by DiAnn Mills
My secrets lay buried, and there they’d stay.
I chained the bicycle to a bike stand outside Amy-Jo’s Café. A step under the green awning transported me back to the early twentieth century. I walked inside to the sound of a bell tinkling over the door. Tongue-and-groove hardwood floors and tin-and-wood ceilings reflected the original construction, a wall held antique kitchen utensils, and another wall exhibited framed depictions of what appeared to be historic Valleysburg. I asked if the owner was available.
A middle-aged woman with mango-colored hair, purple eye shadow, large-framed pink glasses, and ruby-red lipstick greeted me. I introduced myself.
“Honey, I’m Amy-Jo. Glad you stopped by so we could get acquainted. Can you come in at five thirty in the morning instead of six? One of the girls is down with the flu.”
“Must be going around. Pastor Emory and his family are fighting it.”
“Nasty stuff. Nothing bothers me.” She placed her hands on her ample hips. “Germs take one look at me and run screaming.”
“Thank you for this job opportunity.”
She smiled. “Nervous?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be. The past is behind you. You paid your debt and now you have another chance at life.”
I blinked back the wetness filling my eyes. “Just what I needed to hear. Do you have time to tell me what I’ll be doing?”
“You’ll handle the bakery counter. I’ll be here in the morning to guide you through your duties.”
“I grew up with my elbows in flour.”
“Tell you what, when I retired from my old job, I weighed 108 pounds. Every time I missed the fun, I’d either go to the shootin’ range or bake and eat. You’re too trim and pretty to make that mistake.” Amy-Jo walked to the glass bakery case and gestured at the pastry display. “This is a perfect fit for you.”
I bent to take in the pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, donuts, various pastries, and a gluten-free section. Oh, the hours I’d spent with my parents in their bakery. “If you need any help with the baking, I’m your gal.”
She laughed. “Best news I’ve heard since you agreed to come in early. I’m always looking for an extra hand and new recipes.”
“Most of mine are in my head, but I can write down my favorite ones I remember.” Dad had often talked about creating a cookbook, and I hoped he’d published one. “What else can you tell me?”
“The mornings are hectic with folks lined up for coffee and pastries before work and school. Around nine it slows down a bit. If I’m low on waitstaff, I may ask for your help. I provide two shirts, one to wear and an extra. You’re responsible to keep them clean.”
I glimpsed the two other women wearing jeans and red T-shirts with Amy-Jo’s Café on the back. I could do this.
“Let me show you my boutique. We expanded last fall, and I’m tickled pink with the results.” She led me to a wide entrance on the right. An ornate chalkboard inscribed with Amy-Jo’s Gifts was mounted on an easel and pointed to another large, wood-floor room. The charm of the old building, probably built in 1932 like the one housing the parole office, complemented the homey displays of quality gifts, small furniture items, and decorating accessories.
“Edie tells me you design jewelry. I’ve been looking for a feminine line with flair. Would love to see what you have.”
Excitement rose inside me, along with a lump in my throat. “I have a few pieces in my backpack.”
“Let’s do it.” She patted a small oak table. “Right here.”
I fished out the tissue-wrapped jewelry and laid out the pieces. Amy-Jo touched a green-and-gold labradorite pendant with twisted antique brass wire. Her bubbling laughter showed her pleasure. She selected a few designs from my sketch pad to create. I had no clue why God was blessing me—a woman with a muddy past. But I loved His favor.
“Does your business have a name?”
“Yes, ma’am. Simply Shelby.”
She wagged her finger at me. “Simply Shelby, I’m Amy-Jo. Call me ma’am when I’m a hundred.”
I completed my errands and took a look inside a secondhand store for a bicycle. The owner didn’t have a thing. Once I paid Pastor Emory, I’d purchase a new bike. Hope-filled dreams surrounded me as I pedaled home. Later I’d call Edie with a list of jewelry supplies I needed and tell her about today’s adventure. My fingers tingled with the expectation of creating new jewelry pieces.
