Where Love Abides

Wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, she resettled her wide-brimmed hat on her head, hoisted the shovel again and went back to work. There was little traffic on this byway during the week, but she’d done her research and knew that come fall, the colorful Missouri foliage would draw leaf-watchers from as far away as St. Louis. That’s why she’d planted her pumpkin patch close to the road. Adorned with a colorful scarecrow and welcoming signs, she’d hoped to attract passersby. Now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to salvage enough to follow through with her plan.

The hum of an approaching car caught her attention, but she didn’t spare it a glance—until she heard the vehicle slow and turn into her driveway.

When she looked up and saw the police car, her heart skidded to a stop and the breath jammed in her throat. It was a familiar reaction, one she’d experienced every time she’d had any contact with the world of law enforcement over the past few years. Trying to rein in her panic, she watched as the sheriff emerged from the car. He assessed the damage, fists on his hips, before striding toward her.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Turner.”

“Sheriff.” Her voice was stiff and tight.

His tone, on the other hand, was conversational. “I heard there was a problem out here this morning.”

“I’ve already discussed it with your deputy.”

“He told me you don’t want to file a formal complaint or press charges.”

“That’s correct.”

“May I ask why? It’s obvious your property has been damaged, and we were able to identify the owner of the vehicle.”

“I don’t think there’s any point.”

Twin grooves appeared on his brow. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Let it go, Sheriff.” Her eyes went flat.

The grooves deepened. “Ms. Turner, my job is to see that justice is done. When a wrong has been committed, I try to correct it. In this case, that would be very easy to do—with your cooperation.”

The brim of her hat shadowed her eyes—but not enough to hide the brief flash of cynicism that flickered in their depths. “Right.”

He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a speculative squint. “I’m not sure what that means. But if you won’t press charges on your own behalf, look at it this way. Up until now, Stephen Mueller’s worst crime has been joy riding and property damage. However, you were close enough to read the license plate this morning. That means you could have been killed. The next time this happens, the witness might be. Do you really want that hanging over your head?”

“I’m not responsible for other people’s behavior, Sheriff.” She held her ground, trying not to let his perceptive gaze drill past her walls. Nor let the guilt he was dishing out sway her resolve.

She was tough, he’d give her that, Dale conceded. Whatever her reasons, she wasn’t backing down. He took a step closer, noting the sudden whitening of her knuckles as she tightened her grip on the handle of the shovel, the flash of fear that swept across her face. He stopped several feet away, stymied.

“Look, Les Mueller, the owner of the car, is a decent man trying to cope with a rebellious adolescent. Stephen is a good kid at heart, but he’s making some mistakes. I’d like to get them corrected before he finds himself in real trouble.”

When his comment produced no response, Dale sighed and propped his hands on his hips. “Okay, could you at least explain why you think filing a complaint would be pointless?”

After a brief hesitation, she responded. “I understand the owner of the vehicle is a man of some importance in town.”

“That’s true.” Dale watched her, gauging her reactions, hoping this was leading to an explanation that made sense.

“Powerful people do what they want. And get away with it.”

“Not in this town.”

She responded with a silence and a cynical expression.

Indignation tightened Dale’s jaw, and his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “For the record, that’s not the way things work here. We prosecute crimes and do our best to see that the injured party receives restitution.”

“With people in power, retribution is more likely than restitution.” Her face hardened, and acrid bitterness etched her words.

A few seconds of silence ticked by while his unrelenting gaze bore into hers. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Why would you think that?”

His question seemed to startle her. She took an involuntary step back. Swallowed. Blinked. “I’m not going to press charges, Sheriff. No matter what you say.”

The finality in her tone told Dale he’d lost his argument. And her sudden pallor suggested she was once again afraid. The question was, why? Dale didn’t have a clue. Nor was he likely to find out, he acknowledged, given the stubborn tilt of her chin.

“If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Her dismissive inflection suggested she’d do the exact opposite. That she wouldn’t spare it another thought once he walked away. But he’d given it his best shot, offered his most persuasive argument. In the end, it was her call.

