Angel Fire, Valmore Daniels [rosie project txt] 📗

conversations and letters back to her, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable talking about it right now.

* * *

In the parking lot, I watched with a mixture of amusement and sorrow as John fought with the safety belt of John Jr.’s child seat. Beth methodically stowed all the baby accessories in the back of the van.

“Thanks for lunch, Beth,” I said by way of conversation. “I owe you one.”

“No problems. So are you back for good, or just passing through?”

“No reflection on you, but my first instinct was to bolt. Cut and run. Get myself lost in a city somewhere. I had that choice.”

“Why didn’t you?” she asked me as I stared off into the distance.

“Believe me, I thought about it plenty. Talked it over with my reintegration counselor a hundred times. I figure no matter how fast I can run, the past can run faster. Might as well make a stand and face the music. It’s the only way to move on, the only way to prove that I’m more than what happened that night. And at least here I’ve got Aunt Martha and Uncle Edward.”

“And me,” said Beth. “I’m glad you’re back. I haven’t had anyone intelligent to talk to in ages.”

John, finally figuring out the seat belt, stood up sharply in protest. “Hey!”

Beth waved him off. “Love you, babes. Girl-talk going on here.”

I laughed. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, Beth. I didn’t think I was ever going to fully get my life back, but—”

“Oh, don’t get all mushy on me, girl. We’ve got plenty of time to worry over every thread. Hey, listen!” She jerked her thumb at her husband, who was sitting patiently in the driver’s seat. “John’s got to get back to work and I’ve got spinning class this afternoon—need to get rid of my baby bump. Why don’t you drop by our place later? I usually put John Jr. down for his afternoon siesta about three.”

“I’d love to,” I said, “but I have to head down to the cop shop this afternoon, sign a million forms. And Uncle Edward has me working evening shifts at the motel. I usually start around three.”

“Slave driver,” she declared.

I let out a dry laugh. “It’s like a picnic compared to prison, believe me.”

“I do. Tell you what, I’ll give you a call later at the Z and we’ll figure it out from there.”

She smiled warmly at me.

“Sounds good.”

We hugged, and I thought I detected a tear in Beth’s eye, which caused me to blink back one of my own.

Why are reunions so damned tough on the heart?

 

Chapter Ten

If I ever needed courage it was on the short car ride to the police station. My stomach cramped up, I broke out in a cold sweat, and I wanted to jump from my uncle’s moving truck and bolt.

Everyone makes mistakes in their lives. I happen to have cornered the market on that in my teen years. Don’t ask me why I was such a rebel, but I started early: drinking, bush parties, skipping school, cussing and being a general nuisance to my parents, teachers, and pretty much anyone else who crossed my path.

I was raised with solid country values. Don’t get me wrong, if I hadn’t had that kind of upbringing, I might have gone much deeper in my downward spiral.

Maybe it was the redhead in me, maybe I inherited it from my mother—who ran away when she was nineteen (though that ended on a happy note when she met my father)—but I’ve always had a problem with restraint: I let my emotions get the better of me.

I think every teenager who lives in a small town has that same feeling as they approach adulthood: Is this all there is to the world? This little slice of home-baked bread? It can feel more than a bit confining if you imagine you will never break free of the tiny world in which you exist. I know I felt that way. And since I had a bit more of a wild streak than most, it manifested in my behavior.

It was about that time I fell in with the same crowd as Barry. I don’t know whether it was because Barry and I were a lot alike, or because in my rebellious stage I knew dating him would really tick off my folks. Our paths merged into one, and for a while, I had the time of my life.

With his father as sheriff, we thought we could get away with anything short of murder, and we pushed the envelope until it broke. Barry had a hate-on for his father that scared me even back then. I think his mission in life was to send his old man straight over the falls.

Barry and I were the perfect match for annoying each other’s parents, and it came to a head one night during our senior year when Barry got the bright idea of stealing his father’s squad car and taking me to a rave he’d heard about going down outside of Big Park.

We had a blast right up until Barry—a dozen beers coursing through his system—wrapped the squad car around a tree on our way back.

Three days in a cold jail cell is a tough way to wait out a monster-sized hangover, and having Sheriff Burke yell at us at the top of his lungs every time he passed didn’t improve our mood. The disappointment from my mother and father when they came in to check on me was worse.

We were teenagers then, and I guess there’s something in us that doesn’t see things the same way as adults. It was during those three days that Barry and I had the brilliant idea that the best way to get back at them was to get married, even though we had only graduated high school a month before.

