Her Small-Town Sheriff

by Lissa Manley

  “You have an awful lot of faith in me,” he replied, sounding awed.

  His statement sank in, and the rollercoaster she was stuck on went back up, flinging her into the stratosphere of oh, my goodness, he’s right! She did have a lot of faith in him; he was a good man, a good father and a good person all rolled into one very appealing package. But she’d do her best not to think about that right now, even though she had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to ignore the true Carson forever.

  “Yes, I do,” she said honestly. “Does that surprise you?”

  “It does, because I don’t deserve your faith,” he said in a soft voice that ran its fingers over her heartstrings.

  Phoebe sucked in a mental breath, holding back the word why. Did she really want to know what secrets lurked inside of Carson?

  Yes. Yes, she did. It was easier to avoid conflict; she’d played the avoidance card in the past to keep herself on the familiar, safe path. But somehow she knew Carson and Heidi deserved better from her, and she deserved better, too.

  For the first time since Justin had died, she wanted the whole, gut-wrenching truth, no matter how high the rollercoaster flung her. Or how low.

  But a bigger question nagged at her. Why the sudden turnaround? Why was she willing to put her emotions on the line with Carson and Heidi? To risk upsetting the carefully crafted status quo of her life? To risk falling for someone whose job put them in danger, just as Justin’s had?

  The answer was simply too life changing to consider.

  Even so, she couldn’t turn back now. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  *

  As silence stretched out, Carson watched the play of emotions on Phoebe’s face. Subtle surprise. Introspection. Resolve? Or acceptance?

  “I’m going to clear the table.” He got to his feet, suddenly restless, gut-punched.

  How could he have messed things up with Heidi so badly?

  He started gathering the dishes, bracing himself for the difficult conversation to come. Good or bad, he’d opened the door to a confession with his declaration about not deserving Phoebe’s faith, and, consequently, would have to find a way to make himself step through.

  As he set the dishes on the counter, he realized that something about Phoebe’s gentle way of approaching their discussions seemed to draw him out in a manner no one else ever had. He wasn’t sure what to make of that realization, but something inside of him told him he could trust her with anything.

  Even what had happened with CJ. And his irrevocable part in that tragic event. Not to mention why Susan had left him.

  Wow. Pretty big stuff for a private guy like himself. Huge, actually. What was it about this woman that made him want to share his secret shame with her? Aside from the fact that she was warm, witty, kind and caring, and a host of other fascinating things he probably had yet to discover?

  He turned the faucet on to rinse the plates, his brain churning from his disquieting thoughts, but then his introspection was brought to a quick halt by a warm touch on his arm that sent tingles throughout him.

  He regarded Phoebe, who was looking at him with those bright yet soft blue eyes of hers. “Would you care to elaborate on that statement now?” she asked, her tone as gentle as a breeze, yet strong, too. Amazing how she did that.

  “I guess I have to, don’t I?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “You don’t.”

  He pulled in his chin at her unexpected words and gave her an inquiring look.

  “But I think you should.” She sucked in a large breath. “I think you’re holding something big in.”

  She was so right. He put his hands on the counter and gazed out the window above the sink, not seeing much, wondering if he was truly ready to reveal the guilt he carried inside of him. “Why do you say that?” he asked, stalling.

  Phoebe was silent for a moment. “Heidi told me that a bad guy killed CJ.”

  His heart tightened so painfully in his chest he almost let out a gasp. “She shouldn’t have said anything,” he said through stiff lips.

  “Please don’t be mad at her,” Phoebe said. “She really needed someone to talk to about this, and I’m glad she was comfortable enough for me to be that someone.”

  He nodded, letting his anger go in the face of her concern for Heidi. “I’m glad, too.”

  After a beat of silence, Phoebe said, “Carson, what happened to CJ?”

  Pressing his lips together and turning off the faucet, he said, “Let’s go sit down in the family room.”

  Phoebe followed him to the couch situated adjacent to the fireplace and settled in beside him, close, but not touching. To his surprise, she held out her hand for him to hold.

  After a hesitation, he took it, feeling as if she were handing him a lifeline. Support. Something extraordinary that had been missing from his life for a long time.

  “So. Tell me what happened,” she said, squeezing his hand.

  He fought against the burn in his throat. “CJ was five, and he loved to go to a certain park in Seattle that had a corkscrew slide. So I took him there on my day off to play.” CJ had been so happy, so carefree that day.

  “We had a great time, and it was a rare really warm summer day, so we walked to a convenience store a couple of blocks away to get slushies.” He looked off into space, blinking. “He loved the ones that made his tongue turn blue.”

  “I loved that flavor, too, when I was growing up,” Phoebe said.

  He geared himself up to finish his story. “We were in the back filling our cups, and suddenly there was a commotion up front by the register.” Carson closed his eyes as horrific memories assaulted him. Sucking in a shaking breath, he continued. “I turned and observed a guy wearing a black hat pointing a gun at the cashier.”

  Phoebe clutched his hand and remained silent.