Switching gears, he summoned up a smile. “On a different subject, thank you for the picture book. It came this morning. It wasn’t necessary, but Jenna will love it.”

There was a warmth in his tone as he spoke his daughter’s name, a subtle softening of his features. Christine’s own manner thawed a fraction of a degree. “I’m glad. It’s hard to go wrong with a book about a princess for a little girl that age.”

“It was right on. Our current nightly story-time ritual alternates between Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I could recite the books in my sleep at this point.”

A sheriff who read his child bedtime stories. Surprising. But nice. “I’m sure her mom feels the same way.”

A brief shadow darkened his eyes, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “Her mother died when she was eighteen months old.”

Shock rippled across Christine’s features. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. My mom has stepped in to help, and that’s been a great blessing.” He nodded toward the torn-up garden. “If you have a change of heart about reporting this incident, let me know.”

With that, he turned and strode back toward his car.

Long after he left, Christine stood in the middle of her topsy-turvy pumpkin patch, thinking about the motherless little girl who called the sheriff “Dad.” Her own situation had been similar but reversed. Her father had died when she was six, before she’d formed any clear memories of him. But her mother had tried her best to compensate for the loss.

All her life, Christine had known that her mother would do anything, sacrifice anything, for her. She’d been loved with such deep devotion that nothing later in life could take away the foundation of self-worth her mother had laid. That foundation had held her in good stead through the hard times, allowing her to retain her self-esteem even as Jack had done his best to destroy it.

For some reason, Christine had a feeling that Jenna would grow up with the same solid foundation of confidence and dignity. Christine might not trust Dale Lewis as a sheriff, but she knew at some intuitive level that he was a loving, devoted father. And that if Jenna could have only one parent, she was lucky to have him.

There was a time, in a situation like this, when Christine would have uttered a silent prayer in her heart, asking the Lord to protect the little girl and to give her father strength to carry on alone. But she didn’t talk much to the Lord anymore. In her time of need He’d let her down, and her once-solid faith had faltered. Now, she regarded prayer as no more likely to yield results than standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch wishing for a fairy godmother to appear.

And as for Prince Charming… It was a whole lot safer to leave him in the pages of a fairy tale.

Chapter Four

“And they lived happily ever after. The End.” Dale closed the book and smiled at Jenna. Snuggled beneath the covers, her golden hair splayed on the pillow, his daughter exuded an innocence and unbridled enthusiasm that was a balm to his soul.

“I like that story, Daddy. Can I be a princess when I grow up?”

“You’re my princess right now, sweetie.” He reached over and tickled her, enjoying her giggles as she squirmed away from him.

“I mean a princess with a crown and a pretty long dress and a happy ending, like the reluc…lucant princess in the book.”

“You can be anything you want to be, honey.” Soon enough, the world would teach her that happy endings were often confined to storybooks. He wasn’t going to be the one to disillusion her.

“Tell me again how you met the lady who sent me this book today.”

For some reason, Jenna was fascinated by the tale of Christine and Dale’s encounter.

“It was rainy outside, and the road was slippery. Her car slid off the edge of the blacktop and she hit her head, so I took her to see Dr. Martin. She sent the book to say thank you.”

“Then you rescued her, just like the prince in the book rescued the relucant princess?”

“Well, there weren’t any dragons around. But I did help her. That’s what policemen do. They help people who are in trouble.”

“What does she look like?”

An image of Christine popped into his mind, the way she’d looked in the pumpkin patch this afternoon, with a streak of dirt across her forehead. “She has brown eyes—kind of soft and velvety, like the cattails we saw at the lake, remember?—and her hair is brownish-red and wavy, and it touches her shoulders.”

“Is she pretty?”

Dale pictured the gentle curve of her cheek, her thick fringe of lashes, the delicate jaw and soft, full lips. Not to mention the well-shaped legs outlined beneath her snug jeans, or the way she was softly rounded in all the right places. Oh, yeah, she was pretty. No living, breathing male could fail to notice that.

