by Irene Hannon
As she pulled off her gloves and headed to the end of the row where she’d propped her Thermos, she noticed a car slowing at her driveway for the third time in two days. Not an official vehicle, thank goodness, but one that was familiar—and that caused her pulse to accelerate.
It was the same car that had skidded through her roadside garden yesterday.
Her stance tense and wary, she watched the car slow by her pumpkin patch as it traversed the drive. It stopped near her front door, and two people emerged—a man with sun-streaked light brown hair who looked to be in his early forties, and the blond-haired teen she’d caught sight of yesterday as the car had careened across her property.
As the older man started toward her porch he said something over his shoulder that Christine couldn’t hear, and the teen followed with obvious reluctance.
It had to be Les Mueller and his son, Stephen. But why were they here? She’d filed no complaint, caused them no trouble. Nor did she plan to. In fact, she wanted nothing to do with them.
Since they hadn’t yet noticed her, she considered retreating to the back of the house, where she could take refuge in one of the outbuildings until they left. On the other hand, why hide? It was broad daylight. She was within view of the road and passing cars. It was her property. There was no reason to be afraid.
Straightening her shoulders, she wiped her hands on her jeans and headed in their direction.
As she approached, the older man noticed her. He put his hand on the teen’s shoulder, inclined his head her way and strode toward her, waiting to speak until he was a few feet away. The young man followed in his wake.
“Ms. Turner?”
“Yes.”
He extended his hand. “Les Mueller.”
Realizing that nervousness had dampened her palm, Christine once more wiped it on her jeans before taking his hand. The man’s callused grip was firm, and he had blue eyes, like the sheriff, she noted. Except this man’s were the color of a pale summer sky, while Dale Lewis’s were as deep blue as a pure mountain lake. The dairy owner’s weathered face suggested he’d spent too many hours in the sun, and his firm, no-nonsense chin belonged to a man who didn’t tolerate foolishness. Dressed in jeans, boots and a cotton shirt rolled to the elbows, he needed only a brimmed hat to look every bit a cowboy.
Without waiting for Christine to acknowledge his self-introduction, he spoke again. “I understand my son was responsible for some damage to your property yesterday.”
Anger bubbled up inside her. It seemed the sheriff had ignored her wishes and had taken matters into his own hands, going behind her back after she’d refused to press charges. Now, thanks to him, she’d provoked the ire of the town’s leading citizen. She could see his displeasure in the tense lines of his face. Her heart skipped a beat, and she edged back a step.
“I didn’t file a formal complaint.”
“That’s what Dale said. He told me what happened, off the record. I’m glad he did. The way I understand it, not only did my son damage one of your gardens, he came close enough to hit you. That kind of behavior shouldn’t go unpunished. But the first order of business is an apology. Stephen?”
The man stepped aside, planted his hands on his hips and looked at his son. The boy turned beet-red, and he jammed his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground as he spoke. “I’m sorry about the damage.”
Tilting her head, Christine studied him, a slight frown marring her brow as she played the incident back in her mind. She seemed to recall that a black-haired kid had been at the wheel. “You weren’t driving the car, were you?”
The boy’s ruddy color deepened and he risked a quick peek at his father as he mumbled a response. “No, ma’am.”
“You let someone else drive?” Les’s eyes narrowed, and fury nipped at the edges of his voice.
From his outraged tone, Christine deduced that this was another, unreported transgression.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“Eric.”
Expelling an exasperated breath, Les jammed his fingers through his short-cropped hair. “You know the rules, Stephen. No one drives the car but you.”
“Yes, sir. I know.” The boy shuffled one toe in the dirt and hung his head. “But it was his birthday, and he said he’d always wanted to drive a Lexus. I didn’t think it would hurt to let him drive for a mile or two. I didn’t know he was going to take off like a bat out of…” He stopped short when his father cleared his throat. “Anyway, I told him to go slower. But he didn’t pay any attention. I’m sorry.”
“It seems you have a lot to be sorry for.” Les’s curt response didn’t cut his son any slack. Angling back toward Christine, the man added his own apology. “I’m embarrassed by the behavior of my son. He’s young, but that’s no excuse for irresponsibility. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive him. And we’d both like to make amends.”
With a start, Christine realized that the anger she’d detected in the man was directed at his son, not her. She sensed nothing in his manner but sincerity as he apologized. Relief coursed through her, and her rigid stance relaxed a fraction.
“The apology is accepted, and there’s no need to make amends.”
“Yes, there is. I want you to know that my son’s driving privileges have been revoked. Originally for a month, but now for two, given his mistake with Eric.” He spared his son a quick look, and the boy’s color once again surged. “I’d also like to compensate you for damages. It appears to me you’ve lost about half your pumpkin crop. Come October, that will translate to a significant amount of money.”
He mentioned a figure, and Christine’s eyes widened. She shook her head in protest. “That’s far too much.”
“Not after you factor in the sweat equity that went into creating the garden. Not to mention the salvage operation.”
Put that way, it was hard to argue with the man’s rationale, Christine admitted.
