“I sorted out all the letters for you,” she continued as Darla and Christa met them in the kitchen. She faced the women to drum up their support. “I could only read some of them, and if somebody had horrible handwriting, I just threw it away because they really should know enough to type their letters if they can’t write nicely.”
“You can read cursive?” Christa tucked Jonah into his high chair, set a handful of graham cracker cereal in front of him to appease him for a few minutes and aimed a look of surprise at Evangeline. “That’s pretty great.”
“I can only read some of it, but I couldn’t even get Dad to look at the letters, so I had to do it all myself because no one would help me.” She aimed a dark look up at her father.
“Vangie, there’s just no time right now. Give it a few weeks. Things will calm down eventually. I promise.”
“But the ladies might have found someone else by then.” When she looked at him—and he noticed her chin trembled slightly—he realized this was more than a cute endeavor. For Evangeline, it was a mission, one he was thwarting.
“Vangie, I—”
“Why don’t we all help tonight?” Darla asked. “Four adults and Vangie? We can get through those mail sacks in no time.”
He’d have reinforcements and Vangie’s efforts wouldn’t go unnoticed. “Perfect. Problem solved. They asked me to work tomorrow,” he began to say, but Nathan frowned instantly.
“We’re supposed to pick apples at CeeCee’s farm, remember?” he implored. “Her mom said we can come anytime and you said we’ll go Sunday. Only how can we do that if you’re always gone?”
“If you’d let me finish,” Tug scolded lightly as he grabbed a handful of cookies. “I said I’m apple picking with my kids tomorrow and nothing can get in the way of that.” He ruffled Nathan’s hair. “So there.”
“But why do you have to work all the time?” Vangie planted her hands on her hips. “Don’t they have rules about stuff like that?”
“They do.” He saw Christa duck her head, but not before he recognized the smile she didn’t dare share. “But I took a pledge to uphold the law and being in school is an extra job right now. A job that will hopefully help what’s happening with the bigger kids,” he reminded her. “You know I have to work alternating weekends, Vangie. That’s not new or different.”
“But then you weren’t working all week,” she told him.
She was technically correct. He generally had a day or two off midweek when he was working the weekend rotation, but those days were often call-in days. He minimized overtime when the kids were home over the summer, but gladly accepted the extra hours once school started in the fall. “You didn’t notice because you were in school,” he told her. “In any case, duty calls. Be good for your grandparents and we’ll go apple picking tomorrow. Maybe Renzo and the girls can join us. The later apples should be almost ripe,” he added with a glance toward the calendar. “Christa, what do you think? Can we take the boys to my friend’s orchard and pick some apples? Buy some fresh cider and fried cakes?”
“That sounds marvelous, so yes,” she replied. “Count us in. Then Darla can show us how to make applesauce. I’ve never made anything like that,” she added to his mother. “I’m excited to see how it’s done. And with so many helpers, it should be quite the adventure.”
He didn’t miss the wry note on the phrase so many helpers, but when he looked her way, the bright smile said she was actually looking forward to it.
“It’s a date,” he declared. The minute the words came out of his mouth, he kinda wanted it to be a real date, so when she lifted her gaze to his, he smiled. Yeah. That kind of smile. He didn’t wink, but when she tossed him a scolding face, he knew he didn’t have to wink.
She got it.
He kissed his daughter goodbye, did the same with Nathan and headed for the door just as Jeremy skidded into the kitchen and aimed straight for Tug. “Hey, you!”
Tug grabbed him up and semi-tossed him into the air. When Jeremy shrieked a little, Tug grinned. “I thought you were still sleeping.”
Jeremy shook his head so hard his hair danced. “Can we swing today? Like before?”
“When I get home later, okay? If that’s all right with Christa?” He looked over the boy’s head to catch her eye.
“If it doesn’t rain,” she warned Jeremy. “If it does, we have to wait because underdogs are hard to do when it’s slippery.”
“And it’s hard to hold on to the swing,” Tug reminded him. “So if the weather’s good, we’ll go to the park and swing, okay?”
“Okay.” The boy aimed a very serious look at Tug, then leaned close. He tried to whisper, but four-year-olds weren’t the best whisperers on the planet. “She tried to do underdogs.” He slanted a look at Christa, who was pretending not to overhear. “Only I went all crooked and almost hit the bar, and then we changed to a middle swing and I still went all crooked, but I didn’t hit the bar. Just another swing. So that’s why we need you.”
Tug choked back a laugh. “I’ll make sure it happens, my friend. I promise. Apples and underdogs.” He set Jeremy down and jogged to his car.
Was he taking on too much again? Or was this simply an unfortunate combination of circumstances?
The sheriff’s campaign was well on its way. Vangie’s internet ploy had created a situation that needed attention, but that seemed to be dying down. On the other hand, he understood what most others didn’t. He hadn’t ended up as the school resource officer because of a breach of protocol. Sheriff Wainwright had slipped him into place as part of a plan. Citing his actions with the boys gave them an excuse to put him into place without putting their on-site middle-school investigation into the spotlight. Yes, he’d broken through a door to save those boys, he and Renzo both. Yet he couldn’t renege on the resource-officer job because he’d gotten a glimpse at what was going wrong inside the middle school, and if the board removed him now, all his inroads would be lost.
