Wilda’s lips twitched. “This is Austin.”
She turned to the other child, who had straight brown hair. “And what’s your name, sweetheart?” Shy, he hid his face.
Austin flung out his arm. “He Wogan.”
She arched her brow at Wilda.
Their grandmother smiled. “Logan.”
She vaguely recalled hearing the new police chief was from Raleigh, the state capital. But why was his mother, and not his wife, dropping off their sons?
Aunt GeorgeAnne would probably have the scoop.
“Would you mind if I stayed with the boys this morning?” Wilda bit her lip. “With all the changes in their lives, they feel a bit uprooted. We’re protective of them, you see.”
Maggie didn’t understand, but she didn’t mind, either. “We’d love for you to stay.”
Callie drifted over to introduce herself. “You may be put to work. Needing a village takes on new meaning in the toddler classroom.”
The older woman laughed. “Land of lakes, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She waved the clipboard. “Where do I put this?”
Callie deposited the paperwork in the tray on the counter for the church staff.
“GeorgeAnne has been so helpful.” Wilda steered the twins toward the toys. “She’s even introduced me to two members of the Double Name Club.”
Maggie and Callie exchanged amused glances.
GeorgeAnne Allen. ErmaJean Hicks. IdaLee Moore. Better known as the Truelove Matchmakers, the elderly trifecta were notorious for taking their civic duty and the town slogan—Truelove, Where True Love Awaits—to heart.
Maybe because she’d always been a tomboy, Maggie had never been caught in their crosshairs. Which suited her just fine. Marriage and family would never happen for her.
And she’d done her best to reconcile herself to making the most of the life God had given her. Her second chance.
Spotting a plastic big rig truck, Austin fell to the braided rug. Logan squatted in front of a toy barnyard. Callie removed a large box of cheese crackers from an overhead cabinet.
Maggie’s aunt GeorgeAnne poked her iron-gray cap of hair around the frame of the half door. “Hey!”
The three of them jerked.
Angular and somewhat bony, GeorgeAnne pushed the black-framed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Did my niece tell you about the kid classes she teaches at the rec center, Wilda?”
“What kind of classes?”
Maggie sank to the carpet between the boys. “Good morning to you, too, Aunt G.”
Typical GeorgeAnne. She blew in like a hurricane. No-nonsense and straight to the point.
Seventyish, GeorgeAnne flattened her thin lips into what, for her, constituted a smile. “The class is for little kids who like to jump and run and roll. Does that sound like something your boys like to do?”
Looking up, Austin nodded. “Me do.” Logan kept his eyes glued to the small barn.
“I think your tumbling class sounds perfect.” Wilda settled herself in the gliding rocker. “I love them dearly, but I don’t mind telling you they can wear a body out.”
“That’s what Tumbling Tots does best.” GeorgeAnne smirked. “Teaches a few basic skills. And tuckers them out two mornings a week.”
“Fantastic.” Wilda blew out a breath. “Where do I sign up?”
“We’re starting a new session Monday morning. Class begins at nine.” Sitting crisscross applesauce on the rug, Maggie handed Logan a toy sheep. Austin zoomed a plastic tractor around them. “Dress them in loose-fitting, comfortable play clothes, and they’ll be good to go.” She resisted the impulse to touch their silken baby hair.
Wilda smiled. “Isn’t it just like God to allow our paths to cross? Right when we need it most?”
The morning flew by. She so enjoyed getting to know Austin, Logan and their grandmother. After the service, parents started coming in to collect their children. Wilda and the twins were the last to say goodbye. Emotion clogged Maggie’s throat.
Mustn’t cry. She dug her nails into her palms. Not now. Not ever.
After setting the room to rights, she and Callie left at the same time. Callie, on the arm of her wonderful husband, Jake. Treacherous tears once again stung her eyelids.
Stop with the self-pity, Mags.
Outside, her father waited for her under the shade of a towering oak. She sighed. He was probably annoyed by her strange behavior earlier.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“No need to be sorry, Magpie.” He ducked his head. “I miss your mother, too,” he whispered.
Maggie was taken aback to see moisture dotting his dark eyes.
She missed her mother more than she could say, but today it wasn’t her mother she missed the most. Though if her mother had been alive three years ago, maybe she would have made different choices.
That night in Atlanta, she could’ve so easily died. God had spared her life. And she didn’t mean to waste it.
Yet in the wee hours of the night, when the sorrow was at its peak, she consoled herself with the knowledge she’d done the right thing. The unselfish thing.
Because that was what mothers did.
Her gaze was drawn to Wilda and the twins. Crossing the little footbridge spanning the creek, they headed toward the parking lot. The handsome new chief stood between his pickup truck and a black minivan.
Maggie sent a prayer of gratitude skyward for what she did have—her father, her home and a job she loved.
Plus she was excited at the possibility of getting to know Austin and Logan on Monday.
Her dad offered his arm. “Ready to head to the cemetery?”
Eyes flicking toward the minivan and the pickup pulling out onto the highway, she exhaled. The Father of good gifts had given her a special gift on this hardest of days. Wilda was right.
