Page 8 of Traces Of You

“Robby,” Ford Ridgeway said, nodding his head to the older man on the stool. Robby was a daily staple, getting his breakfast and meeting any of his friends that ventured into the diner.

“Here’s your coffee,” Colleen said. She placed his to-go cup on the counter. “Do you want anything else with it?”

He was surveying the place as he always did when he entered any room.

Did he need to stop into the local hot spot on his way to work? No, he didn’t, but he always made sure people saw his face.

That he’d be there for those he protected.

He took his job seriously as he had everything else in his life.

His eyes landed on a woman in a booth by herself, her head down, her back hunched, her plate almost clean.

She was eating as if she hadn’t had substance in days.

“How about a muffin,” he said. “Blueberry is good.”

Colleen lifted the glass dome off the silver tray, pulled out a muffin with the tongs and put it on a plate for him, setting it on the counter.

He took a seat, making sure his back was to a wall and he could see all the entrances and exits. The people in the diner eating.

Which weren’t many at seven thirty in the morning.

He sipped the black coffee, then picked up his muffin for a bite. Not as good as his mother’s, but he wasn’t foolish enough to voice those thoughts.

Missy Baker and Beth Stone were sitting in a booth. Both lifted their hands and waved. He returned it and took another bite of his muffin.

He’d gone to school with them and knew they were teachers in Lake George. The neighboring town he grew up in. His office was located here and it was where he spent most of his time delegating his deputies to cover the large county.

“Did you catch the Yankees game last night, Sheriff?”

“I did, Corbin.” Corbin Richards worked construction at his family business. Ford’s youngest brother, Ash, played softball with Corbin in a league.

“Looks like it’s going to be a good year if they keep up that kind of pitching.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said. Ford’s eyes landed on the woman again, cleaning the remaining crumbs on her plate. Holly, a waitress who was older than his mother, made her way over to top off the woman’s coffee, but she’d shaken her head.

Holly came back and punched in the tab, then printed it out. Those days when someone ripped a sheet of paper from a pad and laid it down were long gone.

He was sipping his coffee and scanning the room, his eyes staying on the stranger in the booth this time.

Probably just a tourist that was eager to get on her way.

But her head lifted, she made eye contact with him, and everything in his body crashed together as if the world suddenly slammed on the brakes.

Those big brown eyes still full of the same hurt and mistrust from twenty years ago barreled into him like a punch to the gut, the bitter coffee in his stomach churning, acid rising fast.

He showed no reaction to anyone in the room.

He could be wrong, but he knew he wasn’t.

Her head dropped quickly, her knee was shaking under the table, her fingers pulling money out of her wallet and putting it down before the bill came.

The minute Holly returned, the woman stood up and said she was set.

He heard the voice that had replayed so many times in his dreams.

One year with her. That was all he’d gotten. But he’d never forget a minute of the time they’d spent together.