Night came all too quickly. The headlights and roar of an advancing vehicle sent me hugging the grassy side of the road. I glanced back. A truck gained speed, closing in fast. I moved farther onto the grass near the ditch and took another look behind me.
The driver of a black pickup headed straight my way. Why? He had the whole road before him. Was the driver blind? On his phone? Drunk?
Or worse?
With nowhere to go on a bicycle that wasn’t mine, I screamed. The truck raced past, spitting stones from the shoulder into the left side of my body. The momentum sent me off-balance and into the mud and ditch. Only a fool would call what happened an accident.
Except I’d seen the first three letters of the rear license plate.
Alone and dripping wet, my thoughts darted from anger to fear and back again. I yanked on my backpack for my phone and pressed in James Peterson’s number. I despised the title of victim as much as I hated ex-con.
I’d been easy prey once. Never again. I’d find who stalked me.
11
I’d survived the groping hands of guards and inmates. I’d been beaten twice for standing my ground against a gang who assumed I’d stolen my brother-in-law’s money and wanted a cut, a third time for helping a woman defend herself from attackers. Two other beatings were to show who was boss. I believed in justice and truth, and I’d find out who and why someone wanted me out of Valleysburg. Although Officer Hughes seemed to be the front-runner.
I’d stay unless someone became a victim because of me.
I trembled at what my stalker might have planned next.
A vehicle pulled up to the cabin. I flipped on the outside light and viewed Mr. Peterson exiting a Jeep, and I met him on the porch. He eyed me and frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right? Wouldn’t hurt for a doctor to take a look.”
Mud clung to the right side of my T-shirt and leg. The left side stung from the stones hurled by the truck tires. “The water and mud cushioned my fall. I just have a couple of scrapes and bruises.”
“Did you walk here?”
“I rode the bike. Like me, it survived.” I invited him inside my cabin and gestured to the sofa. “I called Sheriff Wendall and reported the incident.”
“And?”
“He’s sending Officer Hughes to take my statement.”
Mr. Peterson huffed. “Fat chance his response will do any good. I’m sure you’ve experienced his . . . superior side.”
“Yes, sir, and he’s not happy about my presence in Valleysburg. Neither does he approve of his sister, Edie Campbell, renting me this cabin and befriending me.” I told him about the bicycle and the circumstances surrounding why I was using it.
“Hughes and I have discussed you,” he said. “I requested that he tone down his behavior. What’s your gut telling you about the hit-and-run?”
“I didn’t see the driver. Someone is using fear tactics to try to run me off.” I hesitated. “Are you thinking Officer Hughes is behind this?”
“Let me just say I suspect him. His dark-green pickup could be mistaken for black.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “What haven’t you told me?”
I’d endured years of secrets. “Nothing that would provide answers.” But I’d not sit idly by while someone destroyed my second chance at life. “I don’t have a clue what the person wants except to scare me away. He’s the one who’s a coward.”
“Officer Hughes needs every detail for his report, no matter how insignificant it seems. I’ll inform Sheriff Wendall that you and I have talked.”
“Would you stay until Officer
Hughes has all he needs?”
“You bet.”
I heard a car pull up and checked the window. Officer Hughes slammed the door on his cruiser. My frustration in dealing with him had to equal his disdain for me.
“My bike okay?” He eyed it. “Why haven’t you cleaned it up?”
“I wanted to show you the evidence. As far as I can tell, it’s a little out of line.”
“Let me check it out.”
Mr. Peterson cleared his throat. “Randy, why not investigate the hit-and-run before you evaluate the condition of the bicycle?”
“I’m sure the driver didn’t see her. Made a mistake. It’s dark and visibility is bad.”
“The driver had headlights,” I said.
“That means he saw her.” Mr. Peterson gave every indication of supporting me, but trust hadn’t been earned yet. “This makes the third crime against Ms. Pearce.”
