My Three Girls

Karen asked the question with such hope, and Dana was glad she didn’t have to disappoint the little girl.

“Yes. Your uncle Brady and I are going to get married on Friday, so you can stay here.”

Karen’s eyes went wide and then filled with tears. In an attempt to soothe her Dana said, “I know this is all happening very fast. But we’re not going to try to be your mom and dad.”

Karen shook her head. “I used to pray that you’d be our mother. You were always so nice to us. I loved my momma, but she didn’t love us back.”

Dana didn’t know what to say. This sweet girl was giving so much of herself, but Dana couldn’t do the same. Brady kept telling her this was only temporary. If she gave her love to the children and then had to watch them walk away, she might never recover. How was she ever going to resist these three girls?

Dear Reader,

This book started with a newspaper article my late father had saved for me about a one-room schoolhouse. “Hey, look at this, Sus,” he said with a grin. “Wouldn’t this be a great story?” Unfortunately, my father isn’t here to witness his kernel of an idea come to fruition, but I still like to thank him for his inspiration, which led to this story.

Now take three abandoned children starving for love, a schoolteacher reluctant to ever become attached to any of her students again and a deputy sheriff racked with guilt because he believes the children’s plight is the result of actions he took several years before. Mix them all together, stir in generous amounts of chaos, unresolved feelings and long-kept secrets and bake with a marriage of convenience. Season with healing and forgiveness. Is this the recipe to make a family?

Join Dana Ritchie and Brady Moore as they wade through this crazy thing we call life and together discover that two are stronger than one. You—my readers—mean everything to me, and I love to hear from you. You can write to me at P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635 or by e-mail at susfloyd@yahoo.com.

Sincerely,

Susan Floyd

My Three Girls

Susan Floyd

This book took the work of several people from San Benito,

Monterey and Merced Counties.

Heartfelt thanks to:

Monterey County deputy sheriffs

Greg Liskey, Mike Richards, Larry Robinson

and Jeff Stiarwalt (for the adventurous “ride along”).

Merced County deputy sheriffs

Tomas Cavallero and Richard St. Marie (for brainstorming

at the Los Banos Campus Career Fair).

Panoche Elementary School District, San Benito County

Ginger Gardner, Teacher and Principal

Elsa Rodriguez, Teacher’s Aide, Cook, Janitor

and Groundskeeper

Mario Bencomo, 5th grade Aaron Blanco, 7th grade Ian Blanco, 5th grade Dustin Borba, 1st grade Alyssa Cabral, 4th grade Chantelle Lippert, 7th grade Jacob Lippert, 6th grade Zoa Lopez, 6th grade Tristan Redondo, 2nd grade

This is dedicated to all my students at Merced College,

Los Banos Campus, who have brainstormed titles, offered

plotting advice and understood the value of a “redo.”

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

DANA TUGGED at the collar of her sleeveless cotton dress, feeling a damp film of sweat on her sternum. Indian summer in California’s Panoche Valley was just more of the same—dry and brittle, the victim of a scorching summer. Cattle on the rolling hills searched for shade and found it at the chain-link border of a one-room schoolhouse, a green oasis of non-native shade trees nestled in a valley of brown.

Dana glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was nearly six on a Friday, but it wasn’t strange that she was still at work. When she was twenty-four, Dana had taken on the role of principal and teacher at one of the smallest schools in California’s Central Valley, a job that took someone who was either a loner or a certified workaholic.

Dana was both.

For the past five years, she’d embraced the isolation, hoping that work and the dark, still nights could wrap her in a protective blanket. It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time, new teaching credentials in hand, she had taught in an urban school filled with low-income children even more thirsty for the safety school offered than for the subsidized cartons of milk. She’d had colleagues then, a few she might call friends, but those faces were a blur now. The only face she saw with heartbreaking regularity was the one she tried not to see, the one permanently imprinted in her vision like a sunspot. Round cheeks, clear brown eyes, a shock of black hair.

