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  RHONDA LEE CARVER

  THE LAWMAN’S PROMISE

  2016 Rhonda Lee Carver

  Copyright 2016 Rhonda Lee Carver

  All rights reserved

  The Lawman’s Promise (Book 2, Buttermilk Valley)

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission from the author, Rhonda Lee Carver—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages written in a review. For information, please contact Rhonda Lee Carver @ [email protected].

  This work is fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue in this work are from the author’s imagination and creation. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, dead or alive, is completely coincidental.

  This book is for your personal pleasure. Ebooks are not transferrable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. If you have enjoyed this book and wish to share with another reader(s) please purchase another copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, purchase a copy. Thank you for appreciating the hard work the author invested into this book.

  Dedication:

  To my wonderful beta readers

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  Back Matter

  PROLOGUE

  “MOVE ONE MUSCLE and I’ll splatter your baby maker all over that fake Picasso painting hanging on the wall behind your head.”

  Blake McKenzie held the shotgun steady on the naked man sprawled out on the messy bed. It was so quiet in the motel room, a pin hitting the floor would have been heard. Empty beer bottles were scattered around the small area and the scent of smoke was strong in the air, making Blake want to gag.

  The girl shifted on the bed, pink colored her cheeks as she pulled her shirt closed in order to hide her bare chest. “Blake, what are you doing here?”

  “You’re a minor and your mother has been worried sick about you.” Blake didn’t take her gaze off the boy who was now sweating profusely and huddled up close to the headboard as if it was his lifeline. “So I’m asking you the same question.”

  “Hey, she is here because she wants to be,” the man, Jonathon, finally muttered.

  “Do the math, Einstein,” Blake said. “Twenty minus sixteen equals illegal. Not only are you lacking in brains by giving a juvenile alcohol, but messing with an underage child has serious consequences. You’re looking at some time behind bars.”

  Monica shifted, making herself the wall between the shotgun and her boyfriend. “I love him. I’m going to marry him,” she wailed.

  “Honey, you don’t want to marry this boy. I promise you.” Blake lowered her gun a mere inch so she could look at her best friend’s daughter. “Isn’t it time you told her the truth, Jonathon?” He sat there, his bottom lip quivering and tears rolling down his cheeks. “Let me do the honors since it seems the cat’s got your tongue. Monica, he has another girlfriend and she’s pregnant by him.”

  Something flashed in her eyes. Her chest rose and fell, her eyes misted. “That’s not true. Tell her, Johnnie,” she pleaded.

  His tears fell harder down his red face. “I’m sorry, Monica. It’s not like I planned for it to happen. It just did.”

  Monica flew up from the bed, still holding her shirt closed tightly, her face flashing something dangerous. “You liar! You said you loved me! You said I was the only one!”

  The girl’s obvious pain made Blake’s chest hurt. She’d been there once herself. “Sweetheart, boys will make a lot of promises they don’t mean, or simply can’t keep. Walk away from this mess with your dignity. He’s not worth it.”

  “I’ll never forgive you, Johnnie,” Monica said as she turned and started for the door, but something must have changed her mind. She stopped, turned back, hauled her hand back and slapped Jonathon hard against the cheek. The sound echoed off the walls. She then held her chin high as she walked out of the room.

  The palm print was blood red on his cheek. “I hope this teaches you a lesson to not run away with any more girls, Jonathon Wheeler.” Blake lowered the shotgun, keeping it at her side. She grabbed the Holy Bible from the nightstand and dropped it to his skinny stomach. “Where you’re going for a short while, you’ll need reading material.”

  Deputy Daryl darted into the room, panting and sputtering. “Damn, Blake. What did I tell you?”

  She looked at the red-faced deputy and shrugged. “I don’t know. What’d you tell me?”

  “To let me handle this. You can’t come storming into places with your shotgun drawn. What if it fired accidentally? You’d be sitting behind bars for life because of your impulsive actions.”

  “Instead of you reprimanding me, you should be thanking me. I found them, didn’t I? If this was your daughter holed up in a cheap motel surrounded by booze, I bet you’d be grateful.” The deputy’s jaw softened some. “Anyway, the gun’s not loaded.”

  “Wha—,” Jonathon whimpered.

  Blake smiled. “Be thankful that I found you and Monica’s dad didn’t. He has a saying, ‘If I load my gun, I plan to use it’. Believe me, his gun was loaded.” She turned to the deputy and smiled. “Relax, Daryl. The hard work’s done.”

  “Blake, maybe you should have considered applying for the position as sheriff. Better to uphold the law wearing a badge than being a renegade,” he snorted. “You’re going to get yourself arrested some day. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She approached him. “I don’t have time to be sheriff. I have cows and horses to tend to. Hire a sheriff already and I wouldn’t have to help you boys out down at the station.” She winked.

  “We hired someone.” He scrubbed his jaw, shifting in his boots.

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “An old familiar name. Duff Tyler.”

