Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(7)
She found the key in a flowerpot on the porch, unlocked the door, and closed it behind her. As she crossed the entryway and started upstairs, she heard muffled voices overhead, coming from her parents’ bedroom. For an instant, she froze. Then she recognized the sound of her father’s laugh. Everything was all right, she told herself. But what was he doing at home in the daytime? Her birthday was this weekend. Maybe her parents were planning a surprise.
Then she heard another voice—a woman’s, but not her mother’s—giggling and moaning almost like she was being tickled. An inner voice warned Grace that something wasn’t right and she should go back downstairs. But her feet kept on moving down the hallway, carrying her toward the closed door at the far end . . .
Grace woke with a gasp. Heart pounding, she lay in her bed, staring up at the reflected moon shadow cast by the old tree outside her window. Why couldn’t she purge the dream—and the awful memory—from her mind? She was a grown woman now, her mother deceased and her father gone from her life. Yet every time she dared to believe she’d moved past it, the dream came back, as real as she remembered.
As it turned out, she hadn’t opened the door. She’d gone to her room, stayed until the house was empty, and never said a word about what she’d heard. But when her parents had divorced six months later, she’d never felt the need to ask why.
*
Sam pulled up to the curb to let Maggie off before heading on to work. “Remember, Daddy,” she said as he opened the door for her. “You’ll need to be here right after school to talk to Miss Chapman. I’ll be waiting for you on the bench in the hall. Promise me you won’t forget.”
“I promise.” He helped her down from the high seat and made sure she had her schoolbag. “But if I find out you’ve stepped over the line even once today, you’ll be in big trouble.”
“I know. Don’t worry, Daddy.” She gave him an angelic smile before she turned away and scampered up the walk toward the doors of the school. She almost seemed happy that he’d be coming for a conference with her teacher. What was going on here? Maybe he’d find out later today.
Work left him little time to think about the school appointment. His day started with a dispute between two farmers over strayed cattle and a broken fence. The situation had gotten out of hand when one man drew a gun on his neighbor and threatened him with it. Sam confiscated the gun, cited the offender, and made sure the damage would be fixed.
A domestic violence call came as he was leaving the farm. Ruth McCoy had shown up at the clinic in town, her injuries—black eye, broken wrist, and bruising—consistent with abuse. Sam interviewed her, then went to the house and arrested her husband, Ed, who was sleeping off a bender. Domestics were Sam’s least favorite kind of call. Not only was it depressing to see what could happen to people who’d once promised to love and cherish each other but, with emotions running hot, there was no telling when a situation could turn dangerous and explode. In this case, Sam knew what was going to happen. Ruth would refuse to press charges. Ed would be released, and everything would be hunky-dory—until the next time.
By the time Sam had conducted a frightening search for a missing toddler—found safe, asleep in a neighbor’s backyard doghouse—then written up a stack of incident reports, it was after 3:00.
Maggie’s school day ended at 3:20. It was time to get moving—and to meet with the dreaded Miss Chapman. Still in uniform, he drove down Main Street, beneath the strings of colored lights that crisscrossed overhead. The speakers above the town square were blaring Christmas music. Even with the windows rolled up and his police scanner chattering, he could hear the familiar song.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . .”
Sam suppressed a groan. He’d been dreading Christmas for months, and now it was here, bombarding him from all directions. How was he going to make it through this blasted holiday season?
The school day had just ended. Students were pouring out of the front door and spilling down the walk. Two yellow Bluebird buses were loading kids for the ride to Branding Iron’s outlying farms and ranches. Sam stayed back, keeping a safe distance until the buses had left. Then he drove around to the parking lot behind the building, chose an empty spot, and swung the big vehicle toward it.
With no warning, a boy in a red sweater darted out from between two cars, right into Sam’s path. As Sam slammed on the brake and swung the wheel, missing the fool kid by inches, he heard a crunching sound. His heart sank.
Damn! He’d just done some damage.
As the boy raced out of sight, without even looking back, Sam checked his rear, backed up, and pulled straight into the parking slot. Dreading what he might see, he climbed out of the big Jeep.
Parked next to him was a ten-year-old silver Honda Civic. The rear fender on the passenger side was crumpled and hanging loose where he’d hit it with his heavy-duty bumper.
Great. He was going to owe somebody a repair job and a big apology. But at least he had the means to find out who owned the car. Taking note of the license plate, he climbed back into his vehicle and entered it into the DMV database. The information he needed came up in a few seconds.
The silver Honda was registered to . . . oh, hell... Grace Chapman.
Looking toward the building, Sam saw Maggie come out onto the back porch. She was probably worried that he might not show up. At least, from where she stood, she wouldn’t be able to see the damage to her teacher’s car. He gave her a wave. She waved back, dancing with impatience as he crossed the parking lot. Should he tell Grace Chapman about her car before or after the discussion of Maggie’s behavior? After, he decided.