Vangie was right. He was gone too often and too long, and he’d promised himself he’d never do that again when Hadley got sick.
Yet here he was. Playing superhero as if no one else could get things done.
An incoming call put an end to his speculation. He took the call on his dashboard connection. “Moyer here.”
“It’s Renzo. Are you clear?”
That was code for wanting to make sure no one could overhear their conversation. “Yes.”
“Those reporters that got into school through the propped door? The ones who questioned Vangie in the hall?”
“Yeah?” He’d deliberately taken himself off that investigation because when it came to the safety of his kids, he couldn’t stay neutral.
“A major donor to Ross Converse’s campaign was behind it.”
A knot began to form at the base of Tug’s neck. “What do you mean behind it?”
“They had someone wedge the door open to let the crew have access, told them what time Ms. Alero’s class came down that hall. That way they’d have a chance to talk to Vangie.”
“But why?”
“You haven’t read the morning paper?”
There hadn’t been time to even think of reading a newspaper or scanning headlines on his phone. “No.”
“I put one on your desk. Basically Converse is accusing you of using your daughter’s cute video as a campaign ploy to curry favor with the voters.”
“Converse is a moron.”
“Agreed. But right now he’s got the press’s ear because his father and the senior editor’s father were college buddies and still golf together once or twice a week when the weather’s decent. That means he’s got an in. An in you don’t have with the local paper.”
“Why should I need an in if I’ve got a great record and can do the job? That should be enough, shouldn’t it?”
“It should be, but if he can slant the n
ewspaper to make it look like you’re using your kids to buy votes, that makes you look bad.”
“Or really, really smart,” joked Tug. “I’m actually a little sad that I didn’t think of it.”
“This might be more serious than you think, Tug.”
Lorenzo had been his partner for over eight years and his best friend for three decades. They’d run the gamut together, ever since their parents became friends as they provided foster care to children in peril, and there was no one on the force that Tug respected more than this man. “I hear you, Renzo. I get it. But if I can’t win the job on merit, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be. You know I don’t play games. If Converse wants to fire arrows at each other’s families, I won’t engage in the battle. If he wins votes by doing that, then I’m not the man for the job. If I don’t play fair, I don’t play at all.”
“I hear you. And I support you. But when the reporters question you, make sure you have an answer ready. In the meantime, I’m going to make sure the donor that arranged to have that school door blocked open is going to regret passing money to a teacher’s aide who is having a very rough time meeting her financial obligations since her husband was diagnosed with cancer. They picked a vulnerable person on purpose. And if that’s the kind of finance guy helping run Converse’s campaign, you can be sure there are other sharks in the water.”
Too many sharks, from the sounds of it. Why did Converse need all that background support to win a county sheriff’s job?
The pay grade was commensurate with the added responsibilities, but Converse had retired from his previous job with a hefty pension. Did he just want back in the job? Or was there more to it?
Converse had been a police chief outside of Seattle until three years ago when he moved to an upscale development overlooking the river in Quincy. You didn’t live there unless you had money, and if you had money, what was the appeal of the sheriff’s job? Maybe early retirement didn’t suit him? Or was there another reason? “That’s some mighty big guns to bring to a backyard scuffle.”
“Agreed. I’m going to quietly examine why he’s pulling out all the stops,” Renzo replied. “Maybe that’s the way they do things where he used to work, but it’s not how stuff gets done here.”
Tug turned into the station-house parking area. “Don’t get yourself into trouble. If he ends up winning, you don’t want your boss to be your enemy.”
“And I don’t want a crooked guy who plays kids to be my boss,” his partner told him, and he didn’t hide the cheerful note in his voice. “We’re more wholesome here. That’s how it’s been. That’s how it’s going to stay. You wanna do a fall barbecue tomorrow?”
That sounded great. “Yes. But first we’re going apple picking. Why don’t you come along? Bring the girls.”
“Naomi’s not feeling good, so I’ll take a pass on that,” Renzo replied. Naomi was one of the triplets. “The girls love to share germs, so Mom wants them to lie low this weekend. I’ll fire up the smoker at your parents’ while you guys pick. That way the food can be ready when you get back.”
“Sounds good,” said Tug as Renzo pulled in and parked alongside him. “We can talk more tomorrow.” He disconnected the call and climbed out of the car.
Renzo was right to call him covertly instead of talking at the station house. If Converse’s campaign was bribing people, they might also be eavesdropping on private conversations. Both were major red flags, but Tug wasn’t some fresh-faced youngster vying for his first job. He’d seen his share of political fallout over the years, but nothing like that in the sheriff’s department. He’d been on the force for nearly two decades and had done well. He met Renzo in the parking lot. “Don’t overstep.”
Renzo fell into step beside him. “I won’t have to. Converse thinks he’s dealing with country hicks. He’s pretty sure nothing will stick, and that’s what’s got me worried because what else has this guy got up his sleeve?”
