Page 32 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“Who else can I call?” I zip through my mental list of contacts.

A truck rolls by with out-of-state plates. The taillights glow and the rise and fall of a tinny voice comes through the vehicle’s sound system, rude during this early hour.

No surprise, it’s Maddock and he must be on a call. During the Hogwash Hunt, cars stop at the entrance to Sunnyside Mobile Home Park & Campground all the time because the cell service drops off on the Tickle property and beyond.

I start pushing the stroller toward the truck and then stop. Nope. I’m not going to bother him. He’s busy.

Turning back, I tell myself I’ll return for Leonie’s stuff later. She’ll be content in the stroller for a little while.

On cue, she fusses. One of her socks is missing. Of course. I tickle her foot, earning a little laugh, and replace the sock.

Making a U-turn with the stroller, I approach Maddock’s truck as his voice booms through the speaker. Sounds like an important call.

“Never mind. We’ll find another way.” I’m about to turn around again, when the unmistakable sound of a power window lowers, followed by him calling, “Honey!”

I freeze. Been caught. Leonie’s little face wrinkles, the precursor to a cry. This is her active time and she’s been in the stroller too long without movement or stimulation.

Biting my lip, I raise my hand with a slight wave—the kind you give a neighbor when you can’t, or don’t want to, stop to talk.

“What are you doing here?” he asks from on high in his fancy truck.

“I live here.” And I’m not ashamed, despite what Jesse said about me belonging on Marais Way. It’s not even one of my dreams. I’d be satisfied with plumbing that doesn’t leak.

He looks around, expression mild.

“Early for a walk. The sun is hardly up.”

“On my way to work.”

He peers into the carriage. “With a baby?”

I shift from foot to foot, not wanting to explain my predicament. Yes, I need a family-friendly car. But since I’m stuck with the Porsche until Leonie is old enough to safely and legally sit in the two-seater, it’s travel by foot or borrow a vehicle.

Just then, Leonie decides to roar her way into the conversation.

Maddock does the one thing I don’t want him to do. He opens the truck’s door and approaches us. His close-cropped brown hair is clean like he cares. He wears faded denim jeans and aflannel over a T-shirt as if he wants to seem like he doesn’t care that much.

“What do we have here?” He approaches cautiously like one would an actual lioness and her cub.

“This is Leonie.”

Face contorted as if he’s afraid he might catch cooties, Maddock cranes his neck. “She has pipes.”

“Yes, and she’s about to wake up the neighborhood. No one wants Mrs. Halfpenny’s dog barking at this hour.” I gently rock the stroller to soothe the baby.

“She doesn’t turn off at night?”

“Are you talking about the baby or the dog?”

He chuckles.

I quickly explain that the deputy sheriff gets a panicked call once a month from Mrs. Halfpenny and has to surreptitiously change out Frodo’s triple-As.

Maddock runs his hand through his hair. “Only in Hugwash Holler.”

“Hogwash,” I correct as the sun peeks through the buildings in the east, meaning the clock is ticking—on Leonie and the opening hour.

“I still say that it sounds to me like you’re saying Hugwash.”

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