Emilie Rose - A Better Man

He was looking forward to seeing the guys and catching up—if they still lived here. The letters between him, Joe and Billy had been sporadic, first because none of them had been the letter-writing type, and second, because Roth’s unit had often been deployed to places where mail delivery wasn’t high on the list of survival needs. By the time he’d settled in Charlotte the correspondence had ceased altogether. Maybe the guys had finally escaped. Twelve years ago that’s all any of them had wanted.

Any of them, except Piper Hamilton.

A hint of regret weighted his shoulders. Piper’s roots had run deep in the community, and she’d never planned to leave. He raked a palm over his freshly trimmed hair and tried to push away the memories, but he couldn’t force the image of her trusting blue eyes and long, sunlit hair from his head. He’d loved her. More than he’d ever loved anyone. And he’d hurt her. Deliberately. Not with his fists—his father’s modus operandi—but with his actions, his words.

They’d been little more than kids, too young to take on the commitment they’d been racing toward. The split couldn’t have been anything but good for them. But it hadn’t been easy. And he’d handled it badly. It had worked out for him. The Marines had given him his first taste of freedom from living in his father’s dark shadow and success and a career he loved. Had it worked out as well for Piper? Had she married and raised a family the way she’d wanted?

He had a few ghosts to lay to rest and apologizing to Piper was at the top of the list.

In a town this size, he’d bump into her sooner or later, but he preferred to set his own timetable instead of waiting. He’d make it happen. The sooner the better.

A knock on the door preceded Doyle, the apartment manager. “Suit ya?”

“It’ll do.”

“Sure you want to pay month to month? Save ya fifty bucks a month if you sign a year’s lease.”

Roth had no intention of being here that long. “Month to month is fine.”

“Alrighty then. Y’all have a good day.” Doyle waddled down the cracked sidewalk toward his office.

Roth stepped outside. His furniture wasn’t going to unload itself. He headed toward his truck, aware as his boots pounded the concrete of the watchful eyes and shadows shifting at windows. But no doors opened, and no one came out to say hello or offer assistance as he rolled up the trailer’s door and lowered the ramp.

He’d expected more of a welcome, for curiosity’s sake if nothing else. After all, it wasn’t every day one of the town’s delinquents returned to head up the local law enforcement team.

He scanned the empty streets. An invisible noose tightened around his neck and claustrophobia closed in, slowly crushing out a lungful of the smog-free air.

Temporary.

Folks in a tight-knit community liked to stick their noses in your business, often acting as judge and jury, their opinions shaped by hearsay rather than fact. They usually helped out when you needed ’em—if for no other reason than to root for tidbits to tattle.

But apparently not today.

He checked to make sure his leather jacket concealed his weapon. The pistol could be scaring off people. He wouldn’t officially pick up his badge until Monday morning, but surely the citizens expected the new chief of police to carry a weapon in or out of uniform?

The temperature was mild for the end of March, but he’d work up a sweat. Regardless, he’d keep on the jacket. He unstrapped the hand truck and muscled his gun safe onto the two-wheeled unit. Getting the hazards out of the way and securing them was his first order of business. He manhandled the heavy piece up the walk. After he situated the steel box in the spare bedroom closet, he returned to the trailer and lugged boxes inside, stacking them in the rooms labeled on each box.

A couple of teenagers whizzed past on skateboards, staring hard but not slowing. Ditto the beige station wagon, navy sedan and silver pickup with a dented rear quarter panel and low rear tire.

Hell, he was starting to think folks didn’t want him here. You’d think they’d be pleased that he’d finally gotten his act together.

An hour later he had emptied the truck bed and had everything out of the trailer except the sofa, dresser and his king-size mattress, and still no one had offered assistance. That wasn’t like the town he remembered. Screw it. He’d hit the hardware store, buy better locks and try to round up a strong back to help him finish the job.

He locked up, hoofed it across the asphalt and turned down Main Street. This morning when he’d driven in he’d been surprised to find that little had changed in the past twelve years. There were a few more shops—he’d investigate another day.

He pushed open the door and automatically noted two customers, white males, sixties, and Hal Smith behind the cash register in what looked like the same blue apron he’d always worn. The store owner, with his wispy white hair in a bad comb-over that couldn’t hide his pale, spotted scalp, had to be eighty by now.

“Mr. Smith, good to see you again.”

The owner sized him up. Roth offered his hand and the man hesitated before returning the gesture. The shake was brief. “Sterling. Heard you was coming back. What can I do for you?”

The cool tone was hard to miss. Damn strange, considering Quincey needed a chief, and Roth was, if anything, overqualified, and he’d taken one hell of a pay cut for this job. What was the problem? “I need window and door locks.”

“Doyle’s apartment not secure enough for you?”

“No, sir. A credit card would jimmy anyone in.”

“Locks are on aisle three.” But Hal didn’t move to help. Maybe age had slowed him down.

“I also need help unloading a few bulky items. Know anyone interested in earning a few bucks?”

Smith glanced toward the other customers then at Roth. “Can’t say as I do.”

Roth nodded his thanks and turned for aisle three. Guess it would take a while for folks to figure out he wasn’t a hell-raising kid anymore. He wouldn’t be in town longer than absolutely necessary, but he’d be here long enough to show this apple had fallen far from his daddy’s rotten tree. He wasn’t white trash anymore.

* * *

ROTH STERLING WAS BACK.

Piper Hamilton fought a rising tide of panic as she reversed out of her parking space as fast as she dared. Her fingers cramped on the steering wheel and her palms grew slick.

She’d heard the first whisper of impending doom when Mrs. Peabody had brought her geriatric cat into the veterinary clinic after lunch. Then it seemed each successive client had made a point of sharing the latest Roth sighting with Piper.

Roth had bought locks at the hardware store. Roth had hired a couple of high school kids to help him unload furniture. Roth had visited the market, but he hadn’t driven his big black pickup over to the old home place yet….

Roth this. Roth that. As if she wanted a play-by-play on the man she used to love—the one who’d dumped her and left her pregnant.

Most of the afternoon’s clients had also made sure Piper knew they wouldn’t welcome the man who’d usurped her father as chief with the community’s usual open arms and Southern charm. While she appreciated their loyalty, their animosity only added to her worries. If the town gathered their figurative wagons around her, Roth might think she had something to hide. And she did.

The only stoplight turned red as she approached the intersection at Main Street even though there wasn’t any oncoming traffic. She muttered a curse and braked hard. It had been one of those days when nothing went right.

She checked her mother’s real estate office parking lot. Empty. Hopefully Mom was at home guarding the fort and the treasure.