Coming Home to Texas (6 page)

Chapter Six

S
heriff Mellows looked up at Ellie with a wide smile as she walked into the storefront that served as the Martins Gap Sheriff's Office. “Ellie, darlin', good to see you. You holding up okay?”

Everyone asked her that. Was she? Ellie didn't know. Nothing felt right, but parts of her still knew she'd made the right choice by breaking it off with Derek. “I think so” had become her standard reply to such questions. “I am glad to be home for a while, anyway.” She switched subjects as quickly as possible. “Gran tells me this is your last term as sheriff. Are you really going to make Martins Gap elect someone new to fill those great big shoes?”

Mellows pointed to a small black gadget blinking the number 232 in red.

“Says right there. New sheriff takes over in two hundred and thirty two days, whoever he is. Or she. I'm a forward-thinking guy.”

“You've got a countdown clock?” Ellie laughed.

“My granddaughter sent it to me from San Antonio. Nash says I've messed with it to make it run faster, but I'm amazed I got the fool thing to even turn on.”

“Is Nash around? I just came from church and I have some stuff for the after-school program from Pastor Theo.”

Don nodded toward the back door of the sheriff's office. “He's out back fiddling with that car like he does every lunch break. He may be putting poor old Clive out of a job tending to the department vehicles the way he keeps things running.” He raised an eyebrow toward her tote bag. “I don't suppose you've got some of your Gran's brownies in that there bag?”

Gran kept the sheriff's office, the volunteer fire department and half a dozen other town services in baked goods. “Afraid not,” she teased the older man. “But I have half a dozen blondie bars from Lolly's.” Lolly's was the diner down the street known for its scrumptious deserts. “Will that do?”

Don laughed and patted the paunch straining his shirt buttons. “It will, darlin'. It'll do just fine. Don't you let Nash eat 'em all before I get some.”

Ellie headed for the door that led out back. “I promise.” The screen door gave a tired squeak as she pushed it open, causing Nash to look up from where he was bent over a low, sleek, black-and-gold sports car with the hood raised. The spring sun warmed the paved parking lot, and Nash was in a white cotton T-shirt, his uniform shirt hanging out of the way on a peg beside the door. A wide stripe of something black was smeared across one lean forearm while a matching smear ran across one side of his jaw. He offered her a cheerful grin as he worked a wrench around some nut or bolt on an engine part. “Hi, there. Give me a sec to get this tight and I'll be right with you.”

She slid her bag onto the picnic table that sat in the shade cast by the office wall, noticing an open box from Shorty's Pizza on the table with a few slices gone. “Aren't you afraid you'll get engine grease on your lunch?”

He half grunted, half laughed as he struggled with the wrench. “I'm more afraid I'll get cheese on my spark plugs, actually. Ah, there.” Whatever he was fighting with slipped into place, and he straightened up, reaching for a grimy towel spread across the front fender. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I met with Theo this morning to go over the program schedule, and I thought I'd drop off a copy of the calendar he gave me.” She'd tacked Lolly's and a visit to Nash on to the end of her errands as a present to herself for surviving the pitying stares of the bank teller—a woman who used to be in her high school chemistry class and who was now pregnant with her second child—and two whispering old ladies from the pharmacy. “I see you went to Shorty's. Has anyone introduced you to Lolly's blondies yet?”

Nash grabbed a cake of soap from above the hose spigot and turned on the water. “Not yet,” he called above the noise of the water sloshing over his hands into a bucket on the pavement.

“Well, you're in for a treat. Half a dozen. Three for you, two for Don and one for me.”

He dried his hands and came over and sat down on the picnic bench. “What if I only want one?”

Ellie pulled one of the large gooey squares out of the bag and broke off a corner. “You won't. Lolly's blondies are legendary. I've had Gran send them to me in Atlanta. Gran's tried to get her recipe for years, but Lolly's no fool.” She bit into the sweet, crumbly delight. “Yum. If anyone ever tries to get out of a speeding ticket with one of these, take them up on it.” Ellie threw a glance at Nash, who lowered his eyebrows at the suggestion. “Not that I was trying, that night. I just meant what I said—you really were the only nice thing in a really crummy day.”