“And I’d like to send Stephen over here to put in a little sweat equity of his own.”
Turning her attention to the teen, Christine surveyed the lanky youth. In all honesty, she wouldn’t mind some assistance with the physical work. The labor-intensive nature of organic farming was proving to be a bit more taxing than she’d expected. She’d always known that if she wanted to expand, she’d have to bring in some part-time help. But she hadn’t planned to take that step this year. Besides, the last thing she wanted on her hands was a teenager with an attitude.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Mueller, but that’s not necessary.”
“It’s Les. We country folk aren’t much into formality.” He gave her a brief, engaging grin, and she was struck by his down-to-earth manner. How different he was from Jack, Christine thought. As the leading citizen of Dunlap, Nebraska, her husband had always made it a point to find subtle ways to remind people of the power he wielded—including an insistence on being addressed as “mister.”
Nor had he had any qualms about abusing his position. Had he found himself in a position like Les Mueller, he would never have humbled himself as the dairy owner had done, nor would he have behaved with such integrity in trying to right a wrong. It was nice to know there were a few honorable people in positions of importance in small towns.
“My wife and I would appreciate it if you’d take Stephen on, Ms. Turner.”
“Christine.”
He acknowledged her correction with a smile and a slight nod. “The only way to learn from mistakes is to pay the consequences. Stephen’s a good worker, and he’s available after school and on weekends. I figure forty hours of labor ought to cover it. And keep him out of trouble for the foreseeable future.”
Once again, Christine was taken aback. Forty hours translated to a huge commitment for a teenager who was also juggling school, homework and extracurricular activities.
“I’m not sure we could work that off before I close down the farm for the winter,” she pointed out.
“I realize that. Anything left over can
be carried into the spring.”
It was clear that Les had thought this through. And she couldn’t fault his intentions. In theory, people should pay the consequences for their actions. She just hadn’t seen that principle enforced very often over the past couple of years. Yet she didn’t want to have to deal with some sullen teen who was intent on making her life miserable.
Uncertain, she directed her next comment to Stephen. “Do you know anything about organic farming?”
“No, ma’am. But I’m willing to learn. And I’m pretty good with a shovel.”
“How do you feel about working here?”
For the first time, he looked her straight in the eye. “It’s not the way I planned to spend my fall. But I figure it’s fair. What I did was wrong. And like the sheriff said, it could have been a whole lot worse if…if the car had hit you.” He swallowed hard. “I figure I was lucky. That maybe this was God’s way of telling me to shape up before I really mess things up. Digging in the dirt will give me a chance to get my act together.”
Surprised by his mature response, Christine was forced to revise her opinion of the teen. She’d expected him to be belligerent and resentful. Instead, he’d accepted responsibility for his actions and was receptive to his father’s plan. How could she turn him down?
“Okay. We’ll give it a try,” Christine capitulated, folding her arms across her chest. “Can you come by after school tomorrow?”
“He’ll be here,” Les answered for his son. Holding out his hand, he took Christine’s in a parting grip. “Thank you for your understanding. I’ll put that check in the mail to you tonight.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Turner.” Stephen reached out to her as well. Like his father, he had a firm grip. But unlike the older man, his hand was free of calluses, the skin soft and unused to physical labor. That wouldn’t last long once he began working at the farm, though. Even with gloves, it was hard to avoid blisters. Christine’s own work-roughened hands attested to that. This kind of labor toughened you up, made you appreciate the effort required to reap a high-quality, bountiful harvest.
And she had a feeling that was exactly what Stephen’s father hoped would happen with his son.
As Christine watched the car disappear in a cloud of dust down the gravel driveway, she took a drink of water from her Thermos, letting the cool liquid soothe her parched throat. It seemed the sheriff had been correct when he’d told her that Les Mueller would want to make things right. And she appreciated the dairy owner’s integrity.
What she didn’t appreciate was Dale Lewis’s interference. Yes, everything had turned out fine. But it could have had a far worse ending if Les had a different personality. One like Jack’s, for example. One that would have compelled him to punish her in retaliation for causing problems. And she didn’t want to go there. Not ever again.
That’s why she steered clear of the folks in Oak Hill. If she didn’t mingle, there wasn’t any risk. She wanted nothing to do with the small-town politics and power plays. She was perfectly content to tend her farm and keep to herself.
But since the night of her accident, things had changed. She’d had a series of visitors, and she’d met more people in the past dozen or so days than she had in the entire first two months of her stay in Missouri. Most had seemed nice. But she’d learned the hard way that a friendly demeanor could mask a hidden agenda.
And that brought her back to Dale Lewis. On the surface, he, too, seemed nice enough. But why had he ignored her wishes and reported the incident to Les? Was it because he hated to let injustice go unpunished, as he’d implied? Or was there some other motive? Had he done it to spite her, to incite her anger? Was it a vindictive response to her refusal to take his advice to press charges?
Christine didn’t know. Nor did she need to. This situation had worked out fine, thank goodness. And there wouldn’t be another. Now that she understood how the sheriff operated, she wouldn’t give him the opportunity to thwart her again. Nor any reason to single her out for special attention.