Tug didn’t know. With a wide economic divide between the haves and the have-nots, he wasn’t oblivious to the county’s problems, but if all of the departments worked together, they could continue the improvements that had already begun. And that was what made the fight worth the struggle.
* * *
“Lonely in Golden Grove?” Christa wasn’t sure how she ended up sorting letters with Tug, Glenn and Vangie, but here she was. “Can we arbitrarily dismiss letters that don’t use your actual name?” she teased from her spot on the carpet. “Because I’d be okay with that.”
“Grandma put all the far-away letters on the recliner. These are all people in Washington, Idaho and Oregon,” Vangie explained as the letter sorters found places to sit on the floor. “She thought it would be easier out here in the living room. More space for sorting,” she finished.
“Note that Grandma then pleaded taking care of the children as an excuse to not do this,” noted Tug. He lifted a brow toward Vangie. “Fiendishly clever of her.”
“Actually, Dad—”
Christa hid the smile that threatened every time Evangeline took her father down a peg.
“—Grandma said that three boys and a pile of mail is probably the worst mix ever, so she’s going to read to them upstairs.”
“So, back to Lonely in Golden Grove?” Christa held the letter aloft.
“I think she should at least know my dad’s name if she’s going to marry him,” decided Vangie.
“It would be the sensible thing to do,” Tug agreed. “I vote we discard all cutesy names.”
“What about swimsuit pictures?” queried Christa.
Vangie frowned. “Don’t they know where we live? There’s not much swimming time here.”
Tug choked back a laugh, but not before catching Christa’s eye. He craned his neck as if straining to see the picture, right before she dropped it into the garbage can.
Then he grinned.
So did she.
Vangie thought the women in swimsuits were confused.
They weren’t, but an eight-year-old didn’t have to know that. Two-hundred-and-four letters later, they were done.
Some were saucy. Some were ridiculous. And some were simply kind letters of condolence. But every now and then, there was a really nice note.
“I can’t believe we threw so many away.” Vangie gave the meager pile of remaining letters a look of disappointment. “Should we go through them again?”
“Nope.” Tug tossed another one into the trash and indicated the short stack with a jut of his chin. “We’ve narrowed things down to seven. I’d say we’ve done our job well. In matters like this, it’s always good to trust our instincts.”
“I don’t get it.” Vangie frowned, then yawned, then frowned again.
“If something doesn’t attract you from the beginning, it’s not going to work out,” he explained.
She rolled her eyes, typical eight-year-old. “You can’t possibly know that, Dad. Can he, Christa?”
The last thing she wanted was to be put on the spot concerning Tug Moyer’s love life. “Leave me out of this. I’m just clerical help. Advice for the lovelorn is above my pay grade.”
“Huh?” Vangie looked confused, but Tug laughed out loud.
And then he looked across at her. Caught her attention. Held it. Smiled. Then said, “There should always be a spark, Vangie.”
But he wasn’t looking at his daughter as he said it. He was looking at her.
Just her.
“An attraction,” he went on. “If it doesn’t exist, there’s no reason to spend time going out. Doing things together. Because the attraction needs to be there.”
It was there, all right.
In the beating of her heart. The skip in her pulse.
His smile grew.
She should ignore it. Avert her gaze. Shift her attention.
For the life of her, she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Because looki
ng at Tug, meeting his gaze, letting his eyes smile into hers didn’t just feel right. It felt perfect, even if she knew it was about the most imperfect thing in the world right now.
And still she gazed back and smiled because smiling at Tug seemed way too right to be wrong. No matter what she’d done fourteen years ago.
Chapter Nine
Christa studied the sloping apple orchard, the four kids, then Tug late Sunday morning. “How do you pick apples and keep the kids close by, because one minute of distraction means Jonah or Jeremy have disappeared into the wilderness at the back of the orchard.”
His laugh reassured her. “It’s a creek bed, but the creek’s just a trickle right now. In answer to your question, we divide and conquer.”
“The words of a true general.”
“I do like taking charge,” he admitted. “How’s this?” he asked. “Vangie and I will take Jeremy. You and Nathan keep an eye on Jonah. If he plunks himself down to eat an apple, all the better.” He polished a Gala apple against his soft-knit pullover and handed it to the boy.
“Can he chew the skin?” she asked because she’d always peeled the skin off apples at Tug’s parents’ house.
“We’ll soon find out.”
He threw her a rogue grin, but must have taken pity on her when she cast a worried look because he nudged her shoulder. “He’s almost three. He’s got molars, right? He’s going to do fine.”
To prove him right, Jonah wasted no time taking a tiny bite of the apple. Then he peeked up at her and Tug and flashed a mouthful of baby teeth.
Oh, that smile!
Being younger, Jonah didn’t seem as affected by the loss of his mother. Or maybe it was his more easygoing personality. He was like a friendly puppy, loving on everyone. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss Marta, but he wasn’t consumed by it.
Jeremy was a different story. He went along with Vangie and Tug when they moved to the Granny Smith row to fill two baskets specifically for applesauce, but as she watched, he kept glancing around. Looking for something. Or someone. He was a lost soul, and while he tried to have fun, the effort was a struggle.
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