the door, Garrett faced the courthouse again. He didnât relish the idea of setting foot inside a police station. There were cells inside where men were locked away. Just the thought made his skin crawl. If he had a lick of sense, heâd go home and finish his corral.
Except he couldnât. He needed answers, and Sheriff Scott had them. Facing his fears, he walked up the steps.
Inside the building, he found the door marked with the sheriffâs seal. He stepped into the room and saw a plump woman in her midfifties behind the counter.
Two deputies were seated at desks behind her. Garrett recognized Fred Lindholm, and his hands balled into fists.
The last time Garrettâs mother had called for help, Lindholm had been the one to respond. His help amounted to telling Garrettâs father to sober up and take it easy on his old lady. Less than a week later, Garrettâs mother left for good.
Maybe if Lindholm had done his job and arrested Garrettâs father, things might have turned out differently. The coil of anger and fear inside Garrett wound tighter, but he knew better than to let it loose.
At the desk next to Lindholm sat a younger man with short red hair and wide serious eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His name tag said Ken Holt. Garrett didnât know him, but if he was anything like Lindholm, heâd be a good man to avoid.
âMay I help you?â the woman asked.
Garrett shifted his attention back to the receptionist. âIâd like to talk to Sheriff Scott.â
âShe isnât in right now. Can I take a message?â The woman smiled, but it didnât reach her eyes. She lifted a large pink leather purse to her desktop and began searching for something.
âWhen do you expect her back?â Garrett asked.
She pulled a stick of gum from her purse, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. âThatâs hard to say.â
Behind him, he heard the door open and a cool voice he recognized said, âMr. Bowen, what are you doing here?â
He turned around to see Mandy framed in the doorway. Once again he was surprised by how pretty she was. The very air around her seemed charged with rare energy. The nameless fear that squeezed Garrettâs throat eased.
He breathed in the scent of her freshly starched shirt. Beneath the smell of ironed cotton, he caught a subtle sweetness. Honeysuckle?
A tenacious vine with delicate flowers and a heady perfume that belied its tough nature. The description certainly fit the good sheriff.
Why did he find her so attractive? The answer eluded him.
He pushed the thought aside and got back to the reason he was here. âWhy didnât you tell me about Judyâs baby?â
Mandy walked past him and entered a nearby office. He followed her, determined to get a response.
A cluttered, heavy wooden desk occupied the center of the room. On the walls hung certificates and wanted posters and a large framed picture of a man in a police uniform with Mandyâs slender build and square chin.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she stood in front of her desk and regarded Garrett with a steady stare. He had the feeling she was stalling for time, searching for a way to respond.
âWhere did you hear that she had a child?â Her tone was cold enough to frost the windows.
âToday when I called the minister she worked for to see about funeral arrangements, he asked about her son. Why didnât you mention she had a kid?â
Mandy shrugged. âI didnât think it was any of your business. You never mentioned she had a child.â
âI didnât know.â He kept the bitterness out of his voice with difficulty. Judy had always said she didnât want kids. Maybe she just hadnât wanted his kids.
The pain of that thought made him flinch. âIs he my son?â
Mandyâs face softened for an instant, but the look was gone so quickly he wondered if he had imagined it. She shrugged. âI
Janwillem van de Wetering