boys, Tug hoped the memory would fade in time. He held the boy and met Jubilee’s gaze over his head. “What’s up? Do we have news?”
Her grave expression shared silent consternation. “I’ve come to see Ms. Alero. She teaches third grade here.”
“Evangeline’s teacher.” He said the words as Christa came their way from the bus loop. He motioned her over. “This is Ms. Alero, Jubilee.”
The social worker turned. Then she turned back toward Tug. “Tug, I’m sure you’re busy, but can you watch the boys for a few minutes while I speak to Ms. Alero?”
“Sure.” He took the crying boy from her, then crossed the hall and opened the door to a kindergarten room. “Fellas. Let’s see what they’ve got in here.”
The littlest boy’s distress broke the deputy’s heart. Tug was a fixer. A negotiator. A guardian. Right now, all of his skills came to the surface. He guided the older boy into the room and quietly shut the door.
Normal little fellows would have scrambled around the room, checking things out.
Not these two.
The littlest one clung to him with his tousled head burrowed into Tug’s shoulder. The older boy—Jeremy—took a seat on a little chair and folded his hands. Eyes down, he sat there, alone and despondent, as if nothing could ever be right again.
Tug took a breath.
He didn’t have the words to fix whatever disaster had impacted these two little lives, but he had a few skill sets that had sat untapped once Nathan and Vangie went to school.
Without releasing his grip on little Jonah, he began singing a popular kids’ song. When the boys’ tears turned to watery smiles, he breathed a little sigh of relief.
* * *
Marta gone?
And the guy who’d held those two precious children hostage yesterday, two boys who were her baby cousins, was Marta’s newest boyfriend and drug supplier, according to the social worker. And he was gone, too.
Christa sank into her chair in disbelief.
The social worker dragged up a folding chair by the reading circle and set it down beside her. “I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you. The police chief in Quincy offered to deliver the news, but our office was already involved because of the boys. Ms. Alero...” The middle-aged woman sighed softly. “I’m so dreadfully sorry. Were you and your aunt close?”
Christa shook her head. It took a long moment for her to find her words because of the torrent of emotions swirling within her.
Marta had been so funny, so pretty. They’d been girls together, before Marta took up with one of the leaders of the Santiago gang in Sinclair. There’d only been three years between them, which meant Marta would have been thirty now.
If she’d lived.
The disbelief rose up again. “Are you sure you have the right person? That it is my aunt Marta? And that these children are hers?”
The woman’s expression deepened. She nodded and gripped her hands together as if in prayer. At this moment, Christa would welcome the prayers and all the help she could get, because how does a person handle grief upon grief?
One step at a time...
She’d learned that the hard way, but what if one got tired of stepping?
“We are certain.” The social worker leaned forward. “And it was by the grace of God we found you so quickly. His grace and the internet because her name was linked to yours. And to a Margaretta Alero, in California. Imagine my surprise when I plugged your name into the system and realized you’d just moved here. The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she finished softly. Then she noted the small cross hanging on the thin chain around Christa’s neck. “You probably already know that.”
Did she?
Some days. But during the dark times when she’d railed against her mother, when she’d run amok in anger, when she blamed her mother for Marta’s departure, it wasn’t God’s ways she followed. He didn’t deal in ways of darkness and deceit. How she wished she’d known that back then.
“I know this is a shock, but state law says that family placement takes precedence over foster care for bereft children, and I wanted to see how you felt about that.”
The boys.
She’d spotted them in the hallway. One safe in the clutches of the deputy’s arms, and one looking so very lost and alone. “They’ll need a home.”
“Yes. But don’t feel that you have to take on more than you’re capable of, Ms. Alero. We can find temporary placement for them, if need be.”
Shuffled off to strangers, like so many of the kids she’d grown up with. Surrounded by whomever, and good or bad, it wouldn’t be family. It wouldn’t be the people who should love them best. “I only have a little studio apartment. Not nearly enough room...”
“I understand.” The woman—Jubilee—didn’t pressure her. “I’ll find a spot for them, and—”
“No.” Christa drew herself up, surprised. “No, that’s not what I meant. Not at all what I meant. They are family, these boys. Mis primos,” she went on. “My cousins. They will stay with me, of course, but the lack of space makes it hard.”
“There’s space at my parents’ place.” Tug Moyer’s voice interrupted them from behind. The social worker turned quickly.
“Tug, your parents have helped a lot of kids over the years. Would they be willing?”
“Deputy, I—”
Christa started to interject, but paused when he came forward. He hooked a thumb across the way as he pulled another chair forward. “Mrs. Menendez is with the boys now. They’re pretty shaken up.”
Who wouldn’t be? And to be such little fellows, besides?
He sat, pressed his hands together and leaned forward to get her attention. He got it, all right. The strength of his manner, the sincerity of his gaze said this was the kind of man you could count on.
“Ms. Alero, my parents have been foster parents for nearly two decades. They’ve got a good-sized house, and room for you and the boys to stay together until you find somewhere else to move. If nothing else, it buys you time right now. Time to wrap your head around all of this. To adjust. To grieve.”
His expression said more and she remembered his look that morning, a mix of sorrow and guilt. A look she identified with because that same expression looked back at her from the mirror, every single day.
“They’ve got plenty of space and my mom might be available to watch the boys during the day while you work. At least for the time being.”
“You can’t possibly speak for her.”
He cringed slightly, but more in amusement than angst. “You’ll understand when you meet her. She is affectionately known as Hurricane Darla and generally sweeps in like a Category Four. She’s got a heart for children. Vangie and Nathan go there every day after school. I expect they’d love to see the boys.”
What could she say?
The Lord giveth. The Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Was that how it r
eally worked or did bad stuff just happen and humans learned to adapt or not?
She wasn’t sure, but to have so many things fall into place... That meant something, didn’t it?
She took a deep breath. Stood up. Then she stretched out a hand to Tug Moyer. “I will accept your offer on behalf of your parents. If they are half as kind as their son, then I know we’ll be in good hands until we find a bigger place.”
“I’ll let them know.”
He took her hand. Held it. And for those brief moments, she wasn’t sure where her hand began and where his left off.
Not magic, like in the movies.
But belonging. As if destiny did have a say in things. And yet she understood the levels of impossible more than most.
She’d committed a crime in California. She had a record. Sure, it was supposed to be sealed, but was it? Really? This guy, this kind, gracious and bighearted man, was running for county sheriff, and there was no way in the world she was going to let this attraction ruin his job or his life.
But when he gave her hand the gentlest squeeze of compassion, she realized something else.
It was going to be nearly impossible not to fall for him, so that meant she had her work cut out for her. Fortunately, she’d been a sci-fi fan as a youthful reader. All she needed now was a cozy home and a cloak of invisibility and she’d be all set.
Chapter Four
The pizza delivery girl couldn’t get through the throng of press that surrounded his parents’ house. Tug called a neighbor on the next block, and when the neighbor texted him that the pizza was delivered, they did the exchange over the backyard fence. “Thanks, Mike.”
His parents’ neighbor waved it off. “Glad to help. This internet stuff gets out of hand, doesn’t it?”
Tug was just about to agree when Mike added, “Although my sister’s got a daughter who’s single, Tug. Real nice gal. Kind of shy. Never married. Just needs to meet the right guy.”
Learning to Trust Page 3