Betting on Hope by Debra Clopton

doctor had others to call, and not all the calls were good ones. Tru stood still for a moment and studied the horses in the far pasture. And he wondered . . . what kind of call would he get back after he’d done the test?

8
    It was getting late as Maggie drove into Wishing Springs. This had been a long day of finishing up last details in Houston, then packing her car for the trip to town in the early afternoon. She hoped the quaint old town had a grocery store that stayed open past six.
    She stopped at the intersection with Main Street, but wasn’t sure which way to turn. Pressing the gas, she studied the shops as she drove through town. The main area had an array of businesses flanking the street. It looked like many small towns in Texas with a hair salon, a pharmacy, and a diner. She turned onto a side street and saw a law office and beside it, Burke Brothers Realty. And bingo, a little farther down, she spied the grocery store with several cars parked in the paved lot.
    “Yes,” she sang to her empty seats. “It’s still open.”
    She hurried inside and grabbed a buggy. For now, all she needed were a few basics. She was heading toward the fruit section when she spied a thin man, who looked to be in his late fifties, weaving down aisle two.
    The man carried a small grocery basket on his arm and was definitely weaving back and forth with unsteady steps. As she watched he stopped, bent forward, and stared at something on the middle shelf. He swayed forward, then tilted back. His hat, a jaunty little tweed number, sat crooked on his head. He tried to straighten it and instead hit it too hard, knocking it off. When he leaned down to pick it up, he stumbled and hit his head on the stack of canned goods.
    On impulse, Maggie headed that way. What was she doing? A glance around had shown no one had a view of the man but her—clearly he was in no shape to shop. How had he gotten to the store? How was he leaving? One thing was certain, if he was driving, she didn’t plan on letting him get behind the wheel. How she intended to stop him, she didn’t know. But she would.
    “Let me help you.” She crouched down to grab the cans that were rolling and strewn across the aisle.
    The man looked at her with bloodshot eyes, hazel eyes so pale that they almost appeared colorless with all the red obscuring them.
    “Th’k you, madam,” he slurred and he went to tip his hat, then realized it wasn’t on his head.
    She picked it up and handed it to him. He thanked her again, gave a crooked smile, and carefully, oh, so carefully, placed it on his head once more.
    “Mr. Radcliff.” A young man came around the corner. He wore a red shirt with the store logo on it and grimaced when he saw the mess.
    “He bumped the canned goods,” she explained, placing two more cans on the shelves.
    He sighed and shook his head. “Thanks. I’ll get this.”
    She stood. It really wasn’t her place. The drunk man gave that smile again and she didn’t know whether to pity him or be angry. She was both. After all people like this were dangers to society. It didn’t matter that he looked as harmless as a kitten. If he got behind the wheel, he was as deadly as they came.
    “Do, do you have a ride home, Mr. Radcliff?”
    “He’ll be fine,” the teen told her. “He lives two streets down, and always walks to the store. My boss called the sheriff’s office soon as he arrived, though. One of them will come and give him a ride home.”
    “Oh. That’s good.”
    “He’s not always like this.” The kid’s expression twisted in apology.
    Maggie was still wondering about that when an officer walked through the grocery store’s automatic doors and headed toward them.
    “Rand, come on. You’ve got to stop doing this,” he said, taking the grocery basket from the man’s arm. “Let’s get you home,” he said, and escorted the drunk from the store.
    Maggie watched the man go; a sad feeling enveloped her. This incident was far too close to the