Just when she’d needed it most.
* * *
Early Monday morning, Bridger Hollingsworth parked the white SUV that came with the new job in the last available spot outside the Mason Jar Diner. The parking places out front and along the side of the town green were filled.
According to his predecessor, Tom Arledge, the Jar was a popular local hangout. Tom had invited him for a quick debrief before he headed to the police department down the block.
Overhead, a bell jangled as he entered the café. Bustling waitresses carried trays of food from the cutout window behind the counter to customers. As was his habit—a habit that had kept him alive thus far—he immediately scanned the occupants of the diner, scoping out potential risks.
With an accompanying hum of conversation, men and women of varying ages sat scattered around the café. A young guy in blue overalls from an automotive shop. At a far table underneath a bulletin board, a trio of elderly ladies. The town and its inhabitants were everything his research had led him to believe about Truelove.
Farmers. Ranchers. Local businessmen. A tight-knit, friendly community. Low crime rate. A good place to put down roots and raise his family.
The aroma of yeasty biscuits and fried potatoes wafted across his nostrils. His stomach growled. Maybe not such a bad idea to talk shop with Arledge and feed his belly at the same time.
Spotting him in the doorway, the lanky ex-lawman motioned him toward the section of booths. “Good to see you again, Hollingsworth.”
He shook the older gentleman’s hand. “Good to see you, too, sir.” Taking off the regulation hat, he cut his eyes at the crowded diner. “Is it always this busy at the Mason Jar?”
“The usual breakfast crowd.” Tom grinned. “Before we order, though, I want to introduce you to some of the fine citizens of Truelove.”
Leaving his hat on the table, he followed Tom to a cluster of men seated on the counter stools. Bridger’s late father had been a police chief in a Raleigh suburb. And although thi
s was his first venture into an administrative position, he knew the drill.
As police chief, his job was threefold: to maintain a good working relationship with the town council, to provide leadership to the officers he’d supervise and to bolster law enforcement’s relationship with the community.
He appreciated Tom’s efforts to help him become part of the community. A subtle stamp of approval. A passing of the torch. Bestowing the mantle of responsibility in the eyes of the Truelove public.
Amid jokes of being put out to pasture, Tom led him from table to table, greeting the townspeople and shaking hands.
Nash Jackson, an orchard grower. Dwight Fleming, owner of a white-water rafting company. The mayor’s wife. A pastor.
The three elderly ladies belonged to something called the Double Name Club. Whatever that was. He flicked his eyes at Tom, who appeared to have stuck his tongue in his cheek.
But everyone was welcoming. The Double Name Club members were especially enthusiastic.
He was good with names and faces. He had to be. More than once, his life had depended on it.
Finishing the rounds, Tom slid into their booth. “How’d your first case go this weekend?”
A waitress left a carafe of coffee and two empty cups on the table.
“Patrol caught a couple of teenagers tagging the side of an old barn with spray paint. No big deal.” He sank onto the vinyl seat across from Tom. “But paperwork is paperwork.”
Tom poured the steaming coffee into the porcelain mugs. “Good ole American bureaucracy at its finest. Not as exciting as those drug busts you used to work. I hope you won’t get too bored in sleepy ole Truelove.”
He wrapped his hand around the mug. “I’m hoping those adrenaline-and pulse-pumping days are behind me.”
After the humiliation of what happened with his former fiancée, Chelsea, he was also done with betrayal and lies.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Chief.” Bridger cleared his throat. “This new position provides my family the opportunity for a new start.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re the chief now. And it was how you presented yourself during the interview with the town council that secured you this job, son. Not me.”
He leaned forward. “I don’t aim to let you—or the town—down, sir.”
“Your dad and I went through the academy together. One of the best men I ever knew. A real straight arrow.” Tom winked. “I have no doubt the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You’ll do fine, Bridger.”
Venturing over, the waitress took their breakfast order.
“Unless there’s a major incident, you’ll keep regular office hours.” While they ate, Tom passed along a few tips for surviving and thriving in Truelove. “You can leave the weekend duty to the less senior officers. But, of course, a police chief is always on call if needed.”
He pushed away his now-empty plate. “I’m hoping to have more time with the boys. To build a solid relationship with them.”
Tom laid down his fork. “How long have you been their guardian?”
A sharp pinch of grief assailed him. “Since my brother and his wife died four months ago. I never expected to be their guardian. With Mom getting on in years and my sister expecting her third child, everyone agreed it was best.” He sighed. “I never reckoned on marriage or a family of my own, though.”
Tom’s brows bunched. “Why’s that?”
His shoulders rose and fell. “Relationships are hard enough. With the unique hazards in our line of work, relationships have proved impossible for me. Or, at least, healthy relationships.”
Tom gazed at him over the rim of his mug. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Not a pleasant one.” His lips twisted. “Experience can be a bitter teacher.”
“You probably just haven’t found the right woman yet. And even then, it takes work, for sure. It’s not easy, but no matter the job, nothing worthwhile ever is. Marriage and family are some of life’s greatest joys.”
