Where Love Abides

Ten minutes later, after dressing and running a comb through her hair, Christine started down the grand staircase that led to the foyer of the inn, gripping the rail as she took the steps one at a time. She was halfway down when the doorbell rang, and Marge bustled out from the rear of the house to answer it.

Seeing Christine on the steps, the innkeeper called up to her as she passed, “Be careful, dear. Like everything else in this monstrosity of a house, those stairs are overdone. Extra wide. I’ve almost taken a tumble myself a time or two.”

As Marge pulled open the front door, Christine resumed her descent, now more careful and focused than ever. She paid no attention to the rumble of voices until she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to find the sheriff taking them two at a time.

On instinct, she tried to back up. But her heel connected with the step behind her and she lost her balance. The sheriff skipped the final two steps and lunged for her as she wavered, his grip firm on her upper arms until she got her footing.

Even then, he didn’t release her at once. His steel-blue eyes probed hers, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he inspected the discolored lump protruding from her temple. In daylight, and at this close range, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and a few sprinkles of silver glinted in his dark hair. There was strength in his face, and character, she reflected. The kind that you expected to find in an officer of the law. But she’d been fooled before. And she wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.

When she attempted to pull out of his grip, he shifted his attention away from the knot on her forehead, his gaze locking on hers.

“I doubt either of us wants to visit Dr. Martin again.” His voice was calm and quiet, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there last night. “I’m not sure what it is about me you don’t like, but I suggest you take my arm going down the steps so we can avoid any more accidents. Considering the size of that lump, I suspect your head is throbbing, and you’re probably not as steady as you’d like to be.”

For a second, Christine thought about contradicting him. But why argue with the truth? She would feel more secure with a solid body beside her—even if it belonged to a cop.

In silence, she slipped her arm in his, aware of the muscles bunching beneath her fingers and of the discrepancy in their heights. She figured he had a good seven or eight inches on her five-foot-five-inch frame. An intimidating size advantage. After reaching level ground, she broke contact at once and edged away.

“You’re early, Dale,” Marge pointed out. “Christine hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry,” Christine assured her.

“Nonsense. You have to eat something. Dale, how about a cup of coffee and one of my famous cinnamon rolls?”

A grin tugged at his mouth, softening the tension that had hardened his jaw when he’d spoken to her, Christine noted. “I could be tempted.”

“That’s what I figured.” Marge tilted her head, her spiky white hair reflecting the rainbow of color streaming through the art glass on the stairwell. “Cara’s in the back, but she’s getting ready to leave.”

Without waiting for a reply, she led the way down a hall and into a kitchen that was as sleek and modern as the rest of the house was classic Victorian. Stainless steel appliances and work surfaces dotted the large room, and a red-haired woman looked up with a smile as they entered.

“Cara, this is Christine Turner. Christine, Cara Martin, chef extraordinaire. She serves gourmet dinners at the inn three nights a week. You met her husband last night, Sam Martin.”

The woman moved forward and extended her hand. “Hello, Christine. Welcome to Oak Hill. I’m sorry about your accident.”

“Thanks. It could have been worse.” Christine returned her handshake and smile.

“Marge has been telling me about your farm. I’d like to talk with you about supplying some ingredients for the restaurant,” Cara continued. “We try to feature fresh local products and I’d love to patronize an Oak Hill business.”

“I’ve only been at it two months, so I’m just starting to reap results. But I’ve got a good supply of herbs and flowers, and I’ve put in blackberries, raspberries and strawberries. They aren’t producing much this year, but I expect by next year I’ll have a good crop.”

“Where are you selling?”

“The farmers’ markets in Rolla and St. James.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you,” Cara observed. “I do some of my shopping there.”

“Enough business for today,” Marge interrupted. “Christine needs to eat.”

“And I bet Dale is going to mooch a cinnamon roll or two.” Cara sent him a teasing look.

“I’m not mooching,” he protested. “Marge offered.”

“Only because you showed up early,” the B and B owner retorted. Softening her remark with a smile, she tucked her arm in his and led him to one side of the kitchen, where a small walk-out bay window had been transformed into a cozy dining nook complete with an oak table and chairs. “Have a seat. You, too, Christine.”

