Chapter Fifteen
Chapter One
“To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heavens.”
Raised in the pews of a sweet country church, New York State Trooper Zach Harrison embraced the poetic lines of Ecclesiastes one hundred percent.
But it couldn’t and shouldn’t apply to constantly crowing roosters.
He refused to look at the dashboard temperature readout as he climbed out of his car. The trickle of sweat along his neck proved the meteorologists correct. Low nineties by noon, even here in the hills of Western New York.
He shut the driver’s door and ignored the initial blast of mid-July heat. The best thing about working nights to help cover summer vacations was the cooler temperatures. The worst? Trying to sleep in the middle of the day in a new house, with his father pacing in the next room, the sun beating on the roof, no central air and the neighbor’s rooster crowing on the quarter hour.
He couldn’t change anything too major about the house. Not yet, anyway. The down payment, closing costs and lumber to replace the rotting backyard deck put a serious dent in his savings.
Three weeks ago his summer had stretched before him, filled with work on the force and his new home. One phone call had changed all that.
“Are you a real policeman?”
Zach turned, surprised, and a small part of his heart went soft in the space of a beat.
Two identical girls peered up at him from behind an aged catalpa tree. The twins were petite perfection, mirror images of each other. Pink and purple pigtail ribbons danced in the July wind, a breeze that did nothing to soften the hot, humid conditions. “Yes.” He stooped low, knowing his size could intimidate, captivated by this unexpected pair of miniature greeters at the nearby farm. “I’m Trooper Zach.”
“I’m Dorrie.” The first girl beamed him a smile, open and broad, tiny white teeth a contrast to her latte skin beneath the purple pigtail ties. “And this is my sister, Sonya. We’re five.”
“Nice to meet you.” Zach put out his hand and fought a wince as a rooster crowed again, the loud reason behind his late-morning call on his new neighbor. New chicken dishes filled his brain. Maybe something deep-fried for the bird that aggravated his father and interrupted Zach’s midday attempts to sleep.
“Are you getting ice cream?” Dorrie wondered. She pointed to the line at the window of a converted barn. “Aunt Piper has the best ice cream anywhere.”
“Grandma helps,” interjected Sonya, obviously determined to give credit where due. She looked like her more assertive sister, but one finger twirled the pink ribbon tied around her left pigtail, the anxious action speaking louder than words.
“But not Uncle Chas,” Dorrie added, determined to keep the record straight. “He hates this place. So does our mom. Uncle Colin, too.”
“Doralia! Sonya! Where are you?”
Zach straightened, remembering his task, and it wasn’t to fall in love with two kids who would cause their father plenty of worry once they turned into teenagers. “They’re here.”
A robust woman of similar coloring strode his way. She nodded thanks to him, then gave the girls an earful in a mix of English and Spanish with a hint of what might have been Native American thrown in for good measure. The girls dropped their chins, pretending penitence, but Zach knew they’d disappear again in an instant, given the chance.
That was the one thing he’d loved about being raised on a farm in Central New York. Freedom, once his work was done. Time to roam. Study nature. Hunt white-tailed deer come fall. Find birds of all sorts, tucked into nature’s God-given homes. But it was the only thing he’d liked. The endless hours of farm work, day after day, dawn to dusk, confronting the weather, market prices and wind-borne disease?
Not so much. He liked his steady law enforcement paycheck, a promised pension, clear expectations and visible rewards. Bad guys got put away. Good guys stayed safe. It was a tangible world with measurable results, which suited him.
The girls hustled into the country-themed barn. Zach followed. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the change in lighting, but when they did, he was surprised.
The other buildings showed wear and tear no doubt caused by lack of money or time. Probably both. The Southern Tier of Western New York had fallen on hard times over a generation ago. Businesses closed, factories shut down, employment dropped to all-time lows.
But this barn glistened. Bright white coolers were located to his right, their glass doors immaculate despite the throng of people and busy hands. Inside the coolers, glass bottles formed military-straight lines. He moved closer, intrigued. Intrigue gave way to surprise as he read the labels. Whole milk...2 percent milk...skimmed milk...eggnog...
Eggnog? In midsummer? Either these folks lived by a different calendar or they were way ahead of the game prepping for Christmas.
The rooster crowed again, the pitch and length of his practiced voice taunting Zach. Clearly the bird didn’t realize Zach packed heat in the form of a lightweight Glock.
The twins buzzed past him, back toward the door, dragging a small brown-and-white goat between them. The creature needed a haircut, which reminded Zach he could use one himself. But the sight of them bound for fun touched a wistfulness inside him. Their presence instilled a warmth he didn’t know existed five minutes ago.
“May I help you?”
He turned.
His heart melted. It was an absurd reaction because he’d met a lot of pretty girls in his life, but the one watching him now with more than a hint of question and a bite of sass in her gaze, could have been cast in a country music video. Her trim T-shirt read Yes, I’m the Farmer. How Can I Help You? A faded Kirkwood Lake Central School ball cap was pulled down properly on her forehead, while a long reddish-brown ponytail swung from the hat’s opening. Thin jeans, faded and worn, said she wasn’t afraid to work for a living, and farm boots gave testament to the shirt’s claim. A pair of work gloves poked haphazardly from her right hip pocket. Right-handed, then, most likely.
“Zach Harrison. I live...”
“Piper McKinney.” She stuck out her hand, then paused and withdrew it. “Oops, forgot. Cops don’t like to shake hands. My bad.”
She was right, but how did she know that? Some cops were fanatic about not shaking hands for various reasons. Zach wasn’t one of them. He’d been on the force for eleven years and he’d defused many situations with a simple handshake. In this case? Shaking this particular hand couldn’t be called a hardship.
He extended his hand. She waited two
