Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie Macomber
she should have called, instead.
Yes, that was what she should’ve done, all right.
Unable to resist, as soon as she walked into the house, Charlotte located his number, which Roy had given her.
The phone rang four times before the receiver was abruptly lifted.
“Harding,” said a gruff male voice.
“Jefferson,” she returned in the same clipped tones. “Charlotte Jefferson.”
Silence.
“I’m phoning to see if you got my letter,” she explained. She knew he most likely had but that seemed the easiest way to introduce her subject.
“I got it.”
Charlotte paused, wishing she’d thought this through more carefully. “Perhaps right now is a bad time?”
“It’s as good a time as any. Basically, I’m not interested in anything to do with my grandfather.”
Charlotte frowned in disapproval. “I’m sure you’re going to reconsider when you see what I have.”
“Listen, Mrs. Jefferson, I realize you mean well, but—”
“Were you aware that your grandfather recently died right here in Cedar Cove?”
“Your letter said as much.”
“Mr. Harding, I have risked a great deal to find you.”
“I’m not ungrateful, but—”
“I could do jail time for what I’ve done and at seventy-two, I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life rooming with someone named Big Bertha.”
He howled with laughter. How dared this young man be amused when she was dead serious?
“What exactly did you do to risk facing Big Bertha?”
Charlotte told him, sparing none of the details. “I have everything under my bed.”
“That’s probably the first place the sheriff will look, don’t you think?”
Charlotte suspected he was still mocking her—a little bit, anyway—but she gave him a straightforward reply. “I did think of that, but my knees are too tired to be traipsing up and down the basement stairs.”
“My suggestion is that you give it all back to the state. Let the authorities sell it and recoup whatever expense they put out on my grandfather’s behalf.”
“You can’t mean that!” Charlotte was outraged. “My dear boy, this was your grandfather.”
“He was as much a grandfather to me as he was a father to my dad. In other words, not at all. Dad saw him a grand total of three times in his entire life. I never had the pleasure nor would I have cared to.”
“All the more reason to learn what you can about him now,” Charlotte argued.
“Frankly, I don’t care. So what if he was a movie and TV cowboy from the forties and fifties. The ‘Yodeling Cowboy,’” he added scornfully. “Well, my dear Mrs. Jefferson, I don’t give a damn.”
“It’s his blood that runs through your veins.”
“I’d rather it didn’t. Like I said, he wasn’t any kind of a father or grandfather, and I sincerely doubt he cared about me in the slightest.”
“I beg to differ.” Normally Charlotte wasn’t this argumentative. But she refused to let this…this arrogant whelp turn his back on his heritage. “You have a great deal in common with your grandfather, young man.”
Cliff snickered softly. “I doubt that. And I’m not so young.”
“Don’t you raise quarter horses?” This was part of the information Roy had given her. “Where do you think that interest in horses came from?” she asked grandly.
He didn’t answer her question. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Mr. Harding, please. Considering the risk I’ve taken, the least you can do is look at what I’ve rescued. There just might be something here you’d want.”
“You mean like a Yodeling Cowboy lunch bucket? No, thank you.”
“I mean like his saddle and his six-shooter.”
“You have a saddle?”
“Yes, I do.” Charlotte suspected that was probably the one thing that might interest Tom’s grandson.
“I understand it’s a federal crime to steal a gun.”
Charlotte bristled. “Are you trying to frighten me?”
He chuckled in response. “All right, listen,” he said as if making a big concession. “I’m willing to look over all this junk.”
“It most certainly is not junk.” She could think of several museums that would leap at the opportunity to display some of the items she had under her bed.
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Will you come into Cedar Cove or do you want me to find you?”
“I avoid inviting known burglars into my home.”
Charlotte was not amused. “Then you’ll just have to drive to Cedar Cove.”
“All right, Mrs. Jefferson. I can see you’re not a woman who takes no for an answer.”
“In this instance, you’re right.”
Grace enjoyed her job as head librarian. Per capita, there were more library cards issued in Cedar Cove than in any other city or town in the entire state. She took real pride in that.
The Cedar Cove Library, with the mural painted on the outside of the old brick building, was one of the most attractive structures in town. For the one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the township, the Chamber of Commerce had commissioned several murals to be painted on civic buildings around town. The waterfront library had been among those chosen; the artists had created an 1800s scene of a waterfront park with people in period dress enjoying a summer’s afternoon—children and dogs cavorting, families picnicking and, of course, people reading.
The downtown community was a lot like a family, Grace often thought. The business owners looked out for one another and encouraged the Cedar Cove population to shop locally. These days, when large conglomerates were moving into small towns and destroying independent businesses, Cedar Cove’s downtown thrived. This was thanks in part to the library, the marina and the brand-new city hall, which was the most prominent building in Cedar Cove, rising from the steep hill above the waterfront like a protective angel standing guard over the town. The bells chimed on the hour; some people loved them and others cursed the constant interruption.
With Dan missing for almost two months now, Grace was more grateful than ever for her job. Aside from financial reasons, she valued the fact that it helped distract her, helped keep her mind from the constant wondering and worrying about her missing husband. At least it did for eight hours a day.
“Hello, Mrs. Sherman.” Jazmine Jones, a five-year-old with a precocious wit and two missing front teeth, stepped up to the front desk and placed both hands on the counter.
“I’ll bet you’re here for storytime,” Grace said.
Jazmine nodded. “Are you reading today or is Mrs. Bailey?”
“Mrs. Bailey.”
“That’s all right, but…” Then, as if she didn’t want to hurt Loretta Bailey’s feelings, little Jazmine glanced over her shoulder and whispered, “You’re a better reader.”
“Thank you,” Grace whispered back conspiratorially.
Tuesday afternoons were often slow, and while Loretta entertained the children, Grace