Still Waters. Shirlee McCoyЧитать онлайн книгу.
blinked trying to follow the turn in conversation.
“Left or right onto Monroe?”
“Oh, sorry. Left. I live near the old Sheffield place.”
“I know where that is. Shouldn’t take more than a minute to get there.”
It took three. Tiffany watched the dashboard clock and counted every one, wishing away the gnawing hunger in her stomach. A pulse beat of pain worked its way behind her eye and she rubbed her forehead wishing the ache away. While she was at it she wished away the morning’s disappointments, too.
Tiffany had prayed for years that God would bring her a life partner who shared her faith, understood her human frailties, saw her for who she was and loved her anyway. She’d believed, really believed, that God would bring that person into her life and that when He did, there would be no doubt in her mind that he was the one God intended her to spend her life with.
That wasn’t how it happened. Oh, she figured Brian was The One. He met all the requirements she’d listed in her diary—he loved God, was faithful to His call, was smart, cared about others. The only question was, how much did he care about her?
The fact that Brian had not waited or worried when she failed to return to the diner said a lot to Tiffany. And none of it good. Though too practical to list it, Tiffany had always hoped that Mr. Right would be the knight-in-shining-armor type. The kind of man quick to step in when she needed a hand. Instead, it seemed Brian had more important things to do with his time.
Forcing her mind to stop such rambling thoughts, Tiffany tried to focus on the positive. Brian might not always run to her aid but that was because he knew Tiffany to be a competent self-reliant woman. He trusted her to take care of herself and that was a good thing. Right?
Later, when he called, Tiffany would explain to Brian how disappointed she had been to find him gone. He’d apologize and explain how important the men’s prayer breakfast was to him. Tiffany had accepted months ago that Brian had high standards and rigid priorities. Though he loved her, Tiffany would never be first on Brian’s to-do list. And that was okay.
Fantasies were fine as long as a person was willing to put them aside and face reality. And, in Tiffany’s case, reality was a silent ride home with a stranger and a big black dog.
Stealing a glance at the grim-faced man beside her, Tiffany sighed. Reality was lonely.
Chapter Three
The forecast of record-breaking temperatures proved accurate and by late afternoon the thermometer had crept up to ninety-eight degrees. Tiffany wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and eyed the picket fence that bordered her property. All but five of the pickets gleamed white. The others, scraped down to bare wood, wouldn’t take long to finish. With any luck she’d have them painted before heat exhaustion set in.
“Good thing I saved this side of the yard for last. Just think how hot I’d be standing under the sun, huh, dog?”
The big dog lifted his head and thumped his tail in response before returning to the state of semisleep he’d been in since Jake had lifted him from the pickup truck several hours before.
Tiffany dipped her brush into the almost empty paint can she held and smoothed a coat of paint onto a bare wooden plank. The glide of paint against board, the warmth of the sun and the muted sounds of boats on water helped put the morning’s fiasco into perspective. Good from bad, strength from weakness, blessings from curses—God made all things work for the good.
Tiffany may have been pulled from a lake, abandoned at the diner, and driven home by a taciturn sheriff, but at least she wasn’t spending Saturday afternoon alone. Smiling, she glanced over at her companion. He’d made himself at home in the shade of a maple tree and hadn’t budged, except to steal half of Tiffany’s turkey sandwich.
Everything about the dog said “mutt.” He had the shape and size of a Saint Bernard, the black coat of a Lab—if one didn’t count the white paw and ear—and a shepherd’s muzzle. Not a handsome dog by any standard, but the winsome expression in his brown eyes made him an adorable one. And, he was company.
“Almost done here, big guy. Then maybe we’ll go inside and take your picture so I can make some posters. Someone must be missing you by now. We can take a run to the store and the diner later, put up the posters and by this time tomorrow, you’ll be home.”
The dog opened his eyes at the sound of Tiffany’s voice and woofed quietly in response before rising to his feet and lumbering over. Tiffany patted his head and dipped brush into paint once again.
“Miss Anderson?”
With a startled cry, Tiffany whirled toward the voice. Splatters and speckles of paint flew from her full brush, landing on the grass, the dog and the front of Jake Reed’s shirt.
The dog ran for cover. Jake stood his ground.
“Sheriff Reed! You startled me.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
Jake’s gaze met Tiffany’s and then dropped to his shirt where several fat, white globs of paint were beginning to run.
“I’m so sorry! Let me—”
“Not a problem. This is an old shirt anyway.”
Before Tiffany could make use of the paint rag she’d been carrying in her pocket, Jake stepped to the side and gestured at a man and teenage boy. “Sorry to intrude on your afternoon but Mr. Bishop asked me to bring him by.”
Hat in hand, thinning hair brushed to one side of his head, the man stepped forward. He looked familiar, blunt featured and hardened from years in the elements. Though they’d never been introduced, Tiffany recognized him as a farmer who lived several miles outside of town.
He spoke with a voice that sounded as dry and tough as the dirt he toiled over. “Miz Anderson, I’m James Bishop. My son Tom has something he needs to say to you.” Stepping to the side he gestured to the teenager and watched as his son moved forward, eyes downcast. The boy mumbled something that Tiffany couldn’t make out.
“You got cotton in your mouth, boy? Speak up. I ain’t got all day and neither does Miz Anderson. Now say your piece. And say it so we can understand.”
The young man’s face colored, and Tiffany’s heart went out to him. She tried to send a reassuring smile his way, but his downcast eyes prevented him from seeing it. When he spoke, his chin wobbled a bit, and Tiffany worried he’d break into tears and embarrass himself.
“I was one of the guys in the boat this morning. Sheriff Reed said you almost drowned saving the dog. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, well—”
“Tell her the rest.” James Bishop grunted out the words, then turned abruptly. Tiffany watched as Jake placed a hand on Bishop’s, a shoulder that seemed weighted with fatigue and heartache. Despite his harsh words, Bishop was hurting for his son.
“He’s my dog.”
“Excuse me?” She’d been so intent on the drama of James and Jake, Tiffany had forgotten Tom.
“The dog. He’s mine. I let those guys throw him in the water. I didn’t know he couldn’t swim. It was just a gag. You know, for fun.”
The words rushed out. Eyes that had been staring at the ground now looked into Tiffany’s. She’d expected hardness, rebellion, arrogance, but didn’t find them. Instead, Tiffany saw sadness and uncertainty; a longing for understanding and acceptance, without any expectation of receiving it.
She refused to add to the young man’s pain. “What’s the dog’s name?”
Surprise flickered in Tom’s eyes before he dropped his gaze to the ground. “His name is Bandit. He’s just a puppy. Not even a year old.”
“Bandit is a good name.”
“Yeah, it is. It may not