Dana reached over and jerked down the shade. The temperature of her west-facing office dropped ten degrees. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about him, what he’d be like as a teenager. With brisk movements, she began to sort through the forms on her desk, prioritizing the night’s work. Even though she only had twelve students, she needed to fill out the same reports that the larger schools did. Fire safety, student evacuation plans, building and lighting requirements.

If she filled out enough forms, if she buried herself in her work, the unbearable pain became a dull knot where her heart once was. That had been a successful strategy for five years, but now that the frenzy of developing lesson plans, organizing the school year and implementing the latest state-mandated curriculum had become more routine, the grief she’d thought she’d been able to sidestep dogged her relentlessly. Her mother had told her in her no-nonsense manner that the loss of a child, even if the child wasn’t hers, was something that no one ever got over, and that she needed to face her grief rather than run away from it. Dana disagreed. Grief could be put off if one kept busy enough.

Which was why this situation was perfect for her. After all, how many people could boast of no commute, no neighbors, no true boss, except for the school board who supported every one of her efforts to update the small school? When she finished her day’s work, which generally wasn’t until nine or ten in the evening, she just walked fifty feet to the district-owned, two-bedroom cottage she called home, ate a sandwich or a bowl of cereal and flopped into bed. On Saturday, she would return to the schoolhouse to work on the endless list of minor repairs it needed. On Sunday, she would clean and set up the classroom for the following week. It was a wonderful system that had kept the terrible waves of depression at bay for years.

“Hellooo?” a singsong voice called.

Dana’s head snapped up at the intrusion. No one ever came onto the school property after school hours unless it was parents’ night. But that only happened twice a year. She pushed away from her desk and poked her head up over the file cabinets.

“Hello? Miss Ritchie?”

Dana groaned when she recognized the person and the oh-too-sweet-voice at the same time. Beverly Moore. The only parent she had personality conflicts with. Maybe it was because Mrs. Moore was new and hadn’t quite acquired small-school etiquette. Most of her parents traveled as far as forty miles to drop off their children, and Dana did what she could to accommodate their schedules, since they didn’t have a lot of time for chit-chatting. Most lived and worked on ranches or farms so rural that running water was a luxury. Like the school’s, their electricity was gleaned from a generator. When the parents picked up their children at two-thirty, they were single-minded in their efforts to get back to their properties. Livestock needed to be fed, fences needed to be mended. Dana used the snatches of time before and after school to update them quickly on their children’s progress or lack thereof.

Mrs. Moore, whose three daughters had enrolled at the last minute but made up a quarter of her class this year, was a parent of a different caliber. The family lived in a house just two miles from the school, and Beverly Moore seemed to believe that Dana was a built-in baby-sitter. Dana could count on the fact the Moore girls would be the first ones dropped off in the morning, some times an hour early, and the last ones picked up—often by two or three hours. They were occasionally dropped off on weekends so they could play on the school grounds, too.

Dana didn’t appreciate the added responsibility, but the girls kept to themselves and weren’t destructive in any way, so she let it slide. Eventually she’d become used to hearing Karen bark orders at her younger sisters, and Ollie, the youngest, scream with delight.

“Miss Ritchie?” The voice was getting closer, along with the distinct clicking of high heels.

Mrs. Moore’s perfume reached Dana before she did.

Dana summoned a stiff smile and called, “Yes?” She stepped out from behind the file cabinets.

The other woman stopped short. “Oh! I’m so glad you’re here. I knocked on your door, but when there wasn’t an answer, I took the chance you’d be in the school. I saw your car, so I knew you hadn’t gone anywhere.”

One good reason why Dana should park in the garage.

“What can I do for you?” Dana said, her voice as crisp as she could make it. She even crossed her arms over her chest, hoping that Mrs. Moore was attuned to nonverbal communication.

No such luck.

“I need the biggest favor from you.” She smiled as if Dana were her closest and dearest friend, then placed a manicured hand on Dana’s forearm.