  Sloop! That was the sound of her heart dropping at her feet. Hearing that name brought a blizzard of emotions through her. Duff was her best friend, first love—and her first heartbreak. He’d also made a lot of promises that he didn’t keep. Anger sliced through her like the talons of an eagle, shredding her insides. Lifting her chin, she refused to waiver—refusing to allow the pain to resurface. “I’ll let you handle the rest, Daryl. I might actually make it to church services.”

  As she left the room, she heard the deputy demand, “Get your clothes on, boy. I’ve seen enough limp noodle to last a lifetime.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  “HOW’S SHE DOING this morning, Dee?” Blake asked as she approached the nurse’s station.

  Dee, a petite blonde in her mid-fifties wearing bright pink scrubs popped her head up from the computer. “Hello, honey. You’re here early today.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night and was up at daybreak.” What Blake left out was that she’d been up most of the night crunching numbers. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The barn roof needed repairing. The vet was called in to check on one of the mares that had a wound on her leg. Blake had gotten another reminder that she was behind in the payments for the nursing home. The bills were stacking up.

  And the biggest thing, she was alone. All alone. She wasn’t sure why, here lately, it all weighed heavily on her shoulders. Her sensitive emotions had nothing to do with the fact that Duff was on her mind. She no longer had any feelings for him and could care less that he was back in Buttermilk Valley. He was a part of her history and she’d have no problem keeping it that way.

  Seein
g her grandmother this morning would help, although the stroke had changed her.

  “She is up and already had her breakfast. Let’s see what’s on her schedule today.” Dee pulled up a calendar on the computer screen and flipped through pages until she came to the right one. “Looks like she has a therapy session in an hour.”

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “Are you still having the art classes over at the community center?”

  “Six o’clock. This week we’re painting dragonflies.”

  “I’m off early. I’m planning on coming with my daughter.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing you.” The art classes were a way of making ends meet. When her grandfather passed, Blake had quit art school to help her grandmother on the farm. She’d always thought she’d go back, but a year had passed. Then three, five, and now ten. Time had a way of passing in the blink of an eye and now she was running the family farm—and failing miserably.

  Blake started down the hall toward the last room where her grandmother was laying in the hospital bed placed in front of the window, although she stared out blankly into the field of purple wildflowers. Blake wanted to believe that her Grams was aware of things around her, but at times it seemed like she was already gone. Although the nursing home had an accommodating staff, this wasn’t where Lita McKenzie would have wanted to spend the last of her days. She’d want to be at the farm, looking at the wildflowers outside of her own bedroom window, in her bed that she’d shared with her husband for most of her adult life. She’d always been the glue that held the family together, before and after Bill McKenzie’s death. Her strength had blossomed as she took leadership of the farm until the stroke had destroyed her ability to talk, walk, and remember those around her that loved her. But it didn’t kill her. She was still fighting.

  When Blake’s mother, Patty, gave birth at the young age of sixteen, Lita and Bill had become more like parents instead of grandparents. They’d been there when their daughter was out late partying. They’d been the ones who tucked Blake in at night, read her books, and taught her how to ride, fish, and gather honey from the beehives. She could milk a cow before she could walk. By the time she was ten her grandfather had taught her gun safety so thoroughly that she recited the rules in her sleep. She and her friends used to have watermelon seed spitting contests behind the barn and she’d never lost once.

  A lot of things happened behind the barn…

  Back on track.

  “Hi, grandma.” Blake pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down, taking her grandmother’s cold, stiff fingers into her hand. “It’s a pretty day outside. The sun is shining and spring has sprung.”

  Silence.

  “All of your flowers are growing mighty pretty, Grams. You’d be proud.” Still quiet. “I can’t stay long, I’m sorry. I’ve got a ton of things to do today. I need to hire another hand, but I can barely afford to pay the four we have. I know you and Gramps always said not to borrow from the bank, but I’m stuck between a rooster with horns and a swamp.” Tears filled Blake’s eyes, but she couldn’t be weak in front of her Grams.

  Although she showed no sign of comprehension, Blake believed she understood some.

  The McKenzie Farm had been in dire straits before, just as many farms that relied on a good crop that didn’t come through because of drought or disease. Things always improved—always picked up and they never lost hope. These days they depended on their cattle as much as wheat and corn, thanks to a clever and risk-taking Grams who’d invested in the herd. Years had passed, things taking an upward turn, money flowing better than ever…until the stroke six months ago. Now Blake was left with the responsibility and she was losing the battle of the bills, or at least she felt like she was. Her grandfather used to say, “Can’t get any blood out of a turnip.” If that were the case, then Blake was the turnip and the blood was the money.

  The biggest obligation was to her grandparents. They’d raised Blake as their own after Patty left the farm the day after Blake turned four. Although she was too young to remember much, Grams said that her daughter had left to follow her dreams of acting—or maybe just to get out of Buttermilk Valley like a lot of people had done. The small town didn’t have the glitz and glamour that Patty wanted to experience. Blake often wondered how her mother could leave not only her daughter, but also her home—her legacy. The farm had been handed down for three generations with love and pride. Indeed, Blake couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, especially in the city. A person hadn’t lived unless they’d ridden on a tractor, been chased by a chicken, bucked off a horse, or had fallen face first into a mud puddle. Some of her first memories were of riding on her grandfather’s lap on a horse. He would tell her as they rode over the land, “One day, this will all be yours.”

