Breach of Trust

by DiAnn Mills

  Once seated back in front of her PC, she checked out the links that led to more information about Keary. The professional Web sites—the ones that used the latest technology to display his credentials—revealed how the man had retired from a distinguished career with the CIA and joined the law firm of H&S seven years ago. He served on a hospital board and advocated faith-based initiatives. He supported many charities and worthy causes.

  From still another site, Paige learned of his political aspirations that had now become dialogue for Oklahoma media. His conservative views would split those who supported the Republican party and possibly appeal to some of the more conservative Democrats as well. It didn’t help that scandals had erupted in both parties. Keary promised to heal the state’s distrust in political leaders and work to improve education. He also advocated tax incentives to attract more oil companies to base their headquarters in Oklahoma since they’d lost some huge companies to the Houston area.

  Satan in bodily form planned to rule the state Paige had come to love as her own. And she couldn’t do a thing to stop the political travesty.

  What do you want from me now?

  Picking up her cell phone, she punched in the old yet familiar number. At the sound of the recorded message, she gave her code. Instantly she was connected.

  “I need to talk to Greg Palmer.”

  As expected, the phone went dead. Continuous moments of wondering and remembering slid into the present. Every horror was as graphic as yesterday.

  Angola 2002. The happenings crept over her: the coup, the botched mission, her apparent death along with four others.

  Her cell phone rang, yanking her from the heat of the African sun and the fire of a country swimming in unrest and oil. Caller ID registered Unavailable.

  “Paige Rogers.”

  “Mikaela, this is Palmer.”

  Hearing his voice evoked a mixture of fulfillment and failure. “Any new developments on Daniel Keary?”

  “You’re living in Oklahoma, and he’s running for governor. You probably have more information about him than I do.”

  Her hopes plummeted. “You know what I mean.”

  “Keary is a conscientious man. I wish you’d take a look at his accomplishments and where he stands today on crucial issues.”

  “Nothing’s changed. You can spit and buff his name all you want, but he’s a murderer.”

  “Look, Mikaela, put this vendetta against Keary behind you and come back on board. We can use you.”

  “Not likely. The only ‘company’ I need now is my books and magazines.” She disconnected the call, then slipped into her running clothes. Physically working off the pressure and the zillion questions racing through her mind always helped to sort it all out. Pray through the turmoil. . . . Forgive. . . . Give it all to God. She’d been trying to do that for more than seven years.

  After all, Mikaela Olsson had died in a desperate effort to protect those she loved. And Paige Rogers was a marionette who supposedly danced under Keary’s strings. She slammed the front door and broke into a full run, hoping to distance herself from her worries, her past, and her day’s worth of pent-up stress. But somehow she knew it wouldn’t happen.

  Chapter 3

  The epitome of success is power, not a bank account or a feature in Forbes—those are side benefits. Success is measured by how many people snap to attention when power walks onto the stage. I should know. I’ve spent most of my life making sure nothing gets in my way. And each step has been worth the price.

  “Daddy, I can’t sleep.”

  I shift my gaze from the computer screen and blink at my pajama-clad son in the doorway. The spreadsheet made me dizzy, and I’d drifted off into analyzing the last few months of my campaign. “Hey, bud. What seems to be the problem?”

  His bare feet clap against the hardwood floor, and he snuggles against me. I shove aside my irritation and pull him onto my lap.

  “If I could watch the new VeggieTales movie one more time, I could fall asleep.”

  “Before Mommy gets home?” I ask.

  He nods.

  Where is his mother when I need her? My love for her has long since died, but her usefulness hasn’t.

  “Let’s get that movie going again.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”

  I ruffle his black hair and smile into his slanted eyes. A good kid, likeable, despite the fact that nothing about him resembles me. “And I love you.”

  Chapter 4

  Miles Laird sped his Harley over the country road, kicking up dirt and stones the way a tornado tossed buildings and trees. The engine’s rumble pounded out sweet music while the feel of the powerful machine drumming against his thighs offered a sense of control over the stress of the day. This machine was his baby. He’d taken an older model and worked on it in his spare time, always anticipating the next piece of chrome.

  The wind cooled his face, and the approaching sunset in brilliant gold and orange radiated a beauty that most folks took for granted. Not Miles. Every day was a bonus. He swerved to miss a coiled copperhead—breathtaking but deadly, reminding him of life.

  He shook his head at the grasshopper remains littered across the road. The lack of green on both sides indicated they’d eaten well this summer before meeting their demise. Random summer fires had raged over the countryside, scorching the pastures and leaving the woodlands charred black. Soon they’d have rain. At least that’s what the weather forecasters were saying. Miles forecast more hope than rain.

  “Paige Rogers, sometimes I wish I’d never met you.” He shouted his words to no one but the dead grasshoppers and the copperhead in his rearview mirror. He refused to admit to frustration, so he coated his emotions with a “try harder” approach. But why? The woman clearly wasn’t interested, or so she said.