Dale remained standing as Christine approached, taking his seat only after she chose the one on the opposite side of the table.

“Nice to meet you, Christine. I’ll be in touch.” Cara slung her purse over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers at Dale as she headed for the back door. “See you around, Sheriff.”

The plate that Marge set in front of Christine a few moments later was enough food to feed a sumo wrestler. A hungry sumo wrestler, Christine decided, as she inspected the intimidating breakfast. The huge omelet, bursting with cheese, mushrooms and ham, was accompanied by a generous serving of pan-fried potatoes laced with onions, plus a fresh fruit garnish. On her best days, Christine didn’t eat much more than an English muffin or a single scrambled egg. And today was definitely not one of her best days.

She looked up to find the sheriff watching her across the table with those discerning—and disturbing—blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing. He took a measured sip of his coffee as Marge set a large cinnamon roll in front of him.

“There now. Eat up, both of you.” The phone rang, and Marge gave them an apologetic look. “Sorry. Dig in. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Don’t want to lose a customer!”

She hustled down the hall, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed magnified as Christine picked up her fork and surveyed the overflowing plate in front of her, trying to formulate a plan of attack.

“Marge’s breakfasts are generous.”

At the sheriff’s comment, Christine looked his way, then dropped her gaze again to the food. “More than.”

“She won’t be offended if you take some home.”

Once again, she was struck by the man’s insight. And by his civility. Despite her “keep your distance” cues and her rudeness—she hadn’t even thanked him for coming to her rescue last night, after all—he’d shown up today to drive her back to her truck. She doubted that was one of the local sheriff’s required duties. Perhaps he was just being kind. But she was more inclined to believe there was some hidden agenda or ulterior motive. There usually was, based on her experience with small-town cops.

His assessing perusal was disconcerting, so Christine tried to focus on her food. By the time Marge returned, she’d managed to put a slight dent in the omelet. The sheriff, on the other hand, had demolished the cinnamon roll. A few miniscule crumbs were the only evidence it had ever existed.

“Well, you certainly made short work of that.” Marge propped her hands on her ample hips as she sized up Dale’s plate.

“What else can a man do when faced with the world’s best cinnamon roll?” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.

“Hmph. I think you picked up a knack for that glib Hollywood flattery while you were in L.A.” The flush of pleasure that suffused Marge’s face, however, belied her chiding comment. “As for you, young lady…” She inspected Christine’s plate. “I suspect you’re still feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” Christine avoided giving the woman a direct response. “May I take it home? This will be enough for me for the next day or two.”

“No wonder you’re so thin. I should follow your example. But I like food too much.” Marge gave a hearty chuckle and lifted Christine’s plate. “I’ll wrap this up for you.”

While the older woman busied herself at the counter, Dale leaned back in his chair and regarded Christine. “I talked to Al at the garage. He pulled your truck out of the mud first thing this morning. From what he could see, there didn’t appear to be any damage.”

“Thank you.”

The words sounded forced, and Dale sent her a quizzical look, trying to get a handle on her attitude. She’d been fine with Sam, related well to Marge and Cara. He was the problem, it seemed.

But he suspected there was more to it than that, considering the woman had been in town two months and few people had caught more than a glimpse of her. Although he’d asked his mother a few discreet questions when he’d picked up Jenna last night, she hadn’t known much about the organic farmer, either. The reserved Christine Turner was an enigma to the friendly folks of Oak Hill.

What had produced that wariness in her soft brown eyes? Dale wondered as he studied her. What had made her guarded and cautious, unwilling to mingle with the residents of her adopted town? And why was his presence a source of tension and nervousness?

Dale suspected she’d been hurt at some point in her life. He’d seen that look of distrust, anxiety and uncertainty on a woman’s face before. His own wife’s, in fact, on occasion. Though he’d opened his heart to her, his love hadn’t been enough to overcome the problems in her past. To mitigate her cynicism and convince her that he could be a source of emotional support. To banish the demon of depression that had plagued her. Perhaps this woman, too, had suffered a similar trauma.

