Read The Sheriff Meets His Match Online
Authors: Jacquie Biggar
The Sheriff Meets His Match (9 page)
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eviews are
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and from wherever you’ve bought the book.
Thank you,
Jacquie Biggar
I
thought
I’d share with you the beginning of my love affair with writing.
N
ormally
, procrastination is my enemy. I like to get done whatever it is, as soon as I can, so that I don’t have to worry about it any more.
In school I worked hard to stay in the top ten every year. So when I came down sick with the measles and missed two weeks of grade nine, I was devastated. How was I ever going to catch up? I had less than a week to write a compelling story for Language Arts or get a failing mark.
Angry and frustrated, I sat in our living room, pen and paper in hand, staring at a bright yellow bouquet of cheerful looking daffodils. I wanted to hurl them across the room. It wasn’t fair. Why was I being punished for getting sick?
But then an idea popped into my head. A silly, farcical story. If the teacher wanted an essay, fine, I’d give him one. And so, Count Daffodil, was born. After the first paragraph the words flowed quicker, I could see the scene in my head and needed to get it down on paper. (Sound familiar?) I spent the rest of the day writing, and by the end of the night I had my story.
The next day I turned it in and immediately felt ill all over again. It was dumb. The teacher was going to hate it. I’d be a laughing stock. Funny how easy you can build something up to catastrophic proportions when you lack self-confidence.
We had to wait two weeks for the results. I was on tenterhooks the entire time. Sure that my mom would blow a gasket because I’d goofed instead of giving it my best shot.
Then came the big day.
I was scared to look. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to the last page. These were my teacher’s words:
I
’m
glad I didn’t read this at night. It’s been a while since I was so enthralled with a story. Very professionally done. The suspense, the ending, the style was excellent. I think I’ll read it to the other classes. Very impressive.
N
ot only did
he read it to the other grade nines, he read it over the intercom to the entire school!
Because of Mr. Thomas and a hapless bouquet of sunny daffodils, a writer was born.
J
acquie's first book
, Tidal Falls, a romantic suspense novel about second chances, released September of 2014.
J
acquie
Biggar
J
acquie lives
in paradise along the west coast of Canada with her family. She loves reading, writing, and flower gardening. Jacquie spoils her German Shepherd, Annie, Calico cat, Harley, and swears she can't function without coffee.
Learn about upcoming news, contests, recipes, and more from my
newsletter
.
T
hank
you for letting my story into your world for a few hours.
Best Wishes,
Jacquie
C
hapter
One
W
ould this day never end
?
Rebecca Sorenson shuffled the papers on her desk and glanced up at the school clock for the tenth time in so many minutes. She had plans, big plans and couldn’t wait to get a start on the weekend.
Tonight was the big night for her best friend, Annie’s, bachelorette celebration. Which is why—Rebecca glanced at the clock again just as the bell rang signaling classes were done—she needed to get going. There was still a ton of last minute preparations before the party.
She hurried to log off the computer, finished stacking her secretarial files, and reached into the bottom drawer for her hobo styled handbag and striped sun hat. Annie made fun of the fact she had to give up two pay-checks to afford her purse with its straw look and leather straps, but hello,
Jimmy Choo
. She wouldn’t call herself vain exactly, but she definitely preferred good quality whenever she could afford it.
The elementary kids poured out of their classrooms, laughing and talking, not a worry on their sweet minds. Rebecca envied them their youth. Life had a way of bleeding that exuberance away.
Okay, enough with the maudlin shit.
She pasted a smile on her lips and rounded the end of the counter to join the melee heading for the front entrance.
“Bye, Miss Sorenson,” little Jessica Reed sang as she rushed past with a couple of friends in tow.
Becky’s heart pinched. She loved each and every one of the precious little rug-rats. Outside parents stood in friendly groups chatting, some with strollers or fussy preschoolers tugging on their hands. The moment they caught sight of their children, welcoming smiles broke out and arms opened wide to hug them close. The gentlest of breezes, just enough to take the heat out of the early summer sunshine, teased the girls’ dresses and flirted with the boys’ jackets. It was like a Hallmark movie.
She lifted the strap of her purse higher, plunked her hat on her head, and dodged families as she made her way across the playground, intent on reaching the bike rack where her prized baby blue Schwinn waited with a sturdy padlock.
A boy, maybe grade three going by his size, was crouched near the back tire of a beat-up black bike covered in superhero decals. He looked near tears as he fought to free the bike from its lock. Rebecca hesitated, anxious to get going, but the kid’s obvious turmoil tugged at her heart.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “Looks like you have a problem there. Can I help?”
The boy looked up at her through the thickest set of dark lashes and puppy dog eyes. She moved closer and his grubby fingers covered the combination while his gaze became even more fearful.
