The Sheriff

“Oh, all right,” Ellen said. “Twenty. And if I don’t stop squalling, I’ll look like a raccoon.” She began fishing in her purse.

“Too late, Tammy Faye,” Dixie said, plucking several paper napkins from the dispenser on the table and passing them around. “The mascara has run amok.”

“You don’t look like a raccoon,” Mary Beth said, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose. “You look gorgeous, as always.”

Ellen had always been a beauty. She had put on a bit of weight and her hair was blonder and her makeup thicker, but she was still a stunning woman in her smart red suit and high heels.

It was like old-home week. They fell into conversation as if they’d talked only yesterday. How good it felt to see her old friends, to feel as if she belonged again.

They both stayed for lunch, put together from her new stores of food, then Dixie had to leave. “I’ll drop by tomorrow,” she promised.

Ellen lingered. “I hate to see you staying here, Mary Beth. You’re welcome to stay with me. My couch makes into a bed, and you and Katy—”

“No, but thanks. We’ll be okay here until I can figure out something. I was hoping that the property would be income-producing, but as you can see…” She fluttered her hand.

“I know. The old motel is a mess. It’s been listed with my company for ages, and there hasn’t been a nibble. And the people who were leasing the Tico Taco just couldn’t make a go of it. Too much competition. Another Mexican restaurant on the new highway just opened last month, and there was already one next to Bullock’s Supermarket on Second Street.”

Mary Beth sighed. “That’s a shame. Well, maybe some other sort of restaurant might consider leasing the place. It seems to be in pretty good shape.”

Ellen took her hand. “Don’t count on it, Puddin’. The market is pretty well saturated and the location isn’t the best. I’ve gotta run. I have an appointment to show a house, but we’ll think of something.” She hugged her again and wiggled her fingers as she hurried out the door.

Mary Beth didn’t have much time to think about anything for the steady parade of old friends who stopped by. None of them came empty-handed. She had enough homemade pickles and pies and casseroles to last for months. And her former Sunday-school teacher, bless her heart, showed up with two roll-away beds.

“Mommy,” Katy had asked, “is it Christmas already?”

“No, sweetie. Christmas isn’t for a long time. Why do you ask?”

“’Cause so many nice people brought presents to us.”

“It is like Christmas, isn’t it?” Mary Beth smiled and hugged her daughter. “And these very nice people are old friends from when I was growing up here. It’s a custom to bring food and gifts if someone is sick or if there’s a funeral or if someone is new to town. This is their way of being neighborly, of welcoming us to Naconiche.” And she had felt welcomed. These were old friends, caring people holding open their arms to her. Their offerings hadn’t felt like charity at all. It was simply small-town neighborliness, and she’d love being able to spend a bit of time with every one of them and renew old ties. She kissed the top of Katy’s head. “I feel very welcome, don’t you?”

Katy nodded. “I like it here. Are we going to stay?”

“I think so. At least for a while. Would you like that? You don’t mind living in a restaurant?”

“It’s kind of funny, but remember what you always say?”

“What’s that?”

“We can think of it as a ’venture.”

Mary Beth laughed and hugged her again. “Yes, it’s really an adventure. Dixie tells me that there’s a preschool at the church. How about we get you enrolled so you can have some children to play with.”

Katy’s eyes lit up. “When? Now?”

“I’ll call tomorrow.”

Her daughter threw her arms around Mary Beth. “I love you, Mommy.”

“I love you, too, Katy.”

THAT EVENING after a sumptuous dinner, Mary Beth sat on a bench out front of the restaurant and watched Katy chase lightning bugs.

“I got another one, Mommy!”

“Wonderful! Bring it here and put it in the jar.” She opened the top, and Katy dropped the glowing insect inside.

“I’ll get some more,” Katy said, bounding off. “This is fun.”

“Catch one more, then it’s time to get ready for bed.”

Mary Beth smiled, love welling up as she watched her daughter run off with endless energy. For the first time since she’d learned about Brad’s awful crime, she began to feel at peace. And hopeful. Coming here had been good. Getting back to her roots and being among people who cared for her was renewing her strength. This old place might not be much, but it was hers, and somehow she would make something of it—and of herself. For so long it seemed that things had gone from bad to worse, one catastrophe after another. Now, deep inside, she sensed that she’d turned a corner and her life was going to turn around.

That was before the first clap of thunder.

And before the rain.

Chapter Four

The first drop hit her on the forehead, the second on the nose. Mary Beth shot up and bolted from her bed.

She immediately stumbled and went sprawling.

She’d forgotten the blasted cast. Muttering a few choice words, she shook herself awake. A storm rattled the windows, and a steady drip of water plopped on her pillow.

After pulling her bed to a safe spot, she checked on Katy, who was fast asleep and dry. Grabbing her crutches, she hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a stockpot. There was a steady leak over the stove. She shoved another pot under that drip, left one crutch behind and hobbled back to the leak as quickly as she could. Quietly she set the pot on the floor of the nook she’d made into their bedroom. The tinny ping-ping-ping of the drops against the aluminum seemed awfully loud, but Katy didn’t stir.

Not wanting to disturb Katy with a bright light, she made her way around the place using only the illumination from their small lamp, the neon sign behind the bar and the light that spilled from the kitchen. She located another three leaks in the restaurant: one in the men’s room and two others in the dining area. When she had placed containers under all the places that dripped, she tossed her soaked pillow on a table and fell back into bed sweating from the effort.

Rain came down in torrents, beating against the windows, the wind howling as if in rage. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, boomed and rolled. The storm sounded very close. She counted between the lightning flashes and the thunderclaps, trying to judge how far away the center of the storm was. It was close.

Another deafening crack and boom shook the walls.

The lights went out. She slapped her hand against her chest, trying to contain her runaway heart.

Water dripping into the pots sounded like a discordant steel-drum band. Windows rattled with the wind and rain pelted the panes.

Except for an occasional flash from outside, everything was dark as a tomb. The air grew heavy and she had a hard time breathing.

She hated storms.

And the dark.

Then, between the steady plop-plop-plop, she heard a rustling, scurrying sound.

Her heart almost stopped.

She wanted to scream bloody murder and run somewhere, anywhere. Instead she pulled the quilt over her head and prayed, filling the time until morning.