If she had, he felt sorry for her.

But he also knew there was nothing he could do to help her, just as he’d been unable to help Linda.

Not that she wanted him to, of course. Christine Turner had already posted a large Keep Away sign. And he intended to honor it.

Because the last thing he needed in his life was another woman with problems.

Christine finished the note to Marge and pulled out her checkbook. When she’d prepared to leave the B and B a few days ago, Marge had refused to let her pay for the room. While Christine hadn’t wanted to make an issue of it in front of the sheriff, she didn’t intend to take advantage of the woman’s kindness and hospitality. She could afford a night’s lodging. And she didn’t want to incur any obligations, to owe anyone anything that could be used to manipulate her. Not that she suspected the affable Marge of such intent. But she hadn’t suspected it of Jack, either.

Gazing out the window of her small, two-story farmhouse, Christine suppressed the shudder that ran through her as she thought of the man who’d wooed and won her in a whirlwind courtship that had fulfilled every romantic fantasy she’d ever had. Elegant dinners, dozens of roses, winging to black-tie events on the company plane he’d often piloted. She’d felt like Cinderella.

But her fairy tale had worked in reverse. First had come the happily-ever-after part, then the bad stuff. Her world had crumbled as she’d realized that Jack’s interest and attentions had been a sham, a carefully crafted plan to win a woman who would meet his father’s approval and pave the way to the top spot in the family-owned business.

Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she swiped at them in anger. She’d done enough crying, and enough regretting, to last a lifetime. The past was behind her, and tomorrow would be better. Fresh Start Farm was up and running, and while she’d never get rich on her small-scale operation, it allowed her to spend her days in a wholesome environment, in fresh air and open spaces. The income from the farm, combined with the modest returns on the investments she’d made with her smaller-than-expected inheritance from Jack, would allow her to live a comfortable, independent life. One in which she didn’t owe anyone a thing. Including Marge.

Pulling her attention back to the present, Christine wrote out the check and signed her name. Her maiden name. That was still an adjustment, after using Barlow for four-and-a-half years. But a good one.

After tucking the check into her note, Christine sealed the envelope and affixed a stamp. That was one obligation out of the way.

As for the sheriff—he’d gone above and beyond in his assistance, and she didn’t want to owe him any favors, either. Writing a check wasn’t an option, but she recalled his mentioning a young daughter. Maybe she could send the child a gift to repay the debt. A picture book, perhaps. She could order an appropriate one on the Internet and have it shipped to the sheriff’s office.

Satisfied with the plan, Christine pulled on a wide-brimmed hat and headed outside. For the first few days after the accident she hadn’t felt well enough to work in her garden. Now she had to make up for lost time. But as she stepped into the warm sunlight and drew a deep breath of the pungent, spicy air wafting from the rows of neatly planted herbs, she didn’t mind in the least.

There was nowhere else she’d rather be. Here, she was safe. And free.

Chapter Three

“Package came for you while you were out, Dale. I put it on your desk.”

The sheriff looked over at his deputy as he closed the office door against the lingering summer heat of early September. “Thanks, Marv. And thanks for covering for me.”

“No problem.” The deputy stood and stretched. “You sure you don’t need me to stay a while longer? Alice is finally putting her foot down about that rose arbor I said I’d replace after we moved here last year, and she’ll be waiting for me with saw in hand when I get home. But it’s too hot for a garden project.”

A grin tugged at the corners of Dale’s lips. “Sorry. Can’t help you out. You should have thought of that before you took early retirement from that cushy corporate security job and decided to move to the country and live a life of leisure.”

The other man snorted. “Leisure my foot! Alice has a list a mile long. Let me tell you, this deputy gig is a godsend. Gets me out of the house a few times a week at least.”

Chuckling, Dale regarded the older man. Except for his bristly gray hair, Marv Wallace didn’t look anywhere near his fifty-six years. Fit and tanned, he exuded energy and enthusiasm. And as far as Dale was concerned, Marv was the godsend. The flexibility and availability of the affable, hardworking deputy was a much-appreciated blessing for a single-father sheriff.