Because the less she had to do with local law enforcement, the safer she’d be.
Chapter Five
Feeling guilty, Dale tapped his index finger on his desk and stared at his computer screen. He had no reason to run a background check on Christine Turner. No official reason, anyway. And never, since day one in his career as a cop, had he delved into files looking for information on someone who wasn’t part of an investigation. He’d always considered it an invasion of privacy. Always believed that his access to both public and confidential data was a privilege that shouldn’t be abused. That hadn’t changed.
Yet here he was, on the verge of checking out the owner of Fresh Start Farm. Why?
Perturbed, Dale glanced out the window of his office at old Widow Harper’s colorful flower bed next door. Every summer, she tended her zinnia garden. And every fall, like clockwork, she put a circle of mums around her front lamppost. With her bun of soft white hair and her pink face, she looked the same today as she had when he was a kid. Her expression was always kind and gentle, her manner the same. She was what she seemed.
But years and experience had taught Dale that such wasn’t always the case. Many people kept their true identities hidden, guarded secrets, were less than honest. Sometimes that behavior was driven by fear, sometimes by a desire to take advantage of others. But whatever the motivation, he’d learned to trust his instincts. When a warning flag went up, he paid attention and approached with caution.
And Christine Turner’s odd behavior had set a red flag waving. While there could be a lot of reasons why a person might be jittery around a police officer, the most obvious one was that he or she had something to hide. The fact that Christine also kept to herself, diligently avoiding social interaction, further aroused his suspicions.
Telling himself he needed to check her out just to be sure she wasn’t a threat to the community, Dale leaned forward and initiated a search through the FBI’s National Crime Information Center.
Ten minutes later, he’d come up blank. There was no police record in the national database for anyone named Christine Turner.
Switching gears, he zeroed in on Nebraska. According to Marge, who’d paid Oak Hill’s newest resident a couple of visits, that was her home state. Perhaps a more concentrated search would yield results.
The localized approach took a bit longer, but it turned up a wealth of data. Christine Turner had been born thirty-five years ago in Omaha. She’d graduated with honors from both high school and college, earning a degree in library science. After finishing school, she’d worked for eight years as a librarian in Omaha before marrying a Jack Barlow. Her residence had then switched to Dunlap. After her husband died a year ago, she’d taken back her maiden name. Unusual, but not illegal, Dale mused.
Now that he had a married name, he did another search through the crime databases. And this time he hit pay dirt.
In the final year of her husband’s life, she’d received numerous tickets and citations from the Dunlap police. They ran the gamut from simple parking and speeding violations to charges of reckless driving, resisting arrest and DUI. At one point, her license had been revoked for six months. The records also indicated she’d spent the night in the local jail on one occasion.
A troubled frown marring his brow, Dale closed out the search. The police record couldn’t be discounted, but something about it didn’t feel right. He couldn’t imagine the wary woman with the soft brown eyes as a lawbreaker.
For one thing, the pieces didn’t fit. He’d seen Christine a few times since the night of her accident. From a distance, when she didn’t know she was being observed. Twice in town, once on the state highway. In Oak Hill, she drove with caution and prudence, making full stops at the stop signs, signaling as she turned, slowing for pedestrians…even for dogs. On the highway, she’d driven at a moderate rate of speed, dead center in the lane, her gaze alert and fixed on the road.
A stray parking ticket Dale could buy. It happened to
the best, most conscientious drivers on occasion. But speeding or reckless driving? He’d seen no evidence of that.
As for resisting arrest…he thought back to the night of the accident, how he’d rounded the cab and found her clutching a piece of wood, fear coursing through her glazed eyes as she struggled to remain upright. Had he tried to arrest her, he had a feeling she’d have resisted mightily. But she hadn’t done anything wrong. Why had she been afraid he might try?
Unless she’d been drinking. He’d wondered about alcohol that night, given her peculiar reaction to him. After his years in L.A., he was well versed in the destructive nature of alcohol abuse. He’d seen how overindulgence could cause a normally responsible person to behave in an erratic, reckless manner.
But he’d smelled no liquor on her breath, nor found any evidence of alcohol in her truck. Still, drinkers had a way of hiding their addiction. And living alone, out in the country, would provide her with the perfect opportunity to drink unobserved, if she chose to.
Yet he found the whole notion of a DUI charge hard to swallow. Christine Turner didn’t strike him as the heavy-drinker type. She worked hard, judging from what he’d seen of her farm on his one visit. She’d thrown herself into the monumental task of starting a new, labor-intensive business, toiling from sunup to sundown, if Marge was to be believed. Someone with a serious alcohol problem wasn’t likely to have the focus or energy or drive to take that on.
Perhaps, though, she’d had a problem in the past, Dale speculated. The day they’d met, he’d recognized the look in Christine’s eyes, which had echoed the expression he’d often seen in his wife’s. A look that told him Christine had endured some kind of trauma that continued to color her perceptions of the world. Alcohol could be her way of coping with that hurt.