  Depending on his mood, Miles rode either his Appaloosa gelding or his Harley to unwind. Tonight, he’d needed both, and he still couldn’t get Paige Rogers off his mind. He needed to compartmentalize her into a section of his heart that said, “Let it be,” but something about her continually drew him to the library and Paige’s private world of books. Every time he’d thought he’d made progress toward more than a casual friendship, she would slide back into her emotional fortress. There she stood guard over her post like a marine sentry.

  The same questions always probed his mind. What had happened to cause her to run at the mention of a relationship? No, she didn’t just run; she grabbed the tail of a twister. Paige had said her parents were deceased, that she had no family. Okay, then why settle down in the middle of nowhere, unless she had something to fear—or hide? God knew why Paige kept her distance. Sure would be nice if He’d pass on a few clues.

  Miles remembered when the Aubreys had learned their little girl had leukemia, and the family didn’t have insurance. The area churches all rallied to raise money—everything from donations to an auction and bake sale. Paige had jumped in with two spoons and must have spent an entire weekend baking her specialties for the event.

  Miles nodded at a farmer who whizzed by in his pickup, tossing bigger stones and gathering more dirt. Evening was approaching and he needed to go over football plays for next week. With the two-a-days and in-service, he’d eaten microwave meals until he could peel back the wrappers in his sleep. Oh, the affection for the game that kept him alive and restless. The district had assigned him an American history class to teach this year in addition to his regular civics classes, plus he was feeling a mountain of pressure to take the football team to play-offs and bring home the state trophy.

  Praise God for Harleys and horses and the two-story farmhouse on a bit of heavenly acreage. But what about Paige? He was of a mind to ride over there and tell her he loved her and demand an explanation as to why she refused to go out with him. A moment later he admitted his impulsiveness would accomplish nothing more than further alienation. Maybe he should avoid her until his shattered heart recovered. Right. As if that were possible.

  At the crest of a
hill where spotted cattle and horses nibbled at burnt grass, Miles reversed direction and narrowed his sights on Split Creek and the elusive librarian. He rehearsed his speech as he slowed his speed about a half mile from the outskirts of town. He’d make up something to talk about, maybe this dreaded history class.

  Miles crept through town. The sheriff had a vendetta against motorcycles, and Miles wasn’t in the mood to get a ticket or a lecture. He’d never been to Paige’s house before, but he’d passed it a hundred times. With the flowers and rocking chairs on the front porch, it looked like a little old lady lived there. But in no way did Paige resemble a seasoned citizen. Her figure, tanned skin, and huge light brown eyes that missed nothing denied any hint of aging.

  He reached for a handful of courage like a sophomore’s dream of varsity first-string. A visit unannounced might push the odds against him. Too late now, for he’d already stopped in front of her house. He flipped off the Harley’s engine and hung his helmet on the handlebars. Glancing about, he expected to see a dog. A single, defenseless woman should have one to keep her company and let her know when someone arrived . . . like an uninvited football coach who had a crush on her.

  On the left side of the porch a fern sat in the corner and a white rocker held a copy of Time magazine. To the right, an old milk can painted red, white, and blue rested beside an oak rocker.

  When Paige didn’t answer the door, he walked around back. Her parked car in front told him she couldn’t have gone far, but she was nowhere in sight. Maybe she didn’t want to be bothered. A mixture of disappointment and relief swept over him. He felt too much like a love-struck kid.

  He wished he had a way to leave her a note but resigned himself to the fact that she didn’t want to talk to him. As soon as his feet moved toward his Harley, he spotted the sheriff’s car. It slowed and pulled up beside him. Here it comes.

  “Where’s your truck?” George’s long face reminded Miles of a horse.

  “Sittin’ at home full of football equipment.”

  “Sure is safer than that deluxe lawn mower there.”

  Miles fought a moan. “Now, George, if you want to ride my bike, just say so and I’ll let you.”

  “No thanks. I have a personal campaign to get them things off the road.” He pointed to the house. “I need to talk to Paige.”

  “Don’t think she’s home.” Miles shrugged. “She might be in the shower or taking a nap.”

  The sheriff grinned. “You sweet on her?”

  Normally he liked George, but not when he probed like he was going after a festering splinter. “This is about lining up newspapers and periodicals for my students.”

  “Hmm. I’ll swing by later after Naomi and I finish with a church meetin’. Paige’s probably taking her nightly run.”

  George knows more about her habits than I do. Miles bade the sheriff good night and watched him head back into town. Once his Harley sang out its own rendition of freedom, he headed out a different road toward home. His mind played with the next day’s football plays and the problems with his star quarterback who had barely passed ninth grade.

  Nearly two miles from Paige’s house, he spotted a thin woman in dark pants and a white T-shirt standing next to a man who was leaning against a black Town Car. Even in the darkening shadows, he could tell the woman was Paige. She pointed a finger at the man’s chest, and he grabbed it.

