markets. Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, Memphis. Hell, try Jackson even. Murfreesboro. Johnson City.”
“I’ll be dead before I finish all that.”
“Keep notes and I’ll pick up where you leave off.”
“Then we’ll both be dead.”
Sam told him she’d leave her progress on his desk and signed off. Stared at the computer screen but made no move to keep searching. Something in Holt’s voice made her uneasy. She had seen him leaving on that bartender’s bike the night before. Didn’t like the idea of him hanging around her. Talk about messy. That woman always looked like she didn’t own a comb
or
a brush. Holt deserved better. Not to mention poor motherless Miranda. Sam didn’t like to think of herself as a snob, but that child deserved more than a bartender for a momma.
She sighed. Well, hell. None of her beeswax. Won’t last anyway. Holt’s got a head on his shoulders. That romance was bound to go sour. Just don’t ask her to clean up when it did.
Soon as he was done talking with Sam, Holt heard from Andy Burkett down at Myer’s. Nothing wrong with the brakes on Runkle’s car. No one had tampered with the transmission, the fuel line, or the steering mechanism. Mechanically, the car was in great shape.
Unfortunately.
Holt had been hoping for an easy explanation, and now he was left to fall back on natural causes—a heart attack or a stroke. But Doc Ferguson was taking his time.
A shower, clothes, breakfast. Miranda was glued to the TV, but she made sure he remembered his promise to take her to the park. By that time the old rhythms had reestablished themselves, and he was no longer sure he’d gone to a concert last night let alone been enchanted by the music and the woman who’d conjured the spell. But the morning was bright and if the sky seemed bluer or the babies in the park more endearing it was only the final trick left over from the night before.
When he and Miranda arrived, a girls’ soccer game was in full swing in one corner of the park. Holt followed Miranda to the sidelines, where she watched intently. Next year, she’d be old enough to join the league. He tried to imagine his blond baby out there kicking the ball.
“Hey, Holt.” Bunny Carter smiled at him. A divorcée, she had pride of place on his mother’s list of suitables. Bunny dressed well, kept in shape, worked at the plant, and had the requisite fluff of light hair. Plus she had two kids, a girl and a boy. The girl was a couple of years older than Miranda, and was out there on the field, legs pumping. “Getting Miranda ready for next year?”
He returned her smile. Despite what he knew about the town’s machinations regarding his marital status, and the fact that a smile would be telegraphed and interpreted and discussed over tea and whatever Redbud’s constantly dieting female population ate with it, he couldn’t help himself. In fact, he seemed to be smiling an awful lot this morning. “I don’t know. She seems interested. We’ll see.”
Bunny eased closer, lowered her voice. “Terrible about Mr. Runkle. Figured out what happened?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it true you found another black angel?”
He suppressed an impulse to glare. She was ruining his buzz. “It’s true.”
Either he didn’t do a good job of keeping his feelings off his face or she was unusually intuitive. She stepped back. Smiled. “You should bring Miranda over. Brittney would love to give her a few pointers.”
Uh huh. Not to mention Brittney’s mom.
“Thanks,” he said, friendly enough. “Maybe we will.”
“How about this afternoon?” Man, she went for the kill.
“I’ll see how the day goes.” He tugged Miranda away, and Bunny waved.
He bolted to the swings.
“Too fast!” Miranda said.
Instead of slowing down, he hoisted her to his shoulders. “There’s a swing opening up. Better grab it before someone else does.”
He helped her climb on, then pushed. As always, he began slow, and as always, she urged him
“I’ll be dead before I finish all that.”
“Keep notes and I’ll pick up where you leave off.”
“Then we’ll both be dead.”
Sam told him she’d leave her progress on his desk and signed off. Stared at the computer screen but made no move to keep searching. Something in Holt’s voice made her uneasy. She had seen him leaving on that bartender’s bike the night before. Didn’t like the idea of him hanging around her. Talk about messy. That woman always looked like she didn’t own a comb
or
a brush. Holt deserved better. Not to mention poor motherless Miranda. Sam didn’t like to think of herself as a snob, but that child deserved more than a bartender for a momma.
She sighed. Well, hell. None of her beeswax. Won’t last anyway. Holt’s got a head on his shoulders. That romance was bound to go sour. Just don’t ask her to clean up when it did.
Soon as he was done talking with Sam, Holt heard from Andy Burkett down at Myer’s. Nothing wrong with the brakes on Runkle’s car. No one had tampered with the transmission, the fuel line, or the steering mechanism. Mechanically, the car was in great shape.
Unfortunately.
Holt had been hoping for an easy explanation, and now he was left to fall back on natural causes—a heart attack or a stroke. But Doc Ferguson was taking his time.
A shower, clothes, breakfast. Miranda was glued to the TV, but she made sure he remembered his promise to take her to the park. By that time the old rhythms had reestablished themselves, and he was no longer sure he’d gone to a concert last night let alone been enchanted by the music and the woman who’d conjured the spell. But the morning was bright and if the sky seemed bluer or the babies in the park more endearing it was only the final trick left over from the night before.
When he and Miranda arrived, a girls’ soccer game was in full swing in one corner of the park. Holt followed Miranda to the sidelines, where she watched intently. Next year, she’d be old enough to join the league. He tried to imagine his blond baby out there kicking the ball.
“Hey, Holt.” Bunny Carter smiled at him. A divorcée, she had pride of place on his mother’s list of suitables. Bunny dressed well, kept in shape, worked at the plant, and had the requisite fluff of light hair. Plus she had two kids, a girl and a boy. The girl was a couple of years older than Miranda, and was out there on the field, legs pumping. “Getting Miranda ready for next year?”
He returned her smile. Despite what he knew about the town’s machinations regarding his marital status, and the fact that a smile would be telegraphed and interpreted and discussed over tea and whatever Redbud’s constantly dieting female population ate with it, he couldn’t help himself. In fact, he seemed to be smiling an awful lot this morning. “I don’t know. She seems interested. We’ll see.”
Bunny eased closer, lowered her voice. “Terrible about Mr. Runkle. Figured out what happened?”
“Not yet.”
“Is it true you found another black angel?”
He suppressed an impulse to glare. She was ruining his buzz. “It’s true.”
Either he didn’t do a good job of keeping his feelings off his face or she was unusually intuitive. She stepped back. Smiled. “You should bring Miranda over. Brittney would love to give her a few pointers.”
Uh huh. Not to mention Brittney’s mom.
“Thanks,” he said, friendly enough. “Maybe we will.”
“How about this afternoon?” Man, she went for the kill.
“I’ll see how the day goes.” He tugged Miranda away, and Bunny waved.
He bolted to the swings.
“Too fast!” Miranda said.
Instead of slowing down, he hoisted her to his shoulders. “There’s a swing opening up. Better grab it before someone else does.”
He helped her climb on, then pushed. As always, he began slow, and as always, she urged him
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