  “My training kicked in, and as a cop, I couldn’t stand by and let a robbery happen right under my nose without trying to do something. So I led CJ into the back room by the slushy machine and told him to stay where he was.”

  He heard Phoebe sniff, but he couldn’t look at her, couldn’t see the condemnation in her eyes if he had any hope of getting the rest of his tale out.

  “He hesitated and looked up at me, so scared, and I told him to pay attention to me and to be quiet.” He let out a harsh breath. “I should have listened to what he was trying to tell me—that he was frightened and needed me to stay with him. But I thought he was safe in the back room, away from the danger—right?—and I made a snap decision I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for.”

  Phoebe remained silent as she pulled his hand into her lap and gripped it even tighter, with both hands now.

  He clenched back, drawing strength from her touch. “I wasn’t carrying, so my plan was to somehow disarm the perp by tackling him from behind. So I crept out of the back room and around the aisle and came up on him from the rear of the store.”

  What happened next was burned into his brain like some ghastly tableau that he would never forget for as long as he lived. “Just as I got close enough to attack, I heard a noise to my left. I looked at the perp, and saw his head turn toward the noise.” Carson looked down, tears burning his eyes. “And then he swung his gun left and fired three shots—bam, bam, bam—and I launched myself at him, tackling him just as he got the last shot off.”

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he made no effort to wipe them away. “But I was too late.”

  “Oh, Lord, no,” he heard Phoebe utter.

  He forced himself to say, “Yes. CJ had come out of the back room, and was looking for me.” A sob escaped from his lips. “The perp shot him, and my boy died before he hit the ground, and I might as well have been the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Phoebe’s hand tightened spasmodically on his, gripping him so hard he was sure she was cutting off his circulation. Dead silence filled the room as he hung his head and let the tears come. “I haven’t cried since that day,” he whispered hoarsely, his
chest squeezing, making talking difficult. “Not one single tear.”

  “Why is that, do you think?” Phoebe asked in a thick voice.

  “I don’t deserve the release.” Hard truth, for sure. But he believed that reality with every cell in his body. “CJ will never shed another tear, or laugh or sigh in wonder. Why should I be able to find comfort in doing the same?”

  “Oh, Carson,” Phoebe said, pulling on his hand.

  He gave in to the pressure and turned and leaned toward her. Her arms went around him and pulled him close. All that was Phoebe surrounded him, comforted him and eased just a bit of his pain.

  Something inside of him shifted, and he felt his walls tremble. Some of the tightness in his chest eased, releasing its stranglehold. He hugged her tight and let more tears flow as her hands rubbed his back in a soothing motion.

  Was it possible he’d found something in this wonderful woman he hadn’t even known he’d been looking for?

  She hitched in a breath, then pulled away slightly and cupped his chin in her hand, forcing him to look at her. She gently wiped the wetness from his face. Fat tears ran down her cheeks, as well. It seemed only natural to do the same for her, so he tenderly ran his fingers over her cheeks, sweeping away the remnants of her tears.

  “You are not responsible for CJ’s death,” she said, looking deep into his eyes.

  Unable to face her, accept what she was saying, he turned away. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

  Forcing him to look at her again, she said, “You thought he was safe.”

  “I shouldn’t have left him,” he repeated in a strangled voice. “I should have known not to leave him by himself, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

  After a poignant pause, she touched his cheek again. “God forgives you.”

  He froze, taken aback by her statement; his religious education was nonexistent, and his thought process didn’t usually include God in the equation. “How do you know?” he asked, curious. He was optimistic, maybe, about something that had never brought him any measure of hope.

  “‘In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace.’”

  “Somehow I don’t think those are your words.”

  “You’re right.” She dropped her hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “It’s a quote from the Bible.”

  “That’s what I figured, but I’m not familiar with biblical quotes.”

  “Well, maybe you should get familiar with the wisdom in the Bible.”

  “Why?” he asked, intrigued.

  “It can be very comforting in difficult times to be assured that God is on your side, and that you can always rely on Him for comfort.”

  Something occurred to him. “Yet it doesn’t seem like you’re really taking your own advice.”

  “What?” she asked, her forehead creasing.

  “Relying on God for comfort,” he said, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds by calling her on ignoring her own counsel. But somehow, after all they’d talked about, pointing out the flaws in her reasoning seemed fitting.

  She yanked in her chin, then stood abruptly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, obviously you go to church.”

  Nodding with one brow raised, she said, “Y-yes. Until recently, at least.”

  “And obviously you know the Bible’s teachings, because you just quoted directly from it.”

  “Yes,” she said, looking at him sideways, doubt etched across her features.

  “So are you getting any comfort from Him, or the Bible?”

  She flushed. “This conversation is about you, not me.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  She pursed her lips, getting ready, he was sure, to deny his words.

  He held up a hand and stood, then walked over to face her. “Don’t even try denying what you’re doing. I’m an expert on the benefits of subject changing, so I know when someone is doing it.”

  She dropped her head again. “Busted.”