Dana worked not to flinch; she didn’t want people touching her. She removed herself from the contact. All that did was give her a better look at the other woman’s ensemble. The manicure, the heels, the perfume all set off an impeccable beige linen suit. Dana eyed the cream silk camisole with something that she might have called envy a lifetime ago. Despite the heat, Beverly Moore looked cool and composed. Dana felt every inch the dowdy schoolmarm.

“I know it’s an imposition,” Beverly continued, as if Dana’s silence was consent, “but I’ve been called out of town and I’m just not able to get a baby-sitter.”

“No.” The word was out of her mouth before Dana could stop it.

Even Beverly looked taken aback. “No? You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“To baby-sit, maybe?” Dana raised an eye brow, her voice dry.

Beverly had the grace to flush. “It would only be for the weekend.” She spoke rapidly as if speed would convince Dana to grant her the favor.

“No.” Dana had been down that road once before. First, it was baby-sitting, then foster care, then— “No!” She turned her back. “School is out for the weekend.”

“It’s a very important business conference I need to attend. I’ll be back on Sunday.”

Sunday? Dana didn’t dare look at the woman in case eye contact would be considered assent. What would she do with the Moore girls for two whole days?

“I can pay—”

Dana turned, feeling her face get red. “I don’t need money.”

Beverly Moore shrugged, looking at Dana’s clothes, her gaze fastening on Dana’s serviceable shoes. “I’d make it worth your while.”

“I don’t think you could,” Dana replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a great deal of work to do. I hope you find someone.”

The woman’s lipsticked mouth pinched tightly together, but finally she nodded and left, heels clicking across the linoleum. With the final bang of the closing door, Dana expelled the breath she was holding. Then she crossed the room and locked the door before settling back in her chair and picking up the form on the top of the pile. She studied the fine print and began to fill it out.

The front door handle rattled.

Dana’s back stiffened. Surely Mrs. Moore couldn’t be back.

“Miss Ritchie?” The voice came sailing toward her through the locked door, as cheerful as if they hadn’t had the previous conversation. Dana stayed silent, hoping Mrs. Moore would think that she’d gone back to the house.

“I know you’re in there,” the woman said. “I know you haven’t gone. The girls say you don’t ever go anywhere.”

Dana kept her head down and tried to concentrate on the form in front of her. Then a persistent knocking started.

How long could she keep that up? Eventually, her knuckles would be raw and—

“I’m going to keep knocking until you open this door.” Mrs. Moore was sounding rattled and the knocking changed to pounding.

Dana popped to her feet, angrier than she remembered being in a long time. She crossed to the door with several impatient steps. This was her private time. “I told you—”

Mrs. Moore stood on the concrete entryway, this time with her daughters, Karen, Jean and little Ollie, positioned in front of her, all clutching small backpacks.

“Hi, Miss Ritchie.” Karen spoke first, her voice uncertain as she glanced up at her mother.

“Mrs. Moore.” Dana frowned.

“Bev. Call me Bev.” She waved her hand toward her daughters. “The girls want to thank you for agreeing to take them this weekend. They like you so much.”

Dana doubted that. The girls interacted as little as possible with the other children and her. The eleven-year-old, Karen, seemed to take exception to any attention that was paid to the younger girls, Jean, six, and Ollie, just five. They were well mannered, although Jean retreated so often to lengthy silences it was easy to forget that she spoke at all. Dana also noticed both Jean and Ollie had the curious habit of kicking the supply closet every time they passed by. The third time Dana had to wash off the scuff marks, she’d asked them not to do it. Jean had answered with a staring silence, and Ollie’s eyes had filled with tears. The brief discussion hadn’t saved her cabinet, though. The two girls simply kicked with more stealth.

“Uh, thank you, Miss Ritchie,” Karen blurted, nudged by her mother. “We’ll be very good.”

“This is blackmail,” Dana said to Mrs. Moore.