“Yes, honey, she’s pretty.”

“I wish I could meet her.”

His daughter’s wistful tone tugged at Dale’s heart. “She has a farm and she’s very busy. But we might see her in town sometime.”

“Is she a mommy?”

“I don’t think so, honey. She’s kind of a mystery lady.”

A frown creased Jenna’s brow. “What does that mean?”

“It means no one knows very much about her. But I think she lives by herself.” He’d seen no ring on her finger to suggest she had an equally reclusive husband.

“I bet she gets lonesome.”

Did she? Dale wondered. If so, she wasn’t doing anything to rectify the situation. The question was, why not? She was a young woman. Surely she yearned on occasion for companionship. For love. As he did.

A faint pang of melancholy stirred in Dale’s heart, like the indistinct outer ripples after a stone is dropped in the water. Over the years, the sharp pain of loss had dissipated. But the dull ache never went away. Despite the problems in his marriage, he missed sharing his life with one special person.

Oh, he had Jenna and his mother. And plenty of friends. But it wasn’t the same as being in a loving, committed relationship. Friends and family didn’t ease the loneliness of the dark nights when he lay awake yearning for the comfort of a warm embrace, a whispered endearment, the sense of peace that had filled him when his wife had lowered her defenses long enough to sleepily snuggle against him as he gathered her in his arms.

Those moments had been rare, but he’d cherished them. And he missed them.

“Daddy.” Jenna tugged on his sleeve, calling him back to the present. “Do you think the mystery lady gets lonesome?”

“I don’t know, honey. Maybe.”

“We could visit her.”

Not a good idea. Christine had made it clear she didn’t welcome contact with the sheriff’s department. “We’ll see, honey.”

“That means no.” Disappointment flooded Jenna’s face. Like most five-year-olds, she knew how to interpret that response. “Don’t you like her?”

Frankly, Dale didn’t know how he felt about Oak Hill’s newest resident. She intrigued him. He found her attractive. He was curious about her past. But as for liking her…

“I don’t know her very well, Jenna. You can’t decide if you like someone until you get to know them.”

“I can tell right away if I like somebody,” his daughter declared.

That might be true, Dale conceded. Children approached strangers with an open mind, while adults’ pasts colored new relationships.

“That’s because you’re such a smart little girl.” Dale leaned over and kissed Jenna’s forehead. Standing, he set the book on her nightstand. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”

“You, too, Daddy. I think I’ll dream about the relucant princess. And the mystery lady.”

“That sounds good. You can tell me all about it at breakfast tomorrow.”

Shutting the door halfway, Dale headed for the kitchen. The two-bedroom bungalow was quiet as he opened the fridge and retrieved a soda, the only sound the hiss of carbonation as he flipped the tab. An odd restlessness plagued him, and he wandered over to the window and stared out into the darkness as he took a long swallow of his drink.

Jenna’s interest in Christine, a woman she’d never met, seemed excessive. But in the past few months, his daughter had been asking more questions about her mother. And on several occasions she’d told him she wished she had a mommy like the other kids at the preschool she attended three mornings a week.

In truth, Dale wished she did, too. A one-parent household wasn’t ideal. His mom did a great job filling in, and Jenna loved her fiercely, but it wasn’t the same as having a mother in the house.

Perhaps Jenna thought Christine might be a candidate for the job. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d broached the subject, Dale mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. To his embarrassment, she’d begun pointing out potential candidates at church—none of whom were suitable for a variety of reasons.

He’d put Christine in that category as well. She might be single and available, but there was an angst in her eyes, a deep-seated hurt and wariness, that reminded him too much of Linda. He wasn’t about to go there again.

If Jenna wanted to dream about her, that was fine.

But he intended to walk a wide berth around her, both in his dreams and in his life.

The crunch of gravel announced the approach of a visitor, and Christine shaded her eyes and looked down her drive toward the road. An unfamiliar car was closing the distance between them, but at least it was unmarked, she noted in relief. For a second she’d been afraid the sheriff was repeating his visit of the previous day.

