High Country Cop. Cynthia Thomason
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usual Dale appeared unkempt and soiled. His dark hair hung in limp strands to his shoulders. His face was gaunt. But strangely he didn’t look particularly tired, like he wasn’t out at one o’clock in the morning when the robbery supposedly took place. Dale grabbed the loose hair around his shoulders, pulled it all back to his nape and let it fall again. A tall man, he seemed thinner, more wiry than he had in recent years. His eyes were lined in the corners. His cheeks seemed high and hollow. If Dale was practicing a life of thievery again, Carter wondered why he didn’t target the supermarket in town. At least his thievery would benefit his health.
“Where were you last night, Dale?” Carter asked. “About one in the morning.”
“Just leaving the Muddy Duck,” he said. “Came home right after.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Sure. Sheila was there all night. She’ll tell you she and I were the only ones in the bar that late.”
Carter nodded. Great. Dale’s on-again, off-again girlfriend who tended bar at the Duck would vouch for Dale anytime.
“We have a witness who says your vehicle was parked behind the hardware store on County Road 17.”
“That’s right,” Dale said. “I didn’t know there was a law against parking on a county road.”
“There’s not,” Carter said. “But the hardware store is more than a block from the tavern, so why did you park there?”
“I had a good reason. There’s a particular lady I didn’t want to see the Jeep in the area.” He grinned in a conspiratorial man-bonding way that meant nothing to Carter. “You know how it is, Carter. We can’t let all our lady friends know what we’re up to, now, can we?”
“Did you see any unusual activity along the road when you left?” Carter asked. “Maybe anyone sneaking around the hardware store?”
“Nope. The whole area was as quiet as a church.”
Carter took his phone from his pocket and reread an email he’d received that morning from the officer on duty. It contained a list of items gone missing from the store. Only twenty bucks had been left in the cash register by the owner. The full amount had been stolen, but the store owner, Carl Harker, was moaning as if he’d lost a fortune. One item caught Carter’s eye. He looked up at Dale. “You planning to start a garden anytime soon, Dale?”
“That’s an odd question, Carter. You know most of my food comes from the Baptist Food Bank. Why would I grow my own?”
“Just curious,” Carter said. Hoping Dale would slip up and mention some of the stolen property, Carter wasn’t about to tell Dale that a dozen irrigation hoses were taken, along with several pole-type sprinklers. He evaded by saying, “Seems like whoever took this stuff is planning to cultivate a crop in a major way.”
“Wouldn’t be me, Carter. I got enough work on my hands with my chickens and them goats out back.”
“Mind if I have a look around your place just the same?”
“You have a warrant, Carter?”
He didn’t, and by the time he requested one from the county judge, if Dale was the proud owner of a new sprinkling system, the evidence would be nowhere to be found. “I’ll come back with a warrant if I need one, but for now I’ll just keep my eyes open for any new crops going in,” he said.
Dale leaned against his door frame. “You know how it is...folks around here are always cultivating one thing or another, always waiting for a bumper crop.” He gave Carter another grin. “Is there anything else?”
“I think I’ll have a word with Lawton. Is he here?”
Dale jutted his thumb toward the back of the house. “He just got some company. The two of them are in the backyard discussing something, but I don’t suppose it will bother them if you interrupt. Besides, you know the person who showed up this morning out of the blue.”
Carter carefully maneuvered the steps to the ground. “I’ll just go around back, then. And, Dale...”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not forgetting that you were within a block of the robbery last night. So if you remember anything, even the smallest detail that might help us out, you give me a call.”
“You know I would, Carter...”
When hell freezes over... Carter thought.
Anything else Dale might have said was muffled by the closing of the door.
Now, who could be visiting Lawton? Carter wondered as he walked around the cabin. He’d been released from prison just two weeks ago, and Carter hadn’t heard that he’d made any friends or renewed acquaintances in town. In fact, Lawton hadn’t even been seen in town, except for a visit to the grocery store. Maybe his parole officer was here. Or someone from one of the church groups. Or maybe...
He stopped dead at the corner of the rear exterior wall of the cabin. Lawton sat on a rickety old bench beside a young woman—a woman whose posture and size and shape were so familiar to Carter that the breath was trapped in his lungs.
It couldn’t be Miranda. She didn’t have a reason to come back to Holly River. Her daddy was dead. Her mother had moved to a condo in Hickory. True, she’d been raised a Jefferson. Her family had lived for a few generations in these hills just like her cousins Dale and Lawton and their parents had. But Miranda hadn’t been able to wait to get away and make a life for herself. No matter whom she hurt in the process.
Her family had lived for years here on Liggett Mountain in a cabin slightly better than her cousins’. Still the more fortunate Jeffersons had struggled on one income brought in by Miranda’s father, Warren. Carter couldn’t take his eyes off the woman on the bench. Finally he released the breath he’d been holding. No, it wasn’t Miranda Jefferson, or Miranda Larson now. His Miranda...funny how that phrase popped back into his mind after so many years...had light brown hair. This woman’s shoulder-length waves had streaks of blond. He blinked hard. A successful woman could afford to change her hair color, couldn’t she?
Rooted to the ground, Carter continued to stare at the back of the woman’s head. Surely he would know if he was anywhere near Miranda, even today after fourteen years. Back then, when they’d graduated from high school, the electricity had seemed to buzz around them. Their connection had been that strong, that heated.
“Are you a real policeman?”
The question came from Carter’s left. He hadn’t even been aware that another person was in the yard, an obvious mistake for a cop who was investigating a crime. He should have known. His head snapped to the left where he saw a little girl sitting on a tree stump, an electronic device of some kind in her hands. She had large round eyes, like Donny Larson’s, and sandy-colored curly hair like Donny’s. She was a miniature, feminine version of the man Carter once called his best friend.
“Ah, yeah, I’m real,” he said.
“Is someone in trouble?” the child asked.
“No, nothing like that.” Carter now knew without turning back to stare at the woman that Miranda Jefferson was sitting next to Lawton. Where else would this little girl look-alike of Donny Larson have come from?
But he did turn back and found Miranda’s gaze locked on his, her fathomless blue eyes just like always—slightly wary, questioning everything but now with a mother’s natural protectiveness.
“Carter...” The word fell from her lips without thought, seemingly without effort.
He moved toward her, his legs wooden, his heart pounding. Get a grip, Cahill, he said to himself. It’s not like you didn’t know this could happen. It’s not like you haven’t dreamed about it. Miranda still has kin in this area.
“Miranda...how? When did you get back? What are you doing here?” Stupid questions, but maybe