“I’m desperate or I wouldn’t put you in this position,” she said. From her voice and the way she glanced over her shoulder, it seemed to be the first truthful statement Beverly Moore had made.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t take the girls.” Dana was firm. She wasn’t going to be railroaded into this duty. She wasn’t the only option that Mrs. Moore had. She was just convenient. “You might consider taking them with you.” With that, Dana shut the door and tried to lock it, but her hand was shaking so badly she couldn’t turn the dead bolt properly. The knocking started again.

“Go away!” Dana muttered under her breath, eventually managing to lock the door. “Leave me alone.” She put her hands over her ears and walked back to her office, then turned on her small radio to drown out the knocking. After a while, it stopped, but Dana’s heart still kept pounding. She worked for two more futile hours, not really accomplishing anything.

She stared at the pile of work on her desk. Nothing said she had to finish it tonight. She would spend tomorrow morning making the repairs and reattack the pile in the afternoon. She had no other plans. She walked around the perimeter of the schoolroom, checking to make sure she’d turned off the computers. If she had her way, she’d never leave the schoolhouse. It gave her the comfort that her home didn’t. Finally, she unlocked the front door and opened it. The air was cool, pleasant, a significant difference between summer and fall. In fact, Dana shivered in her sleeveless dress as she closed up. Movement caught her eye, and the motion sensor turned on a bright light.

Dana whirled. Surely the cattle hadn’t pushed through the fence again. She’d have to call the rancher who owned them before they trampled the students’ agriculture projects. She tried to focus on the movement in the deepening dusk. Since she was standing in the light, it was hard to see what was out there.

“Hi, Miss Ritchie,” a small voice called.

“Karen?” Dana walked toward the voice.

“Yes, Miss Ritchie?” The voice was still uncertain, and Dana could swear she was holding back tears.

“What are you girls doing here?” Dana’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark. She could make out three figures at the picnic table where the children ate lunch on nice days. Ollie was standing on the table, swaying from foot to foot. Karen and Jean huddled together on the bench.

“Momma said to wait and you’d take care of us,” Ollie told her.

“Where is your mother?”

There was a long silence. Then Karen said, her voice brave, “She went to a conference. She said to tell you that we promise to be very good and that she’d be back Sunday afternoon.”

Dana inhaled, warning bells going off in her head. This had to be against school policy. There had to be some rule about keeping students at her personal residence. If there wasn’t, there should be. If Beverly Moore was going to leave her children, then she deserved to have the authorities called in.

“I’m hungry,” Ollie said, hopping from the table to the bench and then the ground. “Momma said if we asked nice, you might give us some supper.”

“You don’t have to feed us,” Karen interjected. “I made us sandwiches.”

Ollie started to whine. “But I don’t like—”

“Hush. She might let us spend the weekend if she doesn’t have to feed us.”

Dana felt more emotion pulse through her in sixty seconds than she’d allowed in the past five years. She’d chosen this job in the middle of nowhere to avoid feeling anything. Now white, scalding anger was directed at Beverly Moore, wherever she was. How dare she abandon her children as if they were overgrown vegetables easily left on the doorstep of unwary neighbors. But the tearstains on Karen’s face had her fighting for control.

“I don’t mind feeding you. Then I’ll call some nice people to give you a place to stay.” She tried to smile, but her face felt like it was cracking in half.

FRIDAY NIGHT was generally busy, but tonight, Brady Moore’s usual rounds were quiet. He didn’t know how many miles he’d driven that night along the county roads that wound from the Gabilan Mountains to the Diablo Range without seeing anything worrisome. No drunk drivers. No speeders. Always a bad sign. In his fifteen years as a sheriff’s deputy for San Benito County, the quiet evenings were the ones that ended in something bad.

The dispatcher came over the radio. “There’s a call from the Panoche School. Three juveniles abandoned.”

“I’m in the south county,” he replied. “Is there someone closer? Or maybe CPS?”

“You’re going to want to take this one, Brady,” the dispatcher said, her voice terse.

“Why?”

“Three girls,” she emphasized. “Last name Moore.”