  He had to smile. “So I take it you agree that this conversation is about both of us?”

  Her mouth trembling, she stared at him, her still-damp eyes wide. Finally she said, “I don’t know if I can talk about this.”

  “Your words are mine,” he said, moving closer. He took her hand, felt it tremble. “And that breaks my heart.”

  Tears crested in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. “This is too hard.”

  “I know,” he said, nodding, his own eyes burning again. “But someone once told me that talking about painful things can help.”

  “My own words, coming back to haunt me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Figures.”

  “Only because they were smart words.” He reached up and put one hand on each of her shoulders. “Talk to me.”

  She looked at the floor, then took a deep breath as if she were steeling herself to say something momentous. “I’m angry with God for taking Justin away,” she whispered so softly he could barely hear her.

  “Go on,” he managed.

  “And…there’s a chasm between me and Him, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

  Something the police department psychiatrist had told Carson clicked into place. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but is it possible you don’t want to fix it?”

  She frowned, then pulled away and backed up a few steps, crossing her arms over her middle. “Meaning?”

  He tried to remember what the shrink had told him. “Well, sometimes we shy away from doing things, and the pulling back is so subconscious we don’t even know we’re doing it.”

  He had a feeling this applied to him, too, and that by talking about it, he’d have some truths of his own to face. All in good time. Maybe. Pointing it out to someone else and admitting it applied to him were two very different things.

  “Okay,” she said, nodding warily. “So how does that apply to me?”

  He hoped he could say this right; he was treading in new territory right now, and he’d never been good at expressing himself verbally. “Your anger at God is serving a purpose right now—to protect you from acknowledging your pain. So it stands to reason that if you’re not angry at Him anymore, you have to face what’s hurting you.”

  “And that is…?” she asked in a paper-thin whisper.

  “Your loss.”

  His last word echoed in the room like a silent yet deadly blast. Phoebe stood, frozen. “I’ve…never thought about it that way.”

  “Neither have I, even though someone I saw after CJ died pointed the same thing out to me a while ago.” Although he’d been so broken up about CJ’s death, he hadn’t heard most of it. Or, hadn’t wanted to.

  “But you didn’t listen?” she asked.

  He shook his head and moved toward Phoebe until he stood right in front of her. “I wasn’t ready to.” Was he ready now? And if so, why?

  Because of Phoebe? Oh, man. What was he doing, letting her be a catalyst for changes that scared him more than facing down a gang of armed punks on the street?

  “Maybe I haven’t been ready yet, either,” she said, drawing his thoughts away from the dangerous road up ahead he couldn’t seem to veer from. “Admitting I’ve been using my anger to work against my relationship with God is a hard thing to accept.”

  “I know.” And he did. Too well, he was realizing. Because he would have to accept some hard truths about himself.

  She gave him a questioning stare.

  “I’ve been doing the same thing, only my anger is directed at myself, not God.” Profound words, for sure. And life changing, he suspected.

  He diverted his attention away from his own chaotic questions and looked at Phoebe. She had her brow furrowed, and he could see the cogs turning in her brain.

  His heart rate skittered; her putting it all together meant he’d set himself up to be called on his own behavior and had realized it too late.

  Or maybe just in time?

  “So,” she said, raising
her chin. “What we can take away from this is that I need to let my anger at God go in order to forgive Him, to repair the chasm between Him and me.”

  “Yep.” But there was more, much more.

  She confirmed this realization by saying, “And you need to let your anger at yourself go to forgive yourself.”

  He swallowed, wondering if it had been wise to even step on this road. Guess he was already on it. “Yes, I believe that about covers it,” he managed.

  After a significant pause, she reached out and took his hand in hers. Warmth radiated from her touch, warmth that sucked him in, despite his best efforts to fight its draw.

  “I’m willing to admit you have a point and that I’ll try to work on not using my anger against God in the interest of healing the rift between Him and me.”

  “Great,” he said, pretty sure she wasn’t finished. Unfortunately for him. Or…not. And…why couldn’t he tell the difference anymore? Talk about confused. “Good for you.”

  “So if it’s so great, let me ask you one more question,” she said.

  “Shoot,” he replied, fearing her response like the bullet his word implied.

  She looked directly at him, and for the life of him, he couldn’t look away.

  “Are you willing to do the same in the interest of forgiving yourself for CJ’s death?” she asked, her voice gentle. And her statement? Not so much, though he wasn’t holding that against her.

  Kudos to her for asking the tough questions.

  As he rattled to a bumpy, painful halt at his chaotic destination, he had to own up to her question, which, while not unexpected, nevertheless homed in on the crux of the matter: Could he forgive himself? And if he did, and that huge step helped him to look deeper, what would he learn about his desire to have Phoebe in his life?

  He let out a long breath. Phoebe had said this opening-up stuff wasn’t going to be easy.

  Too bad she was right.

  Chapter Twelve

  To Phoebe, Carson’s body language—tight jaw, furrowed brow—screamed uncomfortable.