Sheriff Burke was furious and never showed up at the ceremony. His hatred of me only ripened over the following six months of my marriage to Barry, and finally came to a head that fateful night when I nearly burned his son alive.

And now, I was going submissively into his territory like a criminal with a death sentence begging for a stay of execution.

* * *

The police station itself was nothing more than a converted mobile home on its own lot. A flag on a tall pole in the middle of the lawn waved in the wind, and a blue and gold Middleton Sheriff sign stood to attention at the walk.

If Uncle Edward hadn’t been there pulling me along by my elbow, I wouldn’t have made it; I would have bolted and probably been sent back to prison for jumping parole.

I expected the worst, and silently repeated my mantra to myself. I was not going to lose control today. No way. I knew that the first sign of smoke would earn me a one-way ticket back to prison, and I did not want to go back there under any circumstances.

The station was quiet, except for the clacking of long nails on an old-fashioned typewriter. Maisy Bell, the receptionist who sat in a secretarial chair, looked up over her bifocals and pursed her lips when she recognized me. Without a word, she launched herself at a filing cabinet with a sharp push from her thick-soled shoes, hauled open a drawer, and pulled out a heavy folder.

“It’s about time you showed up, missy,” she said in sour voice, and scooted back to the counter, riding the chair like a bronco.

“I, uh—”

“Just fill these out.” She handed me three forms and a sharpened pencil. “Make sure you fill in all the blanks. The sheriff will be with you when you’re done.”

With that, she went back to her typing as if I were no longer there.

Sheriff Burke’s office door was closed, and the blinds covering the large pane window separating the office were also drawn, but I could see soft light through the cracks. He was there, I knew, but if he was aware that I had arrived then he was hiding it. I could handle him ignoring me, but if he was just drawing out the tension to play some kind of psychological game, then I had to have my wits about me.

I glanced at Uncle Edward, who looked like he’d just swallowed a bug.

I found a seat and put pencil to paper.

I honestly believe the only reason any office asks people to fill out forms is to give them something to do while they wait; a mundane task to take their minds off whatever it is they are there for. It worked for me, because, by the time I got to the last page, it completely slipped my mind where I was.

I nearly jumped out of my socks when a deep baritone voice barked out my name: “Darcy.”

Sherriff Burke, master of his domain, shot Uncle Edward a challenging look. “Just her.”

Uncle Edward, halfway up, pulled a face and sat back down again. He patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just be straightforward and honest. No one can fault you for that.”

“Thanks, Uncle Edward.”

The butterflies were back, and they were in full flight. I was amazed I didn’t pass out from anxiety before I entered the sheriff’s stuffy office. He stood beside the open door and tracked my progress without blinking. When I slipped inside, he gestured to a chair and shut the door firmly behind me.

“Now, let’s see your paperwork, Miss Anderson.”

I handed over the forms. Sheriff Burke placed them on top of the stack of papers in my prison file.

“Sit down,” he said. His eyes were studying the report, and he held a pen in his hand as if he were going to mark it for errors. When he noticed I was still standing, he looked up. His face clouded over. Maybe he was going to dress me down, read me the riot act and put me in my place. Whatever he planned on saying, I didn’t want to hear it.

“I want to press charges,” I said as evenly as I could.

My demand surprised him. His fixed his eyes on me. “What?”

“Assault and battery. Uttering death threats.”

The sheriff sucked on his teeth. “Against who?”

“Barry.”

He slapped his pen on the desk. “Bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit, Sheriff? You know Barry as well as I do. You know what he’s like. He came to the Lazy Z looking for a fight. I was just minding my own—”

He stood up. “You tried to kill him! My boy! You lit a fire when he was in bed, sleeping.”

“That was years ago! And it was an accident!”

“Now that’s a barrel full of bullshit, and don’t try to tell me otherwise. I know Barry, and I know you.” He gestured at my file. “You’re both trouble and not one of you is more at fault than the other. And from what I hear, he went down there to make peace and it was you who got mouthy.”

“I never!” I clenched my fists.

He sneered. “Please! Spare me! Now don’t get yourself all twisted up. Sit down.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sit down, I said.”

Slowly, I complied. When he was satisfied that I was in my place, he resumed his seat.

“In the interest of peace,” he said, “I’ve decided to ignore both your complaints against each other. One complaint cancels the other out, if you get my meaning. Of course, if you’re too stubborn to accept that arrangement, I can just as easily file both complaints all legal and proper…”

He snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right—” He pointed at my folder. “—an assault complaint is