Brady felt himself stiffen.

“Thought you might want to check it out before we call in CPS.”

His brother Carson had three little girls whose last name was Moore.

Brady didn’t carry around a lot of guilt. He didn’t give a second thought to lying to drug dealers or unbalancing suspects, if it meant that he could clean up his little section of the universe. But it didn’t take much soul-searching for him to realize that he’d been a bit too eager, nearly five years before, to oblige his sister-in-law when she’d told him to never contact her and the girls again.

Only fifteen months apart, he and his brother had grown up together, but even though Carson was older, he’d always been just a little too intellectual, too bookish to fit in well with his peers. That meant Brady had been the one who sold all of his brother’s raffle tickets, fought his battles at school and introduced him to the world of girls.

It was no surprise when they grew up that they’d choose different career paths. Brady went into law enforcement, Carson into accounting. But the differences in their temperament only strengthened the bond between the brothers. Maybe that’s why Brady had been so hurt when Carson had introduced him to his new wife, Beverly. Brady would never have dreamed Carson would give in to the impulse to marry a woman he’d only known twelve hours.

Even though Karen had been born ten months into their marriage, Bev hadn’t seemed happy. But Carson’s loyalty to his wife put an enormous amount of pressure on Brady and his mother, Edie, to accept her. And they’d tried. Since they’d left home, the brothers had always visited their mother once or twice a week. When Carson’s visits dropped to once or twice a month, then eventually only on major holidays, it was hard for Brady not to blame his sister-in-law. Especially once the reason for her unhappiness became clear.

Bev had thought Carson was a lot more successful than he actually was. Carson’s accounting firm had a few good clients and was growing steadily, but the family lived on commissions and the small salary that Carson allowed himself, investing any other profit into the business or Karen’s college fund. Bev wasn’t content being a stay-at-home mom who needed to budget carefully. She wanted more—designer clothes for her and Karen. A nice car and house and furniture. She couldn’t understand why Carson wouldn’t move to the city and work in a big firm with big clients.

In spite of these differences, Brady believed Carson and Bev cared enough about each other to work out their problems. That was confirmed when the joyful pair announced they were expecting a second baby. Jean’s birth was followed almost immediately by the conception of their third, and then all hell broke loose.

Edie—who’d never remarried after the death of her husband—had become sick and four terrible months later died. During those long days and endless nights of treatment and pain and sadness, Carson had managed only two short and awkward visits. In his grief, Brady’s anger and resentment at his brother grew. It would have been nice if just once Brady could have relied on Carson. A month or two later, when Carson was arrested, Brady pretended not to care. His brother had completely changed. The irrefutable evidence showed this once honest and sensitive man had become an embezzler to further his wife’s ambitions. Rather than help his brother through the complex legal system, Brady had turned his back. In what seemed to be just days, Carson accepted the court-appointed lawyer, took a plea and was sentenced to a minimum-security state penitentiary.

Bev, of course, blamed Brady, refusing to see how her own behavior had corrupted Carson. If it hadn’t been for the girls, Brady would have gladly washed his hands of her. She wouldn’t let him see the girls, so his only option was to deposit money directly into her account every month. It assured him that Bev wouldn’t have to work and would maybe compensate for the fact that the children didn’t have a father. It didn’t help the guilt, though, and it didn’t change the reality that his brother was a criminal. More than anything, it made Brady never want to get close enough to anyone to be that disappointed again.

“You still there?” the voice crackled over the radio.

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Should I notify CPS?”

No matter what had passed between him and his brother, no matter how much his sister-in-law hated him, he would not let the girls go into foster care. They were still his family.

“No,” Brady said.

DANA TRIED TO GET through as much of her grading as she could. She spread the papers out before her on the table, feeling very anxious, while Karen, Jean and Ollie lay curled together on her couch. She adjusted her reading glasses and still squinted at the papers in front of her. She’d called the sheriff’s department over an hour ago, but no one had come yet, though it was close to midnight.