Janice Johnson - Jack Murray, Sheriff

At that moment something else hit the door and shattered. Beth jumped away and clapped her hand over her mouth. Behind her one of the girls screamed, and the door quivered again under the hammer of fists.

“I’m scared!” Lauren wailed.

Suddenly a siren gave one ear-splitting burst outside, and Beth saw the reflected dazzle of blue and red lights off a living room window.

Through the heavy door she heard an obscenity, and then Ray’s feet thudding down the steps. Beth wrenched open the front door and hurried out, stumbling over the shards of broken flowerpots. A big man in a dark suit, the jacket pulled back to show the butt of a gun in a shoulder holster, was coming up the front walk. Behind him the lights of the cruiser still flashed.

Ray waited at the foot of the porch stairs. “This is none of your business,” he said loudly.

“Domestic disturbances are our business,” the man replied, his voice carefully dispassionate. He extended a badge, his gaze flicking past Ray to where Beth stood silhouetted in the open doorway. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes, I…” she faltered, pressed her lips together.

“I believe he was just leaving.”

Ray turned. “I told you not to call the cops!”

“I didn’t!” she flung back, before remembering the audience. How had her marriage, her life, come to this—two people arguing so violently that they had frightened the neighbors, that the police felt compelled to intervene?

“We’ll talk about it later,” Ray snapped, and stalked across the lawn past the police officer.

“Ma’am?” the officer repeated, a note of inquiry in his slow, deep voice. “Are you, or is anyone else, hurt?”

“No.” Her knees suddenly wanted to buckle, and she grasped for the porch railing. “No, it was just…angry words.”

He was beside her so quickly she hadn’t seen him coming. One large hand closed firmly over her elbow and steered her into the house. He kicked a large piece of clay pot aside. “More than words,” he commented.

The wide entry hall was deserted. She had a mother’s moment of panic—where were the girls?—before Stephanie poked her head cautiously out of the dining room. Her frightened gaze took in the stranger before she asked, “Is Dad gone?”

“Yes. Oh, sweetie…” Both girls stumbled into her arms again. All the time Beth held them, she was conscious of the police officer waiting. After a moment, she eased her daughters back. Looking into first Stephanie’s eyes, then Lauren’s, she said, “Guys, your dad is angry and upset right now, but he’s never hurt any of us, and I don’t believe he ever would. He was just…throwing a tantrum.” She actually managed a smile, and Lauren giggled weakly. “Now, you two go take baths and get ready for bed. Lay out your clothes for school tomorrow, and I’ll be up in a few minutes to tuck you in. Okay?”

They both nodded, collected their bags from the floor where they had been dropped and started up the stairs.

Beth took a deep breath and turned to the officer. Only then did she become aware of how tall he was, of the breadth of his shoulders and the bulge of the gun nestled beneath his smooth-fitting suit jacket. Only then did she recognize him, from the article a few weeks ago in the local paper. The witness to her humiliation was the Butte County sheriff and former Elk Springs police chief. She had heard him speak at Rotary Club and Chamber of Commerce luncheons, although they had never met.

Only then did she realize that he had no jurisdiction here, because she lived within the Elk Springs city limits.

Elk Springs had once been a small ranching town nestled at the foot of Juanita Butte and the Sisters in eastern Oregon, while the county had been entirely rural; thanks to the new ski resort on the butte, development had sprawled far beyond city limits. Even the new high school and middle school complex was Jack Murray’s problem, not the Elk Springs PD’s.

So what was he doing on her doorstep in Old Town Elk Springs?

Quietly, she said, “You must have been passing. Did you see him? I…thank you.”

His dark eyes were perceptive enough to make her uncomfortable. He nodded toward the porch. “You have a real mess out there. That was quite a temper tantrum.”

She was gripped again by shame. How would she be able to face the neighbors after this, knowing that they had heard every word tonight, had seen the revolving lights on top of the police car in her driveway?

“I…we…” Beth stopped, tried again. “We divorced some months ago. By my choice. I’m afraid my ex-husband is still very angry.”

“I live on Maple.” He nodded toward the cross street half a block away. “I’ve heard from neighbors that this isn’t the first time you and your ex-husband have had this kind of exchange.”

She was already flushed; now Beth was assailed by a wave of dizziness. “Would you mind if we sit down?” she asked.

She must have swayed, because that large, competent hand gripped her elbow again. A second later she found herself planted at the kitchen table. “Let me make you some tea or coffee,” he said, already filling the kettle.

“Thank you…that cupboard… The sugar bowl’s on the counter.” She sounded like one of those virginal heroines in a Victorian novel, swooning whenever confronted with a crisis. Beth was disgusted with herself, which helped clear her head.

The kettle made noises; he sat at the table without waiting for an invitation and held out a hand. “I’m Jack Murray, with the Butte County Sheriff’s Department.”

“I recognized you.” They shook hands solemnly, and she said, feeling inane, “How nice to meet you. I’m Beth Sommers. I own Sisters Office Supply.”

A small pun, she had intended the name of her business to be: a reference to the triple mountains rearing jaggedly to the west, and to the fact that she, a woman, was sole owner.

“Ah.” He pulled a small notebook from an inner pocket of his suit coat, then without opening it replaced it. “I can’t help you officially.”

“I realize that. I do appreciate you stopping.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

Like was hardly a word she would have used. And yet she’d had nobody familiar with such situations to give her advice. Her best friends were happily married. People threw things and screamed at each other on the other side of town, where lawns were shaggy and yellowing and paint peeled, not here. Or so she had always believed. This man, she guessed, knew better.

Without having consciously made up her mind, Beth began to talk, giving him the facts: Ray had moved out nearly a year before, at her request. At first he hadn’t believed she meant it. When he picked up or dropped off the girls, he alternated between charm and feigned indifference, both designed to show her what she was missing. When she went ahead and filed for divorce, he tried arguing with her, only at the last minute getting a lawyer to represent him. He hadn’t disputed custody; Ray was a long-haul trucker who was gone for days on end. The visitation was to be liberal, agreed upon between the two of them. So far he had picked up the girls when they expected him, which was the only positive Beth could think of. He had paid the child support until the divorce was final, but since then he had changed, giving freer rein to the anger that was one of the principal causes of the divorce. He wanted her to beg for the support check, and she refused.

At first he had said things to her, but out of the girls’ hearing; when she stayed calm, he said them in front of Stephanie and Lauren. Which upset her enough that she couldn’t pretend composure she didn’t feel. That it upset them, too, seemed to have no weight with him.

Once he realized he’d found the way to get to her, Ray escalated his tactics. He gave one or the other of the girls “messages” to pass on to Mom. He had little talks with them about how crazy it was that their mother had broken up the family. Tonight was the third time he had brought them home late—so late, it couldn’t possibly be innocent. Maybe the first time had been; Beth was willing to give him that much credit. But by the time they showed up four hours later than she had expected them, she’d been terrified.