Santa's Sweetheart (The Christmas Tree Ranch #4)(43)
Back inside, passing the phone, he thought of calling Grace, just to make sure she’d arrived home safely. Where had that notion come from? Grace would probably be asleep by now, and even if she weren’t, calling to check wouldn’t set well with her or her roommates.
Knowing that he needed to sleep, Sam took a moment to look in on Maggie, then wandered on down the hall to get ready for bed.
*
Snow was still falling the next morning, not deep on the ground, but sharp and stinging, like windblown sand. Sam made sure that Maggie was bundled into her warmest coat, with boots on her feet and mittens on her hands, before driving her to school and letting her off at the curb in front.
“Be safe, Daddy.” She kissed his cheek as she turned to go.
“I will. And you stay warm. I’ll see you after school.”
He watched her until she vanished through the double doors. There was no sign of Grace, but she would have parked in the lot out back and entered through the rear of the building.
As he drove away, headed for work, Sam found himself wishing he’d said more to her last night. Alone with her in the parking lot, he’d had the perfect opportunity. But he’d chosen to be cautious. Maybe he’d been too cautious.
At work, it was all hands on deck. He called in his two deputies to help him handle the rash of accidents on the snow-slicked roads. A pair of teenage boys had cut school and stolen a battery from a parked car. They were behind bars now, waiting for their parents to arrive. Ruth McCoy had shown up at the clinic with a broken arm, and Sam had taken a deputy with him to bring in her husband. Maybe this time Ruth would let the bastard rot in jail for a while, though he wouldn’t bet on it.
It was late afternoon before Sam got enough of a break to run the errand he’d been planning. Hank Miller was going to AA meetings and making a genuine effort to sober up. It was time for Sam to keep his end of the bargain.
He’d checked with Doris Cullimore last night to make sure the feed and hardware still needed help. But he had yet to talk with her husband, Walt, about giving Hank a job. He wasn’t due to pick up Maggie for another forty minutes. That should give him plenty of time to drive to the store, talk with Walt, and get to the school.
Braced for a hard sell, Sam climbed into the Jeep and headed for the store at the south end of Main Street, on the way out of town. As he drove, he rehearsed what he was going to say.
You know Hank’s a good man, Walt. He gets along with people, and he knows the farming business. He was doing fine before he lost his leg and his family. Now he’s trying to turn his life around, but he needs a job. You could hire him on probation. If he doesn’t work out, just show him the door. All I’m asking is that you give him a chance.
Sam pulled onto the gravel strip in front of the store and climbed out of the Jeep. Two other vehicles were parked next to his. One of them, a battered red Ford pickup, belonged to a young farm family. The other vehicle, a souped-up black Camaro with Texas plates, was unfamiliar, most likely an out-of-towner. Walt’s truck was usually here, too. But there was no sign of it. His wife had probably taken it to run an errand.
As he walked toward the front door, Sam was struck by how quiet the place appeared. And something about the presence of that black Camaro, a stranger’s car, made him nervous. Sam had learned to trust his instincts. Right now those instincts were telling him that something was off.
The ads that covered the windows, along with reflected light, kept him from looking inside the store. But if there was trouble, barging in through the front door wouldn’t be smart. There was a loading dock in the rear of the building. The overhead metal door would be closed because of the weather. But the regular door next to it was kept unlocked during business hours. Sam could go in that way and scope out the place to make sure everything was all right.
It occurred to him that his Jeep might’ve been seen by someone inside the store, looking out between the ads posted on the windows. That might explain why the place was so quiet. Someone could be waiting to see what he would do.
Pretending to leave, he got back into his vehicle and drove it a dozen yards down the road, where it couldn’t be seen from the store. Parking it again, he took a moment to radio Dispatch, letting them know where he was and what he was doing. Then he climbed out of the Jeep, closed the door quietly, and circled around to the back of the store.
Maybe he was jumping at shadows. After all, he’d been wrong before. Hopefully everything was fine. But he couldn’t be too careful. If the situation was dangerous, it was his job to take care of it.
Wearing no protective gear except for his leather uniform jacket, and armed with nothing but his service revolver, he stepped through the door into the cavernous space that served as a warehouse. It was filled with boxed tools and equipment, stacked lumber, fencing, lengths of PVC pipe, salt blocks, and piled bags of animal feed.
Sam made his way through the maze to the wall that separated the storage from the sales area. The door stood ajar. He slipped through and crouched behind a rack of power tools. From there he could see all the way to the counter in front. As he took in the situation, his heart slammed. His muscles tensed. His hand tightened on the grip of his gun.
A pale and shaking Walt Cullimore stood behind the old-fashioned cash register, stuffing bills into an orange plastic grocery bag.
A single gunman stood at the counter. Young, with bleached, punk-style hair and a slightly crazed look, he was pointing his heavy semiautomatic pistol toward something on the floor. The displays blocked Sam’s line of vision, but he remembered the red farm truck outside and the young family struggling to make a living off their land.