Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(16)
“Anything new?” he asked her.
“You tell me.” When he gave her a blank look, she continued. “Word is that you’re dating that pretty new teacher at the elementary school.”
Sam swore silently. So word had already gotten around. “I’m not dating her. Maggie’s one of her students. We had a meeting after school. Maggie was hungry, so I took both of them to Buckaroo’s and then to buy Christmas trees. End of story.”
“Mm-hmm.” She gave him a knowing smile.
“Blast it, Helen, I’m not dating her. But just so you’ll know, I also crashed into her car at the school. My fault. I’m arranging to get it fixed, so if you get calls about that—”
“I’ll just take a message and pass it on,” Helen said. “Oh, it’s your turn to furnish doughnuts for the party-planning committee tonight. I’ve already ordered a batch from Stella’s. I can pick them up after lunch if you’d like.”
“Thanks. But you’d better hide them or I might be tempted to help myself early.”
At least the doughnuts from Stella’s Bakery would give him something to look forward to. Every year, before the holiday season, a citizens’ committee held several meetings to plan Branding Iron’s annual Christmas party. Not that there was much to plan. The party would be held in the high school gym, on the last Saturday before Christmas. There would be a tree and a Santa to pass out treats for the kids. People would bring their assigned dishes. They would eat at set-up tables, visit awhile, clean up the mess, and go home. It didn’t make sense that a party like that would take hours of planning. But somehow it always did. Last year he’d spent an hour listening to two women debate the color scheme of the napkins and paper plates.
He knew better than to try and get out of the meeting. As a representative of the county government, in charge of security—as if there was any need for it—being there was part of his job. At least there’d be doughnuts, and hopefully enough coffee to keep him awake.
Maybe he should have Helen order a second dozen.
After making arrangements for Grace’s car, Sam waded into his day. A follow-up on the domestic violence had turned out just as he’d expected, with Ruth dropping charges and taking her husband home. The grocery store had taken a hit on a bad check, and the hardware and feed was missing several bags of hog chow from the storage room. Last night a deputy had arrested the town drunk in a brawl at Rowdy’s Roost, the bar that was outside city limits, and therefore the county’s problem.
Sam knew—and liked—the man in question. A few years ago, Hank Miller had lost his leg in a horrific hay baler accident. The pain had started him drinking, and after a year of it, his wife had had enough. She’d taken their young son, left town, and filed for divorce with full custody. Because the ranch he’d been running belonged to his wife’s family, he’d lost that as well, and had nothing to live on but his monthly disability checks.
After so much pain and loss, how could anybody not drink? Sam asked himself as he went downstairs to the jail. He’d partied in college himself, had almost gone over the edge after blowing out his knee and his football career. It had taken Bethany to pull him back. After last year’s gut blow of losing her, only Maggie had kept him from turning to alcohol again.
He understood at least some of what Hank must be going through. But understanding wouldn’t be enough to help the man. To change his life, Hank would have to be willing to help himself.
The only prisoner in the jail was Hank, who sat slumped with his head in his hands. With the guard looking on from the checkin counter, Sam used his key to open the cell.
At the metallic scrape of the door, Hank raised his head. He was a year younger than Sam. They’d played football together in high school—Hank as second-string defensive tackle, Sam as the star defensive lineman who could block the length of the field. Hank had been a good-looking young man. But he’d taken a beating from life, and he looked it. His frame was little more than skin and bones. His prosthetic leg was thrust out at an angle to relieve the painful weight on it. His bruised, unshaven face had a haunted look, the cheeks hollow, the eyes bloodshot.
“How are you feeling, Hank?” Sam asked.
“How the hell do you think I’m feeling?” Hank growled. “I’ve got a headache that’d knock out an elephant.”
“Have you had breakfast?” The jail had no cooking facilities, but there were frozen meals in the fridge and a microwave on the counter.
Hank shook his head. “Couldn’t get the crap down. But I could use a cigarette.”
Sam nodded to the deputy on guard duty, who produced a pack from a drawer under the counter, along with a lighter. Smoking wasn’t usually allowed in the jail, but exceptions could be made.
Sam lit the cigarette and passed the lighter back to the guard. Hank inhaled, closing his eyes as the nicotine began to flow into his system.
“So, what happened last night?” Sam asked. “The bartender said you slugged a man you didn’t even know. What were you thinking?”
Hank exhaled a thin trail of smoke. “Just that I needed to hit somebody. Anybody. I got a letter from Marilyn yesterday. She’s married. Her new husband wants to adopt Travis, so she wants me to sign away my parental rights. She says the boy needs a real father—a real father. Hell, I’m his father. He’s my flesh and blood.”