Thank goodness the city council had finally seen the logic in having a part-time deputy on call. Oak Hill might be small, but the town did need backup. Marv had been on staff only a few months, but he’d already proven invaluable on a number of occasions.

“Anything going on?” Dale moved to the coffeemaker in one corner and lifted the pot to pour himself a cup of the strong brew.

“Just one call. From a Christine Turner.”

Dale swung toward the deputy, pot in hand. “What’s the problem?”

“She was out working in her garden early this morning, and a car came by at a high rate of speed, swerved off the road as it came around the bend in front of her place and cut a swath through her pumpkin patch. I took a spin out there, and it’s torn up pretty good. She got a license number, though.”

If she’d been close enough to see the license, she’d been close enough to get hit, Dale realized. His mouth settled into a grim line and he set down the coffeepot. “Did you run it?”

“Yep. Registered to Les Mueller.”

“Sounds like Stephen is at it again.” Les owned one of the state’s biggest dairies and was the largest employer for miles around. But he’d been having problems with his seventeen-year-old son.

“That’s what I figured. She said there were three teenage males in the car.”

Fisting his hands on his hips, Dale shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with that kid. This is the third time in the past six months he’s been involved in some sort of minor incident with the law. Except this time, it could have been a lot worse. Chri… Ms. Turner could have been hit.”

“I pointed that out to her.”

“Where’s the complaint?”

“She didn’t file one.”

Dale frowned. “She called to report the incident, we made a positive I.D., and she doesn’t want to press charges?”

“Nope.” Marv sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “You ever meet her?”

“Yeah. A couple of weeks ago. Her truck skidded off the road the night we had all that rain. I found her unconscious behind the wheel as I was driving by. Brought her in to see Sam. Why?”

The deputy arched his eyebrows. “You never mentioned that.”

“Nothing much to mention.” Dale reached again for the coffeepot, using that as an excuse to look away. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Marv about the incident. But something about it had left him unsettled, and he hadn’t been inclined to dwell on the encounter.

“Hmph.” From Marv’s speculative tone, it was clear that Dale’s response didn’t satisfy him. But the deputy let it pass. “Anyway, did you pick up any odd vibes from her?”

Dale shot him a probing look as he finished pouring his coffee. “What do you mean, odd?”

“I can’t quite put my finger on it. She just seemed nervous around me, and she kept her distance. I never invaded her personal space, but whenever I got within a few feet of her, she backed up. I wondered if it was me, or if she’s like that with everybody.”

Interesting, Dale reflected. “She was that way with me, too. But she seemed fine around Sam and Marge.”

“Must be the uniform. You run any stats on her?”

“No reason to. The plates came back clean, and she didn’t break any laws.”

“Curious thing, though.”

“At the moment, I’m more curious about why she didn’t want to press charges.”

“Can’t give you an answer to that, either. I ran the license while I was there, and told her who the car belonged to. She asked me a few questions about Les, and after I explained who he was, she got this real cold look and said to forget it. I told her Les would make things right, but she didn’t want to pursue it.”

“Stephen needs to be called to task for this. Reckless driving is a serious matter. And if he’d hit Ms. Turner, he could be facing involuntary manslaughter charges.”

“The lady didn’t seem convinced that anything good would come of pursuing this.”

“Okay. Let me think about this one.” Frustrated, Dale raked his fingers through his hair. “In the meantime, Alice is waiting for you.”

The man rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll stop by Gus’s first and grab some lunch.”

“Boy, you must be desperate!” Grinning, Dale took a sip of his coffee. “With your fitness regime I can’t believe you’re willing to ingest all that fat to delay the inevitable.” Gus’s fried food was legendary. Dale figured the diner owner operated on a simple philosophy: if it could be breaded, it could be fried.

“I’ll do almost anything to avoid a date with that saw. See you around.”

