Page 11 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Sheriff, this is Nora Alvarez at Town Hall.” Nora’s been the town clerk since before half the signs in Golden Heights were painted. Her voice is brisk, but today there’s something frayed under it. “I’m calling with a favor. Personal.”
I straighten. “What do you need?”
“It’s Melissa Edwards. She’s got chemo in forty minutes, and she’s dug her heels in. Her son Will’s up at the county offices and can’t get here in time. She trusts deputies about as much as she trusts turnips, but shedoestrust… well, okay, she doesn’t trust anyone. But she respectssheriffs.” Nora exhales. “Would you try?”
“I’ll go,” I say, already reaching for my jacket.
“You’re a saint, honey. She’s at 312 Warbler. Good luck and Godspeed.”
I hang up and stick my head back out. “Running an errand. Radio if you get anything you can’t triage.”
David cups his hands around his mouth. “Yousummonedthis, Boss.”
“Tell the universe I’ll bring it a donut,” I shoot back, and head out.
***
Melissa’s house at 312 Warbler is a tidy ranch with geraniums and a wind chime that tinkles like it’s laughing at me. I knock.
The door opens an inch, then slams.
“No,” says a voice behind it.
I blink, then knock again. “Ms. Edwards? I’m Sheriff Vaughn. Nora asked me to give you a ride.”
“Tell Nora I’m not a sack of potatoes,” the voice replies. “And tell my son he can’t bully me with badges.”
“Ma’am, your appointment is in—” I check my watch. “—thirty-five minutes.”
“Then they’ll have to wait thirty-six.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “If I don’t get you to the hospital, Nora will drive to my office and yell at me in two languages.”
Silence. A beat. Then: “What’s your name again?”
“Asher Vaughn.”
“You’re new.” She says it like a charge.
“Two weeks.”
“That explains the audacity.” The lock clicks. The door swings open to reveal a woman maybe five-six in a bright scarf and crisp cardigan, chin up, eyes the warm, stormy amber of brewed tea. She studies me like I’m a questionable appliance repairman. “Ten minutes. Then you can chauffeur me, Sheriff.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me to death.” She turns. “It makes me feel like a walnut.”
I wait on the porch while the wind chime smirks. Ten minutes later she steps out with a tote and the air of a queen allowing an escort. I open the passenger door. She gives me a look that sayspoints for manners, boy, and climbs in.
We make it two blocks in silence before she says, “You got a kid?”
“I do,” I say. “His name is Brick.”
“Age?”
“Eleven.”
She hums. “You’re just starting out.”
