Where Love Abides

Grabbing his cup of coffee, Dale strode toward the door, convinced he was doing the right thing. But he also knew that a certain organic farmer wasn’t going to be thrilled to see him.

Disheartened, Christine leaned on her shovel and surveyed the remains of her pumpkin patch. She’d been working steadily since those wild teenagers had skidded through the garden early that morning, but the damage was extensive. As she’d filled in the ruts and salvaged as many vines as possible, her dreams of an autumn pumpkin patch, complete with apple cider and cookies, had begun to evaporate. She estimated that at least half her crop had been destroyed.

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she resettled her wide-brimmed hat on her head, hoisted the shovel again and went back to work. There was little traffic on this byway during the week, but she’d done her research and knew that come fall, the colorful Missouri foliage would draw leaf-watchers from as far away as St. Louis. That’s why she’d planted her pumpkin patch close to the road. Adorned with a colorful scarecrow and welcoming signs, she’d hoped to attract passersby. Now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to salvage enough to follow through with her plan.

The hum of an approaching car caught her attention, but she didn’t spare it a glance—until she heard the vehicle slow and turn into her driveway.

When she looked up and saw the police car, her heart skidded to a stop and the breath jammed in her throat. It was a familiar reaction, one she’d experienced every time she’d had any contact with the world of law enforcement over the past few years. Trying to rein in her panic, she watched as the sheriff emerged from the car. He assessed the damage, fists on his hips, before striding toward her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Turner.”

“Sheriff.” Her voice was stiff and tight.

His tone, on the other hand, was conversational. “I heard there was a problem out here this morning.”

“I’ve already discussed it with your deputy.”

“He told me you don’t want to file a formal complaint or press charges.”

“That’s correct.”

“May I ask why? It’s obvious your property has been damaged, and we were able to identify the owner of the vehicle.”

“I don’t think there’s any point.”

Twin grooves appeared on his brow. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Let it go, Sheriff.” Her eyes went flat.

The grooves deepened. “Ms. Turner, my job is to see that justice is done. When a wrong has been committed, I try to correct it. In this case, that would be very easy to do—with your cooperation.”

The brim of her hat shadowed her eyes—but not enough to hide the brief flash of cynicism that flickered in their depths. “Right.”

He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a speculative squint. “I’m not sure what that means. But if you won’t press charges on your own behalf, look at it this way. Up until now, Stephen Mueller’s worst crime has been joy riding and property damage. However, you were close enough to read the license plate this morning. That means you could have been killed. The next time this happens, the witness might be. Do you really want that hanging over your head?”

“I’m not responsible for other people’s behavior, Sheriff.” She held her ground, trying not to let his perceptive gaze drill past her walls. Nor let the guilt he was dishing out sway her resolve.

She was tough, he’d give her that, Dale conceded. Whatever her reasons, she wasn’t backing down. He took a step closer, noting the sudden whitening of her knuckles as she tightened her grip on the handle of the shovel, the flash of fear that swept across her face. He stopped several feet away, stymied.

“Look, Les Mueller, the owner of the car, is a decent man trying to cope with a rebellious adolescent. Stephen is a good kid at heart, but he’s making some mistakes. I’d like to get them corrected before he finds himself in real trouble.”

When his comment produced no response, Dale sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “Okay, could you at least explain why you think filing a complaint would be pointless?”

After a brief hesitation, she responded. “I understand the owner of the vehicle is a man of some importance in town.”

“That’s true.” Dale watched her, gauging her reactions, hoping this was leading to an explanation that made sense.

“Powerful people do what they want. And get away with it.”

“Not in this town.”

She responded with a silence and a cynical expression.

Indignation tightened Dale’s jaw, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “For the record, that’s not the way things work here. We prosecute crimes and do our best to see that the injured party receives restitution.”

“With people in power, retribution is more likely than restitution.” Her face hardened, and acrid bitterness etched her words.

A few seconds of silence ticked by while his unrelenting gaze bore into hers. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Why would you think that?”

His question seemed to startle her. She took an involuntary step back. Swallowed. Blinked. “I’m not going to press charges, Sheriff. No matter what you say.”

The finality in her tone told Dale he’d lost his argument. And her sudden pallor suggested she was once again afraid. The question was, why? Dale didn’t have a clue. Nor was he likely to find out, he acknowledged, given the stubborn tilt of her chin.

“If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her dismissive inflection suggested she’d do the exact opposite. That she wouldn’t spare it another thought once he walked away. But he’d given it his best shot, offered his most persuasive argument. In the end, it was her call.

Switching gears, he summoned up a smile. “On a different subject, thank you for the picture book. It came this morning. It wasn’t necessary, but Jenna will love it.”

There was a warmth in his tone as he spoke his daughter’s name, a subtle softening of his features. Christine’s own manner thawed a fraction of a degree. “I’m glad. It’s hard to go wrong with a book about a princess for a little girl that age.”

“It was right on. Our current nightly story-time ritual alternates between Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I could recite the books in my sleep at this point.”

A sheriff who read his child bedtime stories. Surprising. But nice. “I’m sure her mom feels the same way.”

A brief shadow darkened his eyes, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Her mother died when she was eighteen months old.”

Shock rippled across Christine’s features. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. My mom has stepped in to help, and that’s been a great blessing.” He nodded toward the torn-up garden. “If you have a change of heart about reporting this incident, let me know.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward his car.

Long after he left, Christine stood in the middle of her topsy-turvy pumpkin patch, thinking about the motherless little girl who called the sheriff “Dad.” Her own situation had been similar but reversed. Her father had died when she was six, before she’d formed any clear memories of him. But her mother had tried her best to compensate for the loss.

All her life, Christine had known that her mother would do anything, sacrifice anything, for her. She’d been loved with such deep devotion that nothing later in life could take away the foundation of self-worth her mother had laid. That foundation had held her in good stead through the hard times, allowing her to retain her self-esteem even as Jack had done his best to destroy it.

For some reason, Christine had a feeling that Jenna would grow up with the same solid foundation of confidence and dignity. Christine might not trust Dale Lewis as a sheriff, but she knew at some intuitive level that he was a loving, devoted father. And that if Jenna could have only one parent, she was lucky to have him.

There was a time, in a situation like this, when Christine would have uttered a silent prayer in her heart, asking the Lord to protect the little girl and to give her father strength to carry on alone. But she didn’t talk much to the Lord anymore. In her time of need He’d let her down, and her once-solid faith had faltered. Now, she regarded prayer as no more likely to yield results than standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch wishing for a fairy godmother to appear.

And as for Prince Charming… It was a whole lot safer to leave him in the pages of a fairy tale.

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