As the man disappeared through the front door, Dale strolled toward his office. After twelve years in a cramped, cookie-cutter cube in L.A., illuminated only by harsh fluorescent light, he never failed to appreciate his sunny Oak Hill office, with all its homey touches—including multiple pictures of Jenna displayed on the oak bookshelves that occupied most of one wall.

He took a few seconds to enjoy them, as he always did after settling in behind his desk, starting with a photo of her the day she was born, her pink face scrunched into a howl. From there he moved on to each year’s birthday picture, a smile tugging at his lips as he perused them, enjoying her progress from infant to toddler to a little girl with long blond hair and merry blue eyes. What a blessing she’d been in his life.

And her birth had provided an unexpected blessing in his often-difficult marriage as well, he recalled. As he and Linda had lavished their love on their daughter, they’d grown closer. Linda had come to appreciate—and believe in—the depth of Dale’s caring, and he had been touched by the fierce protectiveness she’d displayed toward Jenna.

The tiny baby had breached the walls around her heart far more effectively than he ever had, Dale reflected, giving him a glimpse of the woman his wife could have been under different circumstances. In fact, the last few months of his wife’s life had been the happiest time in their marriage.

A wave of sadness lapped at the edges of his consciousness, and Dale forced himself to move on to the next photo, from Jenna’s fifth birthday early in the summer. Her sunny smile helped dispel his melancholy, and he turned his attention to the package Marv had placed on his desk.

It was a large, flat envelope with a return address he didn’t recognize. Slitting the end, he slid the contents onto his desk. A colorful children’s book emerged, along with a packing slip.

Puzzled, Dale looked inside the envelope, but found nothing else. He picked up the book, an oversized volume with colorful, imaginative illustrations titled, The Reluctant Princess. The medallion on the cover indicated it had won a prestigious children’s book award. Jenna would love it. But who had sent it?

Picking up the packing slip, he found his answer.

Thanks for your assistance the night of the accident. I hope your daughter enjoys this. Christine Turner.

Taken aback by her unexpected thoughtfulness, Dale examined the gift. She might not want anything to do with him—or Marv either, based on the man’s account of his experience today—but apparently she hadn’t been as ungrateful as she’d seemed the night he’d come to her assistance.

And now he felt guilty. Although he hadn’t been happy about Christine’s refusal to file a complaint, he’d told himself it was her business and had planned to write it off. If it had been anyone else, however, he’d have paid a call and pushed the victim to take the next step. His well-honed sense of right and wrong had always prodded Dale to go the extra step, to put himself on the line if necessary to ensure that justice was done.

Not that he always succeeded. Almost a dozen years as an L.A. street cop had taught him that life wasn’t always fair. And those lessons had been reinforced as he’d watched the woman he loved struggle with the lingering, destructive effects of betrayal and abuse.

Without his faith, he would have become a cynic years ago. But prayer sustained him. And he need look no further than the Bible to find plenty of examples of unfairness. Jesus Himself had been treated unjustly.

Yet Dale wasn’t passive about injustice. As far as he was concerned, wrongs that could be righted should be. That was one of the reasons he’d become a cop. To put authority on the side of those who might feel powerless. To help redress wrongs.

And Christine Turner had been wronged.

Whatever her reasons for refusing to press charges, Dale couldn’t let it rest without attempting to convince her to reconsider. Stephen Mueller wasn’t a bad kid, but he needed to be taught a lesson or these minor incidents could evolve into far more serious offenses. A formal complaint from Christine might be the wake-up call he needed. Besides, Dale owed it to the town to follow up on this before Stephen caused a serious problem. Even if it was uncomfortable.

Grabbing his cup of coffee, Dale strode toward the door, convinced he was doing the right thing. But he also knew that a certain organic farmer wasn’t going to be thrilled to see him.

Disheartened, Christine leaned on her shovel and surveyed the remains of her pumpkin patch. She’d been working steadily since those wild teenagers had skidded through the garden early that morning, but the damage was extensive. As she’d filled in the ruts and salvaged as many vines as possible, her dreams of an autumn pumpkin patch, complete with apple cider and cookies, had begun to evaporate. She estimated that at least half her crop had been destroyed.