10

“It’s always too soon to quit.”

Dad’s favorite rule blared in Tess’s mind like a siren. His favorite rule had not made it onto her list. She’d compiled her list with a mind toward successful leadership, while her dad’s list had a more military flavor to it, the never quit applying primarily to combat or competition. Tess had never seen her job as combat. But recent events had her reconsidering.

While she wrestled with demons who told her to do just that—quit—her father’s voice echoed in her thoughts, a lecture he’d given her one day, though she couldn’t remember why.

“Always follow through, Tess; always follow through. The world is full of lazy people who quit when things get tough. It’s only the ones who stick it out and finish the job who get anywhere in life.”

For the first time she could remember, Tess so wanted to quit.

Like stepping out of a hot Jacuzzi and falling headfirst into a pool of ice water—that was the level of shock she’d felt during her first weeks on the job in Rogue’s Hollow. It was not the job that overwhelmed her. Police work was police work. But the transition from crowded, diverse asphalt jungle to small, semirural enclave . . . well, it was quite a change. It was like being a rookie all over again but without the camaraderie of her academy classmates. Even though her badge said Chief, taking charge of this small-town department was more like diving back into patrol. She was sworn in early in June and now, two months later, still felt as though her feet hadn’t hit the ground.

“You won’t have anything to do but put your feet up on the desk. You could stay in California and do that working security somewhere.”

The voice of her ex-husband, Paul, a sergeant in personnel, reverberated in Tess’s thoughts, mocking her choice to leave. As soon as he’d heard her decision, he’d shown up at her condo as she was packing, making sure she knew what a stupid decision he thought she was making.

“I guess if you want to hide out, then you picked a good place for it. Are you going to be like Barney Fife and only carry one bullet in your shirt pocket? I predict you’ll want to slink back to Long Beach with your tail between your legs before long. I know you too well.”

Tess didn’t toss anything back, didn’t want to give him any ammo. It was because of Paul she’d sold her condo instead of renting it out. She didn’t want anything remaining in LB that could pull her back, give her an excuse. This was her last chance as far as she was concerned. And the idea that he thought she couldn’t do it or wouldn’t like it was added impetus for her to try all the harder to make it work.

Now, sixty days into her job, Tess hated to consider that maybe Paul was right about one thing: she yearned to run back to Long Beach. Tess felt like there was barely a thin thread holding her here in this river town. While it was a strong thread, the last thing Tess wanted to do was something that proved her ex-husband right. She’d kept in touch with Jack O’Reilly in his search for the three shadowy figures who ran away that night, fantasizing that the missing guys, once found, would tell some fantastic truth that would clear all the controversy from Tess, right the universe, and enable her to get her job and position back.

Tess knew in her head that the door to return to LB was solidly closed, politics being politics. But in her heart, she couldn’t accept it. Long Beach was home. Here, she felt like a square peg in a round hole. The officers who worked for her were standoffish. Few people in town seemed happy to have her there: “How’s someone who doesn’t know the difference between a ranch and a farm gonna serve this community?” And the majority of stuff she dealt with were annoying nuisance crimes.

That in itself was a problem. How much should she step in? In Long Beach there was plenty of patrol coverage, no reason for her to step out of her administration shoes and do police work. As commander, most of her work was done behind a computer or speaking in front of community groups. But here, with one officer per shift and some overlap by her only sergeant . . . well, Tess couldn’t sit still and watch officers handle calls alone when she felt backup was needed. It just so happened that she often ended up being the backup.

And this strange conundrum was about the only positive in her life at the moment. Because she was always helping, she rarely had time to sit with her feet up on the desk. It was good for her to stay busy, but was she being a micromanager?

When she did have free time, the small town became a claustrophobic prison and she didn’t hang around. Thursdays had become her favorite down day. There was a growers’ market in Medford, forty minutes away. It had become a habit for Tess to head down there early in the morning. She’d wander around, buy a cup of coffee, then order breakfast from one of the vendors. The Thai food truck was her favorite. There was a small table in front of the wagon where she could sit, eat her breakfast, drink her coffee, and watch people.

The people here in southern Oregon were different than in Long Beach, or at least the people she watched at the growers’ market were. There was less rush in their steps, less impatience in their movements. They smiled a lot. They smelled flowers, examined fruits and vegetables, placed purchases in bags they brought with them, and chatted with growers. Often she saw women buy whole flats of berries. Anna Macpherson had shown her the market, brought her the first time.

“She’s probably going to make jam or preserves with all of that,” Anna said after Tess asked about a woman weighed down with three flats of blueberries and raspberries.

“Really? Isn’t that a lot of work?”

“Canning and preserving are big pastimes here. I do a little myself. Strawberry freezer jam is Oliver’s favorite.”

“I love strawberry jam.”

“I’d be happy to show you how to make it.”

Tess remembered the conversation fondly. She’d never been on the organic, homegrown food bandwagon in Long Beach, but she used to like to cook, make things from scratch. When she and Paul were first married, she cooked all the time, loved surprising him with a new meal and seeing the pleasure in his eyes when he took his first bite. It was only when her career began to take off that she had no time for cooking. But by then they were both busy. The last few years of their marriage, it seemed as though they never had time for one another.

An odd, random thought wove through her mind: Does a woman who makes freezer jam hang on to her husband?

Watching people and avoiding thinking about what had happened to her life and career kept her slightly sane. But today her normal Thursday routine had been rudely interrupted.

As was her habit before leaving town, to make sure her presence wasn’t required for anything, she’d walked across the street to the station. This morning, with her mind a million miles away, the whine of a revved motorcycle engine barely penetrated her thoughts in time. She nearly got run over by a local teenage delinquent on a dirt bike. Leaping to get to the curb safely, she estimated Duncan Peabody raced through the middle of town at sixty-five in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone.

Faced flushed with anger and a bit of chagrin that she’d not heard the cycle’s motor sooner, Tess stormed into the station, vowing to climb into her car and—sirens blazing—head to Peabody’s house, cite him, and explain to his parents what a danger he was. It wasn’t her first run-in with the boy.

But before she could deal with him, her attention was demanded by a red-faced roofing contractor with a tiny pink scratch on his face.

“That idiot almost killed me!” He pointed to the mark on his face. “He’s shooting at me! Bullets are flying everywhere.”