Stripping off her gloves, she rose from her kneeling position and removed her hat. As the car came to a stop she headed toward it, passing row after row of healthy herbs. She’d have a good supply for the next farmers’ market, she thought in satisfaction.

As she approached the drive, three women alighted. She recognized Marge at once, in her hot-pink tunic top. Cara Martin’s distinctive red hair glinted in the sun. The third woman was unfamiliar.

“Christine!” The iridescent beading on Marge’s top shimmered as she gave an enthusiastic wave. “I hope you don’t mind some visitors.”

“And I hope you don’t mind a little dirt.” Christine brushed at the knees of her jeans and pushed her hair back from her face, leaving a streak of grime on her cheek.

“The sign of a working farmer,” Marge declared. “Christine, you’ve met Cara. This is Abby Warner-Campbell. Abby used to be the editor of our Gazette. Now she’s the editorial director for Campbell Publishing in Chicago, which acquired the Gazette about a year ago. But she and her husband get back to Oak Hill on a regular basis. She stopped by the inn to visit, and when she heard about our excursion she invited herself along.”

Abby moved forward and extended her hand. “Just a nose for news, I guess. I thought your farm might make a nice feature for the Gazette and I wanted to check it out before passing the idea on to the editor.”

“Some publicity would be great for business. Thanks for your interest.” Christine returned the woman’s firm handshake.

“I brought some homemade oatmeal cookies.” Marge held up a tin. “I was hoping to bribe you for a tour.”

“No bribe necessary. I’ll be glad to show you around.”

“Wonderful! Let me set these cookies on the porch.” Marge trotted across the stone walk toward Christine’s two-story frame farmhouse and deposited the tin on a table.

Once Marge rejoined them, Christine led the way to the gardens. “There’s not a lot to see yet, but I’ll show you what I have and tell you my plans.”

As they strolled between the neat rows, Christine pointed out the sections devoted to oregano, sage, rosemary, basil, thyme, chives and various other herbs.

“I also grow organic flowers,” she explained as they looked over row after row of colorful zinnias, wispy cosmos, sturdy snapdragons, spiky salvia and a dozen other varieties. “The bouquets have been big sellers at the farmers’ markets. I’m developing a perennial garden, too—poppies, peonies, coneflowers, coreopsis, daisies.” Christine gestured toward a section that was beginning to fill out. “And over there—” she pointed to a third parcel “—I’ve planted blackberries, strawberries and raspberries. Next year I’ll begin harvesting them.”

“Wow.” Cara scanned the gardens as they completed the tour. “This is impressive, Christine. How much land do you have?”

“About eight acres. But I only cultivate a small portion. I hope to increase the size of the garden each year.”

“It’s pretty large now, if you ask me. How do you manage to tend it all yourself?”

“I spend every minute of daylight out here. But I love it.”

“Is this your first venture into organic gardening?” Abby asked.

“Yes. On this scale, anyway. But I’ve always loved gardening. That and books are my passion.”

“Are you a big reader?” Marge queried, not one to be left out of a conversation for too long.

“Yes. In fact, I was a librarian for many years.”

“Is that right?” Marge’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’ll have to mention that to Eleanor Durham. She’s looking for someone to help out at the library two days a week, now that Sally Boshans and her husband are retiring to Florida.”

“I don’t know, Marge.” Cara looked over the garden again, her expression dubious. “This is more than a full-time job.”

“Well, cooler weather will be here soon. Christine can’t garden then. Maybe she could fill in here and there until Eleanor lines up someone else.” Marge leaned over and patted Chris-tine’s hand. “Think about it, dear. I’ll have Eleanor call you.”

“I, for one, came out here to buy some herbs,” Cara declared. “And I want some flowers for the tables at the restaurant, too. Are you open for business?”

Christine smiled. “I never pass up a sale.”

While the two of them returned to the garden, Marge retreated to the shade of the porch, fanning herself and pilfering a few cookies as she chatted with Abby. After Cara finished shopping, Abby peppered Christine with more questions. Although Christine didn’t reveal anything that wasn’t public knowledge, the three visitors found out more in forty-five minutes than anyone else had learned in almost three months.