  That’s when Miles pulled out the stops on chivalry and pulled over to save his lady.

  The man, dressed like he owned a half-dozen Town Cars, released his hold and moved back.

  “Hi, Miles.” She strode toward him with a smile that he hadn’t seen this side of his dreams. Her walk made him sweat. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard. “When you didn’t show, I decided to run alone.”

  He nearly fell off his he-man Harley, but he’d waited a long time for that moment. “Sorry about being late.” Miles swung a glance at the stranger. “Is this guy bothering you?”

  “No, he simply wanted directions.” She turned back to the stranger. “Do you understand which way you’re headed?” She still spoke more sweetly than Miles had ever heard. “Losing your way can cause you to wander for hours, maybe days.”

  The man stiffened. “I know where I’m going.”

  Miles had never considered himself a fool, and this conversation held more meaning than a rooster strolling into a henhouse.

  Paige patted Miles’s shoulder. She swung her long leg over the bike behind him and reached around his waist. He was glad he’d been lifting weights with the boys. “It’s getting too dark for me to be running. How about a ride home?”

  “My thoughts exactly. I have steaks marinating for dinner.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Paige,” the stranger called, “I’d like a word with you alone.”

  He knows her name? Is this an old boyfriend? “Whatever you have to say to her can be said right here.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “The word is out,” the man said. “I’ve done my job.”

  Anger suddenly raced through Miles’s veins. “Are you threatening her?”

  “Listen, hayseed. Take your one-time girlfriend and your tricycle back into Hicksville.” The man rounded his car and vanished behind tinted windows.

  “Let’s get you home.” Miles memorized the car’s license plate. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He wished he could see her face. “I take it you know him, but I do have the guy’s license plate.”

  “I had George look it up earlier. Besides, I could have handled him.”

  He watched the car speed away with more questions rolling around in his head than football plays. “Independence is a trait, not a means of self-defense.”

  “Good one. Thanks for coming by when you did.”

  He started the engine and turned the bike around. “Can I have another one of those special hello kisses?”

  She jabbed him in the side. “Probably not, but I’ll consider it for the future.” She paused. “Nice bike. A 1450 engine. Every time I see you, you’ve added something to the trim package.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about bikes. What else are you hiding inside that pretty head of yours? If George sees you’re not wearing a helmet, he’s going to shoot us both.”

  “What would Split Creek do without its football coach?” She leaned in a bit closer to him.

  “And what would the town do without its librarian?” Miles had never had this much fun with Paige. “By the way, our good sheriff stopped by your house.”

  “How do you know?” She raised her voice to be heard above the engine’s noise.

  “I was there looking for you. He said he’d be back later.” There, he’d said it.

  “Two of the town’s most important men looking for me? Whatever for?”

  His heart pounded out a stronger beat than the engine. “I have no clue about George. Me, I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “What kind?”

  “I’m not planning to camp on your porch until you go out with me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I need a library favor.”

  “Help all the jocks pass your classes?”

  Sure would be nice if we could always talk like this. “Nice thought. I wondered if you’d stock the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times. A lot of the kids don’t have computers to access them online.”

  “Sure. As soon as we get DSL, I’ll subscribe to them online. If we could come up with at least one more computer, the kids could work on projects there. Until then, I’ll order hard copies.”

  “The high school doesn’t have enough of them to go around either,” he said. “When do you think the library will get another computer?”

  “When folks donate their used ones. Maybe around Christmas.”

  Miles slowed to avoid a couple of potholes. In the lull of the engine’s song, he turned to catch a quick glimpse of her face and take advantage of not having to yell. �
�I have another request. Could you help me compile a suggested reading list for my American history class? I have a few books in mind, but I want to expose them to a wide range of information.”

  “Will I receive any free football tickets for my hard work?”

  He pretended annoyance and turned into her driveway. “I’ll scrounge up a few.”

  She swung off the bike. “Thanks, Miles. All kidding aside, you were just where you needed to be this evening.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened back there?”

  “Wasn’t important.”

  “The man called you by name.”

  “He could have heard it anywhere.”

  “I could help.”

  “You already have. In fact, I don’t think that guy will ever show his face here again.” Her seriousness replaced the lighthearted tone of less than a minute before.

  “Don’t you know by now I want to be your number one hero?”

  She glanced beyond her home to the empty field beside it. “Don’t you think if it were possible, I’d have planted myself on your doorstep a long time ago?”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  “I can’t go into it. Complications, many complications.”

  “Like that fellow back there?” How could he convince her that he could be trusted?

  “Maybe.”

  Miles ventured closer to the edge, knowing he was risking their friendship. “My past stinks. I’ve done a lot of things that make me want to crawl into a hole,” he said. “But life goes on, and all things are new in Christ. We can create the future we want.”