“She’s got a record, Jim. Murdering an innocent man sets her up for a few enemies. Besides, my bike doesn’t have reflectors.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Mr. Peterson frowned. “Don’t you think a little due diligence is in order?”
“Sure, once I inspect my bike. Then we’ll take a look at the alleged crime scene.” He walked back to his car, popped the trunk, and grabbed tools to realign the bicycle. All without a word. “It’s okay for now, but if I have problems down the road, you’ll pay for repairs or a replacement.”
I rode with Mr. Peterson, and Officer Hughes followed in his cruiser to the spot where I’d fallen. Mud and crushed grass indicated the area. Officer Hughes spent all of twenty seconds surveying the scene. “Nothing here to open an investigation.”
Patience with Hughes waned. “I have the first three letters of the driver’s license plate—DAT.”
“What state?”
“I have no idea, but it wasn’t Texas.”
Officer Hughes chuckled. “Nothing for me to validate a crime’s been committed. Looks to me like you wrecked my property and made up this fool story.” He headed to his vehicle. “I have real work to do.”
“You’re out of line,” Mr. Peterson said.
“I’m doing my job.”
I watched Officer Hughes speed away. “Thanks for supporting me.”
He nodded. “It’s doubtful that whatever’s going on is over.”
At the cabin and again alone, I considered what had happened—the shot fired into Edie’s SUV, the note letting me know I wasn’t wanted, and the pickup driver’s actions. All deliberate. Repeatedly my thoughts landed in the same place.
Someone thought I should have stayed in prison, or I had knowledge about the unrecovered money or both.
The person had a stake in the past, but no one came to mind. How did I fight an unseen enemy? God, give me strength to hold tightly to You.
My phone rang. An incomplete number appeared on the screen, so no chance of tracing it. Should I answer?
“This is Shelby.”
“You’re not doing your family any favors,” a distorted voice said.
I breathed deeply to calm my shattered nerves. “I agreed not to contact them, so what’s the problem?”
“Give them the gift of suicide.”
I shuddered. “Why?”
“They want you dead or back behind bars. No need for taxpayer money to support you.”
My parents wouldn’t do that, would they? “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Let’s meet face-to-face. Or are you a coward?”
“You’ll see my face when you rot in hell. Tell anyone about this call, and you’ll regret it.”
I trembled and grabbed my inhaler. “Officer Hughes, to what extent will you go to run me off?”
The phone clicked.
12
James Peterson’s warning kept me looking over my shoulder. He doubted the attacks against me were over. But what could I do when Hughes claimed a crime hadn’t occurred? The road to and from Valleysburg gave me the chills, especially in the mornings when it was pitch-black. I found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer and used it like a headlight. I pedaled past the site where the truck ran me off the road and worried what might happen next. I wanted to confront the person, see if the problem could be resolved.
I’d encountered enough bullies to risk whatever it took to stop my personal predator.
My second day on the job, I arrived home at three o’clock. So far, working for Amy-Jo had filled my hours with meeting new people and filling pastry orders. I’d forced myself out of cave mode into a new Shelby, who longed to make people smile. The waitstaff and cook were pleasant. I looked forward to the days ahead, anticipating free time at the cabin to create jewelry, explore my surroundings, and read. What more could I want?
I’d been home long enough to change my red T-shirt and wash it out. Nothing new to harm me had happened in two days, and my homemade alarm system of pine cones and sticks remained untouched.
A knock at the door ended my deliberations, and a quick peek showed my friendly neighbor was paying another call. My distrust level rose. The five-letter word alone was my best company. Except I’d vowed to find who—
Denton knocked again.
Be neighborly. I opened the door and allowed kindness to lace my voice. “Good afternoon.”
He held a border collie puppy in his arms. “I’ve come begging for a cup of coffee. The smell from the last time has lured me back.”
I stroked the puppy’s black-and-white head. Why had he brought this soft little creature? I learned a long time ago that people always had a reason for their behavior.
