Stop with the self-pity, Mags.
Outside, her father waited for her under the shade of a towering oak. She sighed. He was probably annoyed by her strange behavior earlier.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“No need to be sorry, Magpie.” He ducked his head. “I miss your mother, too,” he whispered.
Maggie was taken aback to see moisture dotting his dark eyes.
She missed her mother more than she could say, but today it wasn’t her mother she missed the most. Though if her mother had been alive three years ago, maybe she would have made different choices.
That night in Atlanta, she could’ve so easily died. God had spared her life. And she didn’t mean to waste it.
Yet in the wee hours of the night, when the sorrow was at its peak, she consoled herself with the knowledge she’d done the right thing. The unselfish thing.
Because that was what mothers did.
Her gaze was drawn to Wilda and the twins. Crossing the little footbridge spanning the creek, they headed toward the parking lot. The handsome new chief stood between his pickup truck and a black minivan.
Maggie sent a prayer of gratitude skyward for what she did have—her father, her home and a job she loved.
Plus she was excited at the possibility of getting to know Austin and Logan on Monday.
Her dad offered his arm. “Ready to head to the cemetery?”
Eyes flicking toward the minivan and the pickup pulling out onto the highway, she exhaled. The Father of good gifts had given her a special gift on this hardest of days. Wilda was right.
Just when she’d needed it most.
Early Monday morning, Bridger Hollingsworth parked the white SUV that came with the new job in the last available spot outside the Mason Jar Diner. The parking places out front and along the side of the town green were filled.
According to his predecessor, Tom Arledge, the Jar was a popular local hangout. Tom had invited him for a quick debrief before he headed to the police department down the block.
Overhead, a bell jangled as he entered the café. Bustling waitresses carried trays of food from the cutout window behind the counter to customers. As was his habit—a habit that had kept him alive thus far—he immediately scanned the occupants of the diner, scoping out potential risks.
With an accompanying hum of conversation, men and women of varying ages sat scattered around the café. A young guy in blue overalls from an automotive shop. At a far table underneath a bulletin board, a trio of elderly ladies. The town and its inhabitants were everything his research had led him to believe about Truelove.
Farmers. Ranchers. Local businessmen. A tight-knit, friendly community. Low crime rate. A good place to put down roots and raise his family.
The aroma of yeasty biscuits and fried potatoes wafted across his nostrils. His stomach growled. Maybe not such a bad idea to talk shop with Arledge and feed his belly at the same time.
Spotting him in the doorway, the lanky ex-lawman motioned him toward the section of booths. “Good to see you again, Hollingsworth.”
He shook the older gentleman’s hand. “Good to see you, too, sir.” Taking off the regulation hat, he cut his eyes at the crowded diner. “Is it always this busy at the Mason Jar?”
“The usual breakfast crowd.” Tom grinned. “Before we order, though, I want to introduce you to some of the fine citizens of Truelove.”
Leaving his hat on the table, he followed Tom to a cluster of men seated on the counter stools. Bridger’s late father had been a police chief in a Raleigh suburb. And although this was his first venture into an administrative position, he knew the drill.
As police chief, his job was threefold: to maintain a good working relationship with the town council, to provide leadership to the officers he’d supervise and to bolster law enforcement’s relationship with the community.
He appreciated Tom’s efforts to help him become part of the community. A subtle stamp of approval. A passing of the torch. Bestowing the mantle of responsibility in the eyes of the Truelove public.
Amid jokes of being put out to pasture, Tom led him from table to table, greeting the townspeople and shaking hands.
Nash Jackson, an orchard grower. Dwight Fleming, owner of a white-water rafting company. The mayor’s wife. A pastor.
The three elderly ladies belonged to something called the Double Name Club. Whatever that was. He flicked his eyes at Tom, who appeared to have stuck his tongue in his cheek.
But everyone was welcoming. The Double Name Club members were especially enthusiastic.
He was good with names and faces. He had to be. More than once, his life had depended on it.
Finishing the rounds, Tom slid into their booth. “How’d your first case go this weekend?”
A waitress left a carafe of coffee and two empty cups on the table.
“Patrol caught a couple of teenagers tagging the side of an old barn with spray paint. No big deal.” He sank onto the vinyl seat across from Tom. “But paperwork is paperwork.”
Tom poured the steaming coffee into the porcelain mugs. “Good ole American bureaucracy at its finest. Not as exciting as those drug busts you used to work. I hope you won’t get too bored in sleepy ole Truelove.”
He wrapped his hand around the mug. “I’m hoping those adrenaline-and pulse-pumping days are behind me.”
After the humiliation of what happened with his former fiancée, Chelsea, he was also done with betrayal and lies.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Chief.” Bridger cleared his throat. “This new position provides my family the opportunity for a new start.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re the chief now. And it was how you presented yourself during the interview with the town council that secured you this job, son. Not me.”
He leaned forward. “I don’t aim to let you—or the town—down, sir.”
“Your dad and I went through the academy together. One of the best men I ever knew. A real straight arrow.” Tom