Ellie didn't like—or trust—the way her stomach flipped at the look Nash gave her in reply. She shifted her gaze to the car. “So that's the car, huh? Theo's right. It is a fancy thing.”

Nash nodded and picked up another slice of pizza. “If you want to know where my money and my spare time go, you're looking at her.”

“You must not have had much to move if you came out here in that. Does it even have a trunk?”

Laughing, Nash pointed at the rear of the vehicle. “It has a hatch. But, no, I wouldn't put that many miles on her. I had her shipped out. And as for belongings, yeah, I suppose you could say I travel light. My dad was navy, so we moved around a lot when I was growing up. I'm used to the shifting. LA was actually the longest I've stayed in one place.”

Ellie ate another bite of the blondie. “Wow. I've lived two whole places in my entire life. Here and Atlanta. I've never traveled abroad or anything—but I want to.” She spread her hands. “I'd love to be a citizen of the world, you know?”

After a bite of pizza, Nash said, “It's not as great as it sounds.”

“How can you say that?”

“My dad had a few posts in Asia. I was born in Japan, actually. My mom's Japanese.”

Ellie looked at him, and suddenly the thing she couldn't name about his eyes became clear; they had just a bit of an almond shape to them. His coloring was ruddy, but his face had just enough of the round features and eyes to reflect a hint of Asian influence. Instead of clashing, the combination gave him a memorable, striking—okay, handsome—face.

Nash caught her looking and ran a hand through his golden-red hair. “You can imagine what it was like to grow up near Tokyo with this hair. I felt like a circus freak until fifth grade when we moved to Annapolis. I didn't have a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich until I was eleven years old. I'm probably the only person you know whose comfort food is sushi, not mac and cheese.” He shook his head. “Martins Gap is sorely lacking in decent sushi joints, you know.”

He picked up one of the blondies and bit into it. The confection lived up to its reputation, for pleasure washed over his face, and Ellie felt a surge of satisfaction for being the one to introduce him to one of the town's best goodies. “I think I found a way to cope,” he said behind a mouthful. “These really are good.”

* * *

Ellie was looking at him. “Martins Gap can be an adjustment, but it has its advantages. You'll find a way to fit in.” She cocked her head, studying him. “You're not actually worried about that, are you?”

Nash couldn't come up with an answer that didn't make him appear either paranoid or insulting. “No, not really. Everyone's been welcoming. I like it here. And I chose to come here. It's just...”

“Not quite what you thought?” Ellie sighed. “I get that. It's not quite what I remember, either. And I haven't even been gone very long.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Funny. I thought I'd feel foreign. I do. Then in other ways I don't. I feel like I don't fit in, but I feel
from
here. I can't really explain it.” She shot him a look. “And I sure don't need to bore you with it.”

“No,” he said, surprised by how much he meant it. “I get it. You know you're different, but no one else seems to recognize it. Or they do, but not in the way you want.”

Understanding lit the blue in her eyes. “Yeah, like that.” She stood up, walked toward the car and peered under the hood. “It's a Japanese car, right? Is the manual in Japanese?”

Nash laughed. “No. And she takes good old American motor oil and gas.”

She ran one hand down the line of the car's front panel, a soft stroke of artistic appreciation. “Does it go really fast?”

Nash pulled the rag from his back pocket and polished a smear off the front headlamp. “Officially, she never breaks the speed limit.”

That pulled a smile from Ellie. “And unofficially?”

Nash couldn't suppress his own grin. “She's fast. And she corners like there's no tomorrow.”

Ellie stepped over the toolbox to lean in the open window. “Is that an eight track? Like from the '70s?”

“It's a cassette player, actually. That was before our time, right? We're babies of the CD era, you and I.”

“I'd be amazed if the kids in our program even know what a cassette tape is, much less an eight track. I mean, all they know are downloads and smartphones.” She was babbling again. Maybe she was as unnerved by the easiness that seemed to spring up without warning between them as he was.