“Hope you don’t mind I brought a little girl with me.”
I took the sweet puppy’s face into my hands. “She’s adorable. What’s her name?”
“That’s up to you. She’s yours, Shelby. Once she’s a little bigger, her bark will alert you to anyone near the cabin.” He paused. “Or if you decide to raise sheep or cows, she’ll herd them.”
A gasp escaped me but also a hint of alarm. “I have no idea what to say.”
“Thank you?” He grinned and held out the puppy. “She still needs a name.”
I gathered her soft, fluffy body into my arms, and she licked my face. “I’m in love. Thank you, but border collies are expensive.”
“Not really. She’s the runt, and I got a good deal. She doesn’t have papers, but I understand it’s possible to buy them.”
“Why did you do this, Denton?”
“Not sure, but she’s yours. Cute too.” He cocked his head. “I had one like her when I was a boy. She needs a name.”
I traced the white streak between the puppy’s eyes and around her nose. The rest of her black coat glistened in the light. “What’s your name, my little ray of sunshine?” I met Denton’s gaze. “Joy.”
“I like it.”
A talkative and generous math-teacher cowboy? Perhaps if I got to know him, I’d not feel this grinding apprehension. “I have no need for her papers. But I think we should celebrate over a cup of coffee.”
“I’ll wait out here. It’s a beautiful day.”
I gave him a mental thumbs-up. “You’re a gentleman, and I appreciate it. Please, hold Joy and give me a couple of minutes. How do you drink your coffee?”
“Raven black.”
“Strong?”
“Yep. Oh, I have puppy food at my place, and she’s had her shots.”
Gratitude watered my eyes. “I’ll repay you.”
“You are with the coffee and possible friendship.”
Would he be this friendly if he knew my past?
With only one rocker, Denton and I sat on the porch steps to drink our coffee, and Joy curled up in my lap. I stroked her with shaking fingers. The last time I was this close to a man, I had to fight him off.
But I had dreams like any woman. I longed for a man I could trust—a man I could love and share my innermost thoughts with. He’d feel my presence when I entered a room, and we’d sit for hours content with s
ilence and a love that promised to last through every storm.
Denton stood and climbed the steps. “Sorry. Not my intention to make you nervous.” He leaned against the porch post.
I nodded at his perception and took my first sip to regain my composure. “I’m a loner.”
“Would you prefer I leave?”
I prayed for guidance. Denton could be a great guy. If he was the enemy, I wouldn’t discover it by avoiding him. “I’m okay. We can talk.”
“I’ve been a widower for a couple of years, and it’s hard to climb out of the grief. But I’m ready.”
Suspicion gnawed at me. “We just met. Why is my friendship important to you?”
“You’re a mystery, Shelby. I’m curious.”
“And I’m confused.”
He waved away my question. “All I want is friendship. Nothing else. Great coffee, by the way.”
His warm smile caused me to relax slightly. “I bought it at the same place where I work—Amy-Jo’s Café.”
“I need to pick up a bag.” He pointed to his horse. “Want to meet Big Red?”
“I’d love to.”
Denton introduced me, and I petted the horse while cradling Joy.
“I have a soft spot for animals,” he said. “My apartment in Houston didn’t permit pets. Another reason why I liked it out here. Trust me, as a kid, I pestered my parents for another dog, a cat, and a horse.”
“Are you sure you don’t want this puppy?”
“Certain. I have my eye on her mama’s next litter.” We walked back to the porch steps. “Do your parents live nearby?”
I’d rehearsed this type of questioning in prison. “They’re east of here. What about yours?”
“Mine live in the Conroe area.”
“Are they in good health?”
“Remarkably good and very active. Mom is an ex-cowgirl and RN–turned–trainer for therapy dogs. Dad’s a retired police officer and a scoutmaster. He also helps Mom with whatever she needs. They’re great parents. I’m lucky.”
