Doing It Over (Most Likely To #1)(5)

“Hush.”

“I’m not going to hurt ya, lady. I swear.” He lifted his hands in the air.

“I bet Jack the Ripper said the same thing.”

The man scratched his head.

“You can move along. We’ll be fine.”

The man grumbled, turned on his heel, and marched back to his truck.

Melanie closed the door, locked it again, a wiped the windows to keep an eye on the stranger.

“He seemed nice,” Hope added her opinion.

“He might be, but I’m not taking any chances.” She noticed exhaust come from the tailpipe of the truck but it made no move to drive away. “Let this be a lesson for you, young lady. Don’t get in a car with a stranger.”

“Won’t the guy in the tow truck be a stranger?” Hope asked.

“Well, yeah . . . but that’s different.”

“How?”

It was time for Melanie to scratch her head. “It just is.”

“That’s a Mom answer.”

Melanie rolled her eyes at her wise daughter. “Tow truck drivers are there to help you when your car breaks down. They are doing their job.”

“Like a policeman or a fireman?”

“Yeah.”

“They aren’t the only people that want to help strangers.”

“I know, honey. Maybe that man just wants to help, but I don’t know him.” Trust is earned, not given freely. Even when it’s earned, it’s sometimes blown to tiny bits.

Five minutes ticked by in silence when Hope ran out of questions about strangers and matters of trusting them.

The stranger turned off his engine and sat in his cab.

Melanie watched his shadow like a hawk.

Less than twenty minutes later, the road flashed with red and blue lights as a sheriff’s squad car pulled around the corner and tucked in behind Melanie’s hunk of junk. “Stay here,” she said for the second time that night.

The rain had let up to a steady fall instead of sheets, not that her body felt the difference.

The officer pushed out of the car, placing a plastic-covered hat on their head.

“Looks like you’re having some trouble.” Melanie heard the voice of a woman and felt her shoulders slump in relief.

“Stupid car.” Melanie kicked the tire as she walked by.

The officer shone her light on the car, then up into Melanie’s face.

“Mel?”

Melanie sucked in a breath. “JoAnne?”

Jo shoved the light in her own face, giving Melanie the best relief of the night. “Oh, my God. I knew you were the sheriff, but . . . wow! Just look at you!”

Her gun toting, flashlight shining BFF squealed like any friend should, and moved in for a hug.

“Looks like you have it from here, Sheriff,” the voice of the stranger sounded in the drizzling rain.

“Melanie’s an old friend. Thanks for the call, Wyatt.”

So his name is Wyatt.

“Might wanna teach your friend that not everyone wants to cut her up.”

“I’ll do that,” Jo yelled as Wyatt slid back into his truck and left.

“What’s he all about?” Melanie found herself asking.

Before Jo could answer, Hope was ducking her head out of the backseat again. “Can I come out now?”

Melanie waved her daughter from the car and she came running.





CHAPTER TWO




Jo insisted Melanie and Hope stay with her until morning. It wasn’t hard saying yes when Hope all but begged for a hot meal and a warm house.

With Jo back at work, Melanie settled into Jo’s childhood home. The bungalow’s footprint was the same, but the furniture had changed and the walls were free of floral patterned paper.

Once Hope was tucked into the guest room, fed, showered, and exhausted, Melanie pulled the cork on a bottle of wine and lit a fire.

The house felt smaller than she remembered . . . quiet. She’d never spent any time in the Ward home without her friend. She found herself looking around, waiting for Sheriff Ward to walk in the door and read her the riot act for drinking. Didn’t matter that she was twenty-eight now, well past the legal age to drink . . . your parents, or even your friend’s parents who knew you before you could wear a bra, intimidated you into believing you were still ten.

Melanie wiggled sock-covered toes and let the flames warm the last part of her that still felt chilled.

She couldn’t remember the last time she sat in front of a fireplace. Probably right after Hope was born when her mother sent her tickets to fly to the East Coast to visit. What a mess that was. Whatever maternal instinct her mother had when she was growing up had disappeared the day her divorce was final. The free trip to Connecticut was to ease her mother’s guilty conscience. Melanie went to try and give Hope a grandmother.

By the time she boarded the plane back to California all hopes of a normal grandparent for her daughter had vanished.

Felicia Bartlett sent her a hundred bucks and a generic birthday card every year . . . sent another check for Christmas. If Melanie could afford to deny the money, she would. But pride didn’t put food on the table. If it were just her, she’d probably send it back. Instead, she put every dollar in a savings account for Hope. It wouldn’t add up to much, but maybe by the time her daughter was driving, she could afford a running car for her.