was getting more difficult by the minute. “Pick a reason. There are several that would do.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was never in your league.” To her dismay that earned her another one of those vacant looks. She pointed to herself with her thumb, “Devan Shaw, small-town girl.” Then she pointed to him. “Mead Alcott Regan II.” When he failed to indicate he understood the nuances of social status, she drawled, “Your mother will be happy to explain it to you.”
Promising herself that this time when she walked away, she would keep going, Devan almost slammed into a police officer.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
The freckled, flustered young cop was as breathless as she’d been from running. Devan had seen him before in his patrol car but couldn’t remember if his name was Billy or Bobby something. The town was growing and the police force with it. He had to be three to five years younger than her thirty.
“I’m fine, Officer—” she glanced at his nameplate “—Denny. Sorry for the false alarm.”
“The lady back at your house, Mrs. Anderson, said your little girl escaped an attempted kidnapping?”
Devan’s heart plummeted and quickly worked to keep this from mushrooming. “My mother-in-law, Blakeley’s grandmother. It’s all a misunderstanding, as you can see. This is Mead Regan.” She gestured behind her. “Son of Mrs. Pamela Regan.”
As expected, the name had considerable effect on the newcomer. The red-faced officer glanced beyond her. “Uh—sir? You okay?”
“Yeah,” Mead replied.
When he offered nothing else, Office Denny shifted his attention back to her. “So what happened?”
“My daughter disobeyed me by leaving the yard while I was preparing dinner, and I panicked.”
Officer Denny studied her for a long moment. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m certain.”
Denny refocused on Mead. “Why are you here?”
“I was walking.”
“Maybe you should go home, sir.” The cop glanced down at Mead’s wet shoes and jeans. “Do you need me to call for someone to help—uh, escort you?”
Devan winced and wrapped her arms around her waist. At another time, Mead would have turned the guy into a stuttering fool with a mere look…or sent him off laughing, depending what mood he was in. Now all she heard behind her was the sound of footsteps, splashing water and more footsteps. It was all she could do not to go after him and apologize for her part in causing him this humiliation.
“Mrs. Anderson?”
Accepting she had to play out what she’d started, Devan nodded and led the way back to her house. To her chagrin, at the alley, Officer Denny bent to pick up the Barbie doll Blakeley had dropped. Devan accepted it with shaking hands; she hadn’t seen it when charging into the woods. It was the one Blakeley had received for Christmas.
Clearing her throat, she asked, “What happens now? You won’t press charges, will you?”
“It’s not up to me, but as you said, it was a misunderstanding.”
“Your report, though…these things get out onto the radio and into the newspaper.” As she regained her composure, she was thinking of the repercussions that could occur from this—for him as well as her.
“Nothing happened to where names need be used, ma’am.”
Devan could see he was thinking, too, concerned about Pamela Regan’s attorney breathing down the neck of the department for declaring her military hero son a public nuisance.
“Thank you for your timely response and sensitivity, Officer.”
“You take care, ma’am. Keep your little girl in sight.”
Devan all but gritted her teeth. “I will.”
Officer Denny motioned to another cop in the kitchen doorway. Belatedly, Devan recognized petite Sarah White with her spontaneous smile. Sarah’s reputation with kids prompted her to wave, albeit wearily. As the two cops left, Blakeley came running and Devan scooped up the only child she expected to ever have to hug her close.
“I’m sorry, Mommy. “
“I know. It’s over.”
“The man was scary.”
It was hard not to defend him. “He’s been sick, sweetheart.”
“Like flu sick or worst?”
“Worse. And I can’t answer that question because Mommy isn’t a doctor. In any case, you’re the one who needs to do some explaining, young lady. What were you doing going out of the yard without telling me?”
“I heard a kitty.”
This wasn’t a reassuring answer whether it was the truth or not. “Blakeley, you’re allergic to cats. If anything, you should run in the opposite direction of a mewing kitten.”
“But she was an orphan and in trouble.”
Although “orphan” was a new word in her daughter’s vocabulary, and “trouble” sounded adorable as “twubble,” Devan studied her for a third reason, wondering if Blakeley had inherited another undesirable gene of hers. The one that could shift one’s fantasy world and imagination into overdrive, and fabricate stories way too well? Terrific if you were a writer. Potentially problematic when you were trying to teach your preschooler to always tell you the truth.
“We are going to talk. In the meantime, you don’t do anything like this again, understood?”
Blakeley hugged her tighter and added a kiss on her cheek. “I love you.”
Devan’s heart swelled. “I love you, too, but you’re still going to bed tonight without TV.”
The child dropped her head limply onto her shoulder. “I figgered as much.”
Pressing her lips together so as not to smile, Devan replied, “Can you figger it’s past time to wash up? Dinner will be ready in a minute…what hasn’t turned into bedrock.”
“What’s bedrock?”
Setting her on her feet, Devan pointed her toward the house. “Get going before I haul you into court and change your name to Jabberwocky.”
Giggling, Blakeley ran inside and straight to the bathroom.
Devan followed, shutting and locking the back door, preparing herself for Connie. She adored her late husband’s mother and was glad she’d arrived in the nick of time to help, but Mead Regan was the last person she wanted to discuss with her.
“What