  Blake didn’t have one memory of her grandmother that didn’t include being at the farm. Standing at the stove stirring her famous buttermilk potato soup that she always made for church members and friends who had taken ill. Rolling out the dough for her prize-winning peach pie. On her hands and knees scrubbing the floors. Every recollection meant something to Blake and she held each like a treasure. The day her Gramps had died had been the hardest. Blake had stood on the front porch sobbing until the sun had set and darkness had shadowed the land. Grams had quietly made her way outside, sat down in one of the oversized rocking chairs, but didn’t say a word. She didn’t attempt to convince Blake to come inside or force her to do something she didn’t want to do. Grams just rocked in silence until Blake had finally fallen asleep, still sitting on the porch step. Eventually, she woke up, Grams was asleep in the rocker. Together they’d gone inside and fallen into their beds. The next morning, even though she was grieving too, Grams had prepared a feast of fluffy pancakes, sausage, bacon, and eggs. She’d called it the “farewell and new beginnings breakfast.”

  With a sigh, Blake stood and patted her grandmother on the hand. “I have to go, Grams.” With a kiss on her forehead and a squeeze around the shoulders, Blake blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked to the door, her shoulders slumped, then she heard a soft moan. Looking back, the air left Blake’s lungs in one long exhale. Grams had turned her head and was looking straight at Blake. Hurrying back to the bed, she sat down. “What is it, Grams?”

  Her grandmother’s lips turned down at the corners, then twisted as if she was trying her best to form a word. Her knarled fingers were stirring, barely, but there was movement. Another deeper moan slipped past her thin lips. “B-B—kkk.”

  The tears that Blake had been holding back now fell to her cheeks as she laughed with joy. “Yes, Grams. It’s me. I’m here.”

  “M-m-m-on. B-B-B…cell…”

  “I don’t know,” Blake whispered. She felt guilty that she couldn’t understand. Oh how she wanted to comprehend what her grandmother was saying. “What is it, Grams?”

  “T-T-T…lo…” Grams face paled some.

  Blake lifted her hand, gently squeezing. “Everything is okay. I’ll make sure you have a home to come back to when you’re better. I promise.”

  Although the moment only lasted seconds, for Blake it meant the world. It was the first communication she’d had with her grandmother in weeks.

  “Alright, Lita, it’s time for your bath,” Dee said as she stepped into the room carrying a tray of toiletries. She stopped in her tracks. “What happened?” the blonde asked, her eyes wide.

  “She said my name, Dee. She actually said my name and a few words.” Blake could barely contain her excitement.

  “Well, well. I knew she could. You knew she would.”

  Yet Blake had never been sure her grandmother would talk again. “Is this a good sign, Dee? Do you think she’ll learn to talk again?”

  Dee smiled widely. “There’s always a chance of full recovery, sweetie. Your grandmother is a fighter, and she passed that down to you, girl. Pray hard.” She winked. “Alright, dear Lita. Let’s get you ready, shall we?”

/>   Blake left the nursing home and wore a smile on her face and a sliver of hope nestled in her chest. The doctors said Grams could recover, although they wouldn’t promise. At sixty-seven, the stroke had done a lot of damage to her body. Yet, Blake was taught to never give up hope, and that especially went for the farm.

  She climbed into the beat-up, blue Ford, put it in reverse, and backed out of the parking lot, heading onto the main street. As she passed the sheriff’s station, she caught a glimpse of a black Stetson and craned her neck to get a better look of the cowboy walking down the sidewalk. Good thing she lifted her chin when she did, otherwise she would have slammed into the back of the car in front of her. Slamming her foot on the brake, the tires squealed with only two inches to spare before impact. The man driving the Cadillac stuck his neck out of his window and said a few choice words, but Blake didn’t pick up on any of his profanities because she was too busy peering through the side mirror.

  “Oh shit! Shit! Shit!” she muttered.

  The cowboy had stopped to check out the commotion.

  Of all the people she had to see right now! Duff Tyler in the flesh and worn Wranglers, his sheriff badge glinting in the sun. He took a step toward the street and she tightened her hold on the steering wheel, sliding her body down into the cracked vinyl seat, wishing her heart would slow-the-eff-down before she passed out. Wouldn’t that give the town something to talk about? Tongues flapped enough as it was.

  Lifting her chin, she peered through the mirror again, using the controller to lower it just enough so that she got a better look at the boy she’d married at eleven behind the barn at the McKenzie Farm. Sure, it was all pretend, but she’d never forgotten. Yet, he wasn’t a boy any longer. His broad shoulders, lean hips, and layer of beard along his prominent jaw spoke volumes about his virility.

  He took a step toward her truck, and sweat beaded between her breasts.