Spells Trouble, Kristin Cast [books to read in a lifetime .TXT] 📗

light painted the hood of his white-and-gold cruiser a pale Christmas crimson. His thick, calloused fingers drummed against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green. Dearborn had only seen a few cars on his final patrol of the night. The passenger and rear seats had all been full of teenagers who’d rolled down their windows and given the sheriff big, goofy, and if he was being honest, fairly tipsy grins and waves as they passed by. The designated drivers had remained focused on the road, and that’s really all he needed to see. The sheriff wasn’t in the habit of busting kids for being kids. He’d leave that to their parents.

The light turned green and Dearborn left the vibrant Main Street in his rearview and slipped under the blanket of darkness that covered cornfields and country houses. He took another sip of coffee and craned his neck to peer up at the sky. Clouds had rolled in while he’d been in his office completing the day’s paperwork. Another sip. That’s when Trish had made his coffee. Sweet, sweet coffee. Sweet, sweet Trish. He reached up to the transceiver attached to the shoulder of his uniform and squeezed the talk button. “Two sugars?”

Trish answered immediately. “I figured it wasn’t really cheating if you didn’t add the sugar in yourself.” The dispatcher’s voice rang back clear and smooth as if the new Alexa his nephew had set up for him at home had followed him into his car.

Dearborn fumbled with the buttons on his walkie-talkie. The darned device had always been too small for his hands. “You’re too good to me, Trish.”

“Don’t count your chickens just yet, Sheriff. I just got off the horn with old Earl Thompson. He’s been snooping around the field out by Quaker Road. Said he’ll meet you out there. He also said—oh dagnabit, I had it right here…” Papers rustled as Trish dug through her notes.

Trish’s dispatch station was a mess of Post-its, origami farm animals, and photos of her Yorkie, Pepper. Over the years, Dearborn had learned that a good leader doesn’t force his team to fit into a certain mold. He allows them to be themselves. He rubbed the burnt orange and navy BE YOU sticker stuck to the center of his steering wheel. He and Matt Nagy couldn’t both be wrong.

“If it was a snake, it would’ve bitten me.” Trish’s laughter tinkled through the cruiser like wind chimes. “Old Earl said that ‘there’s a ruckus out there at that old olive tree.’” She’d lowered her voice and made it tremble with age. “‘Not that I’m surprised. Who plants one olive tree? A twisted, mangled one, no less. Been giving me the heebie-jeebies my whole life.’ All one million years of it.” She paused. “I added that last part myself.”

Dearborn’s barrel chest shook with a chuckle. Trish always made him laugh. “I was hoping to end my shift on time tonight, er”—he glanced down at his watch: 02:36—“this morning, but I’m only a couple minutes away. I’ll head over and check out the ruckus.”

The sheriff flipped on his high beams as he drove deeper into the dark.

“What do you make of them planting just one olive tree all those hundreds of years ago?” Papers continued to rustle as Trish spoke, and Dearborn could picture her folding the small squares into another barnyard animal for her desktop menagerie.

He took another drink and let the sweet hazelnut drift across his taste buds as he considered Trish’s question. He had never much thought about it. As a high schooler, he’d go to parties out by the aging olive tree or the lone apple tree on the other side of town or the single cherry or palm that encircle Goodeville. He’d always felt strong and protected while he was out near one of the trees. But get any teenage boy liquored up and he’d be liable to feel like Superman. Now, many years older and much, much wiser, Dearborn felt a bit like one of those lone trees–—waiting, guarding, aging.

A flutter of pages. “I think it’s pretty neat.” Trish clucked. “Adds a bit of flavor none of the other towns have. Not sure that’s what the founders were aiming for when they planted them…”

“I tend to agree with you, Trish.” It wasn’t the most honest thing he could’ve said. Dearborn tended to agree with folks a lot more than he actually agreed with them, but sometimes little white lies kept the peace and helped build trust. And a team was nothing without trust.

Sheriff Dearborn’s blinker lit up the night air with a Halloween glow as he turned off the main road onto the craterous drive that passed by the ancient olive. The first-aid kit he kept in his passenger seat rattled as the cruiser bounced along the gravel. Dearborn grimaced while he did his best to pass more potholes than he hit. He closed in on Earl’s parked shiny red truck as the beams from his headlights bobbed against the olive tree’s gnarled trunk like he was a boat at sea and it, a buoy.

He rubbed at the pain sprouting in his neck. His old U of I football injury always acted up whenever he was out on these unpaved roads. He’d have to sit down with the mayor again. Outside city limits needed just as much care as inside.

“I’m not sure why you bother checking up on everything old Earl calls in,” Trish said, bringing him back to the matter at hand. “Especially with your neck the way it is. By my count, this is ruckus number thirty-two, and that’s just this year. Old Earl might beat last year’s Ruckus Record.”

The Ruckus Record. Dearborn’s clean-shaven cheeks plumped with a grin. That was another thing that cluttered Trish’s desk. She’d decorated a small piece of poster board in fancy hand-drawn calligraphy she’d learned in one of the art classes down at the fancy new craft store, Glitter and Glue. After Dearborn returned from checking