Rebecca stopped and raised her hands. “It’s okay, kiddo, I work here.” She pointed at the school behind them. “In the office. I’m Miss Sorenson. What’s your name?”
He looked down, wiped his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, and mumbled, “Tommy.”
Becky crouched and set her purse beside her on the tarmac. She knew most of the children attending Cascade Elementary, but not this little guy.
“What class are you in, Tommy?”
He flushed and looked toward the kids romping on the playground. When he turned back his face was belligerent. “I don’t go to this dumb school.”
Well, that explained why she didn’t recognize him. She started to rise, saw the hint of desperation in his gaze, and stilled.
She nodded toward the bicycle. “That’s a pretty terrific bike you have there. Do you want me to try and get that lock for you?” She hoped he wasn’t trying to steal the machine. It looked as though his life might already be rough enough without adding theft to the mix.
He shook his head once, then reluctantly changed it to a nod. When he got up to give her room she noticed his threadbare sneakers. She gave him a reassuring smile and picked up the rusty lock. That was no doubt half the problem; the mechanism needed oiling. She was relieved to see that he’d used the right combination though. An experimental tug or two later proved her theory. Becky reached into her open bag and searched until she found the small tube of Vaseline she kept for chapped lips. Tommy looked anxious and confused when she handed him the ointment.
“Buddy, I need your help.” She wiggled the lock. “I need you to rub some of that lotion onto the lock as I pull. Hopefully we’ll get a little bit inside and it’ll loosen the mechanism, how does that sound?”
Becky waited while he considered her idea. He finally nodded hesitantly.
“Don’t worry,” she smiled. “We’ll get this.” She positioned the lock between them. “Okay, partner, now.”
He opened the tube and carefully squeezed it over the lock.
“That’s great, Tommy. Now rub it in for me.” She kept up a push-pull on either side of the lock until gradually it loosened and finally popped open.
His eyes widened with delight. “You did it,” he said, his voice filled with awe.
Rebecca grinned, impressed it actually worked. “No,
we
did it,” she said and impulsively leaned over to give him a hug.
He held himself stiff for a moment, then his arms wrapped her middle and squeezed the heck out of her. Warmed by a sudden burst of affection, she dropped a light peck on the top of his head.
A rough tug yanked the boy out of her arms.
“I told you to get yer damn bike and git yerself back home, boy.”
Rebecca gasped, startled. A brutish man stood, legs astride, in front of them aiming a malevolent glare toward Tommy. His bullish face sported a bulbous nose lined with ugly red veins and lank, greasy hair. It didn’t take much to guess that he spent a good portion of his time on the end of a bottle.
His hand twisted in the scruff of Tommy’s jacket, and he gave it a shake. Instant tears sprang to the poor kid’s eyes.
“There’s no need to be rough,” she snapped and reached down to lift her bag from the ground. “I asked him to help me out for a couple of minutes.” She studiously ignored his start of surprise. “Is that a problem, Mr.?” She damn sure wanted this joker’s name. Jack would be interested to hear how he was treating a little boy.
The guy snorted. “You think I’m an idiot, lady?”
He shoved Tommy toward his bike, almost knocking him off his feet. “Git goin’, I’ll be right behind ya.”
Tommy gave her a helpless glance then yanked his bike out of the rack, threw a leg over the cracked seat, and peddled away as though his life depended on it.
The man moved into her personal space. Rebecca held her ground but her heart was thrashing its way up her throat.
He lifted cigarette stained fingertips and ran them up and down the strap of her purse. “You don’t want to mess with me, lady. Just forget today ever happened, you got it?”
Becky swayed, more scared than she’d ever been in her life. She opened her mouth to answer she didn’t know what, when a familiar, and at the moment welcoming, voice spoke from over her shoulder.
“Hey, Becky, there you are.” Mitch’s big body cast a looming shadow over the man in front of her. He took a hasty step back.
Mitch wrapped a muscular arm in a short-sleeved shirt around her waist and tugged her close. Rebecca glanced up to tell him to lay off and cringed at the stony expression at odds with his jovial tone.
“You have a problem with my
wife
, mister, you take it up with me.” He stared the other man down, totally ignoring her gasp of outrage. “Got it?” His choice of words made it clear he’d heard at least the end of the conversation.
The man swore and spat on the ground between them—
ew
—then turned and stomped off to a faded red pickup sitting near the school fence.
The engine roared, sending up a blast of blue smoke. He left behind the smell of burnt gas and an uncomfortable silence.
She twisted out of Mitch’s hold and fisted her hands on her hips.
“Husband? You’re about five years too late to be making that claim, Mitchell Taylor.”