He kept further opinions on the matter to himself. His former, uncertain lifestyle hadn’t lent itself to developing viable relationships. For the foreseeable future, casual dating was out for him, too.
Bridger had no intention of allowing the twins to get attached to a woman, only to lose her when the relationship inevitably turned sour. They’d already suffered far too much loss in their young lives.
He could no longer be away for weeks on end as an undercover cop. Once he assumed guardianship, he’d been determined to do everything in his power to minimize the risks his chosen profession imposed. After losing their parents so unexpectedly, Austin and Logan needed stability and love.
Bringing him to Truelove. A chance for him and the boys to make a good life together. Even if it meant major life changes and moving halfway across the state. Yet without his mother’s willingness to relocate and look after the twins when he was on duty, he could’ve never made the move.
Silver-haired Tom eased out of the booth. “I’d best be off. Don’t want to make you late.” He snagged the bill off the table.
“Wait, sir. Let me—”
“Next time, it’s on you.” Tom clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to Truelove, Chief Hollingsworth. It’s your town now, but I’m here if you ever find yourself needing an old man’s advice.”
Bridger lingered for a few moments. Sipping his coffee, he enjoyed the view out the plate glass window overlooking Main Street.
On the horizon, wave upon wave of undulating blue-green ridges enfolded the charming town like the worn but comforting arms of a beloved grandmother. The Appalachians were old mountains. The mountains defined the citizens of Truelove. As did the gushing river, forming a horseshoe around the town limits.
A slower pace of life. The simplicity and goodness of small things. Parenting the twins and becoming police chief were a responsibility and privilege he didn’t take lightly.
“I’m glad I caught you.” An attractive young woman in sneakers, black capri leggings and a bright pink workout top threw herself into the seat across from him. “We didn’t get a chance to talk before you left this morning.”
Startled, he jolted. Coffee dribbled down the sides of the mug in his hand.
“Oh!” Her large dark brown eyes widened. “You’re not—I saw the sleeve of your uniform and thought—” She blushed. “I keep forgetting Dad’s gone civilian.”
His insides did a nosedive. Her. It was her.
When her gaze had caught his yesterday on the sidewalk at church, his heart had sped up. Which made no sense. Completely irrational. And yet...
“You’re Maggie Arledge?”
She nodded, setting her dark brown ponytail in motion. “Sorry about that.” She gestured toward the puddle of coffee.
“No problem.”
Their brief encounter yesterday had disconcerted him. To a guy like him, who prized order and reason above all else, it was disturbing. He’d done his best to put her out of his mind. A semisuccessful effort. Until now...
“I—I just didn’t hear you coming.” He raked his hand over his head. “I usually don’t have my back to the door.”
“But let me guess.” Yanking several napkins from the canister, she mopped the table. “Dad automatically took this seat first.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“I’m also sorry about rushing away yesterday.” Flushing, she bit her lip. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Chief Bridger.”
She took a big breath as if gathering her courage. Extending her hand across the table, she gave him a tremulous smile. And in that split second, she went from attractive to very pretty.
When his hand closed over hers, a bolt of electricity shot up his elbow. Blinking, she drew back.
She’d felt that, too. Static electricity maybe?
&nb
sp; He dropped his hand into his lap. “Just Bridger.” He rubbed his hand against his uniform slacks. “It’s nice to officially meet you, too, Maggie.”
Uncertainty flickered across her face. “I—I should go.” She propelled herself out of the booth.
What was it with the sudden exits?
Grabbing his hat, he scrambled out after her. “Wait.”
Poised beside the booth to flee, she stood about five foot six to his six-foot height.
He strangled the brim of his hat. “Um...” He reddened.
Athletic and fit, she looked at him, eyebrow raised.
Yet other than the irrational impulse to halt her precipitous leave-taking, he didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t like him to get flustered over a woman. Undercover work required a cool head and, oftentimes, a glib tongue.
She inclined her head, sending her ponytail waving. “Yes, Mr. Bridger?”
He frowned. Was there an unspoken mountain rule about the casual use of given names?
“It’s Bridger,” he grunted.
She moistened her lips. “Bridger...”
Feeling a small stab of triumph, he loosened his tongue. “I expect we’ll run into each other again.”
She gave him a curious look. “Truelove is a small town. Can’t help but run into everybody on a regular basis.”
“We’re also going to be neighbors.” He fingered his hat. “I bought the farm next to your dad’s.”
She touched her hand to her throat. “I—I didn’t know you were the one who bought the old Lassiter place. It’s a lovely property.”
Not near as lovely as the woman standing before him.
Over Sunday lunch, his mother had talked about the people she’d met at church, including the fitness instructor. “The boys are looking forward to taking your class this morning.”
Her face transformed. “They’re so sweet. Speaking of class, I’d best head to the rec center.”
Bridger walked her out of the diner. And despite what he’d said to her father, suddenly he couldn’t help hoping the twins weren’t the only Hollingsworths who’d get the chance to know Maggie Arledge better.
The Cowboy’s Sacrifice Page 19