“So do you have any family left in Nebraska?” Marge asked as the women stowed Cara’s purchases in the car.

“No. My dad died when I was six, and I didn’t have any siblings. My mom died of Alzheimer’s six months ago.”

“A terrible disease,” Marge sympathized. “And losing your husband a year ago, at such a young age… I had no idea. But you picked a good place to start over. The folks in Oak Hill are the salt of the earth. I came here from Boston a few years back after inheriting the inn, and they welcomed me with open arms. They’ll do the same for you, too, if you give them a chance.”

She tilted her head and regarded Christine. “You know, one good way to meet people is to attend Sunday services. We always have a coffee hour afterward and everyone stays to chat. You’d be welcome to join us. It’s the church with the big white steeple in the middle of town.”

No thank you, Christine thought, suppressing a shudder. It had been almost two years since she’d gone to church by choice. She’d attended her mother’s and Jack’s funerals, of course. And she’d accompanied her husband to services when he’d insisted her presence at his side was necessary for his image. The recollection of standing beside him in the house of God while he pretended to be a Christian still sickened her. Going back would only call up those memories, in all their vivid repugnance.

Besides, God hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed Him most. Why should she visit Him now?

But she didn’t give voice to any of those thoughts. Her relationship with the Lord was her own business. She simply thanked Marge for the invitation, said her goodbyes and went back to work as the car crunched down the driveway toward the main road.

For some reason, though, the older woman’s invitation kept echoing in her mind. Despite the wall she’d built between herself and the Lord, deep inside a part of her missed attending a worship service every week and reading her neglected Bible. For most of her life, she’d found comfort and courage and solace in her faith.

Even while things deteriorated with Jack, she’d maintained her relationship with the Lord, seeking His help and guidance. Trapped in an intolerable situation, she’d prayed for His intervention. Begged for release, for a way out. But months had passed with no response.

At first, Christine had told herself there must be a reason God had allowed her to become trapped in a nightmare. That conviction had sustained her, as she’d examined—and discarded—every possible explanation. At that point, she’d tried to convince herself that despite the unfairness of the situation, the indignities she’d suffered had been worth it. That her misery had ensured the best possible care for her mother. Had been the only way to ensure that care.

She knew that for a fact. She’d tried the only other option she could think of. After that had failed, she’d reminded herself that she could never do enough to repay her mother for all her sacrifices, for all the years she’d cleaned office buildings and taken in ironing to give her daughter security and an education. Told herself that she was strong enough to hold on as long as her mother needed her.

The concept of repaying that debt had helped Christine endure the humiliation and terror and abuse. But eventually, to her shame, she’d begun to resent her mother. Toward the end, as she’d sat in the room at the extended-care facility, no longer recognized by the woman who’d borne her, she’d even begun to wish for her mother’s death. All the things that had made Helen Turner a unique individual—her intellect, her spirit, her capacity to love—had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a physical body. A body Christine could only sustain by living a nightmare.

In the end, Jack’s sudden death had liberated her. But it had been too late to salvage her withered faith, to dispel the bitterness she felt toward the God who had abandoned her.

She knew her situation wasn’t unique. The Bible was filled with stories about holy men and women who had endured worse than she had. But she hadn’t dwelt on the injustice of it until it had happened to her. After it had, she’d been unable to comprehend how God could allow His faithful followers to suffer. She hadn’t understood why He would let her be tortured to sustain an empty shell that would never again be filled.

But Christine had understood one thing.

There was no room in her life for an uncaring God.

By late that afternoon, Christine was ready for a work break. She straightened up and flexed her back, thinking that a cold drink was in order. It might be mid-September, but the Missouri heat was relentless. The consistent mideighties temperatures, plus the high humidity, could sap energy as effectively as a puncture could flatten a tire. Christine had come close to dehydration on a couple of occasions, and she’d learned to drink more water. Now she kept a large Thermos close by, refilling it throughout the day.