Some rebellious part of Nash liked that she'd said “our program.” The way she'd said “you and I” a moment ago had uncurled something in his stomach that ought not be there. But she did look as though something was out of sorts—something beyond the broken engagement. “Did Theo say something? Are there concerns about the program? Or are you having second thoughts about taking such a long leave?”

“Second thoughts? Oh, about a million.” She ran her hand along the chrome door handle, then down the rear fender, appreciating the car's bold lines. Nash always enjoyed it when people liked the Z as much as he did. It wasn't an antique, but it was an exquisite classic and a possession he treasured. “It was a dumb move, I suppose,” she continued. “No one should hit the pause button on a great job like that. Only, I knew I couldn't stay. I couldn't stand everyone looking at me the way they did.” She pulled her hand from the car to hug her chest. “There was no place there for me to hide and be hurt, you know?”

“I suppose.”

She came back to the picnic table and sat down. “So why'd you bolt out of LA? I know you were shot and all, but why did you feel you had to move
so
far away?”

He made sure to keep a safe distance between them when he returned to the table, as well. “Well, for starters, I didn't bolt. The decision was a long, slow process. I had to think a long time before leaving.”

“So you did like your job back there?”

“I did. I felt like I made a difference. It's not rocket science—gangs succeed because kids want to know they belong somewhere. They don't care that it's the wrong somewhere. Everyone throws their hands up like it's hopeless, but it's not. I've seen God do some amazing things in the worst kids' lives, Ellie. Tough guys everyone else would write off as good-for-nothings turned their lives around once they realized somebody actually cared about what happened to them.”

“I could see where that would make a whole lot of difference.”

“I'd get about one kid a year truly straightened out. And that would give me fuel to work on the other dozens who didn't. You have to be stubborn in my line of work.”

Ellie put the last of her blondie in her mouth. “I guess so,” she offered after she licked her fingers. “Derek used to say confidence was a chef's best trait—to believe he was captain of the kitchen and master of the ingredients and all.” She rolled her eyes. “More like arrogance.”

“He sounds like a real piece of work.”

Ellie spread her hands as if introducing the guy on stage. “Derek Harding, Atlanta cuisine's rising star.” She dropped her hands.

“Hector.”

She looked at him. “Hector who?”

“Hector Forrio was the name of the kid who shot me.” He hadn't even told Don that.

“Do you hate him? I hate Derek. I know I'm not
supposed
to hate him, and someday I'll probably just ignore him—I don't think the whole ‘let's just be friends' thing is going to work here—but what I feel right now is pretty close to hate. I'm not proud of that, but I don't seem to be able to change it at the moment.” She picked up the empty wax-paper wrapper that had held her blondie. “Hate tends to leave a bitter aftertaste. I'm self-medicating it with Lolly's blondies. I'm an ‘eat my feelings' kind of gal.”

He thought of the biscotti from the night of the traffic stop. “So I'm seeing.” He took another bite of blondie in solidarity with Ellie. “I suppose I hated Hector for a while. When my shoulder hurts or I see the scars in the mirror, something still burns in my gut. But mostly I view him as more of a signpost. An arrow pointing out of LA, if that makes any sense. If it wasn't Hector, it would have been some other kid with some other name.” That wasn't exactly true. Hector had been a special case. Nash's extraordinary connection with the boy—the trust he thought he'd built between them—was what let the hurt run so deep. And while he didn't drown his feelings in baked goods, he'd poured hundreds of dollars and hours into the car during his recovery. “I suppose you could say I'm a ‘drive my feelings' kind of guy.”

“Hey, you do what it takes to handle the Hectors and Dereks of this world. But you could have worked on your car in LA. I still don't get the move to someplace like here.”

Nash sat back and leaned his elbows on the picnic table. “I needed somewhere far away and different. It could have been anywhere, really, but a friend knows Don's son and heard he was looking for a younger deputy to bridge the gap for consistency when the new sheriff was elected. The new sheriff can either keep me or bring in his own deputy, and I'm fine with that. The short time frame suits me fine.” He managed a small laugh in spite of the serious conversation. “It's not like I did research.”