Proof of Innocence. Lenora Worth

for those guys,” he said, pulling out his wallet and nodding toward his fellow firefighters. “Bailey’s off in ten minutes and I’m picking her up from the shop. I finally talked her into storing her motorcycle a few weeks ago.”

      Melody nodded her understanding. Ethan’s fiancée, Bailey Sheppard, loved her motorcycle, and since Brookhollow had been blessed this year with a mild fall season, she had been able to ride the bike longer. “Have I mentioned how happy I am that you two finally got together?” Melody said, drawing the beer.

      After years of friendship, Bailey and Ethan had finally realized what the whole town had known for years—they were perfect for each other. They’d gotten engaged three months before during a trip to Venice.

      Ethan tossed enough cash on the bar to cover the group’s tab, and added several additional bills to Melody’s tip jar. “You and me both. I can’t believe it took me so long to see how amazing she is.” Then, noticing the textbook on the bar, he asked, “How’s the studying?”

      “A lot tougher than I’d expected.” It was true. The three-month management-trainee program had included ten different instruction manuals, four exams and weeks of on-the-job training, in which she’d had to shadow a Play Hard trainer in his management role. “But it’s worth it,” she was quick to add. “I just wish I had more time to study. A lot is riding on this last exam.”

      “Well, you know Bailey and I would be happy to babysit the boys if you need some extra time.”

      “Thanks. I appreciate the offer. I wish it was just the boys keeping me busy, but honestly, I’ve been working such long hours lately, I barely have enough time with them as it is. I really hope I’ll be able to give up these evening shifts soon.”

      The strong early December wind caught the front double doors as Heather, the part-time bartender, walked in, her long, dark hair blowing wildly around her pink cheeks. Tugging the doors closed behind her, she mumbled something unintelligible. “Sorry I’m late, Mel,” she said, panting.

      “Don’t worry. It’s just starting to pick up.” She watched as Heather struggled to catch her breath. “Did you run here?” She shot a glance at Heather’s feet. She was wearing five-inch-heeled, red leather, pointy-toed boots. Still, if anyone could run in them, the tall, slender, feisty brunette probably could. A New York City girl, she’d come to Brookhollow for the wedding of her friend Victoria Mason, the owner of the B and B in town, to Luke Dawson, and had decided to stay. She said she’d taken a liking to small-town life. Melody was grateful to have someone to train to take over the bar once she left.

      Heather took off her coat and hung it on the hook behind the kitchen door. “Practically. That piece-of-crap car I bought broke down again yesterday—it’s still at the shop.” She wrapped the black apron around her thin waist and smiled at Ethan. “Thank God for your fiancée. She rescued me from the side of the highway again last night.”

      “Bailey picked you up in the tow truck?” Ethan’s annoyance was pretty obvious.

      Heather hesitated and Melody waved her arms, shaking her head behind Ethan’s back. Heather shot her a puzzled look as Ethan swung around to face her. “I saw that. She was supposed to have Nick doing the evening highway tows.”

      “Oops,” Heather said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to get her in trouble.”

      Ethan grabbed the tray of drinks from the bar. “Don’t worry. I suspected she was still doing the towing herself. Bye, ladies. Mel, good luck on the exam. Tell the boys I need them next week at hockey practice, so they should take it easy this weekend and get better.”

      In addition to working as a firefighter, her younger brother coached the junior boys’ soccer, hockey and football teams. “Thanks. I will, but you know the boys—they’d play even if their limbs were falling off.” Her twins had been born with athletic genes, and they rarely missed a practice.

      She hoped they’d feel better once the antibiotics kicked in. Already her own symptoms appeared to be easing, for which she was grateful. Customers rarely appreciated being served by someone at death’s door...

      Heather saved Melody’s textbook page with her finger as she closed the book to see the cover. “Essentials of Management...yuck.” She wrinkled her nose. “How’s that going?”

      “It was going terribly. But it’s much better now that I took your advice about writing my notes on index cards and leaving them all over the house. Now as I’m cooking or getting the boys ready for bed, I’m memorizing information.” She covered a cough as she opened the dishwasher and loaded in the empty beer mugs. She’d never been great at academics, barely getting by in school, but this management course was important to her. The past three months, she’d pushed herself harder than she ever had before. She’d passed the three previous exams with a B average.

      Heather collected more empty cups from around the bowling alley and set them on the bar before reaching for the television remote control. “Well, take a break. It’s eight o’clock. Our show is on.” She flipped through the stations on the flat-screen television above the bar. She passed the hockey game, ignoring the cries of protest from the men playing pool, and stopped on American Voices, the reality television competition they’d watched every Thursday night together since she’d started training at the bar.

      A young woman wearing a black leather jumpsuit, was crooning a Sheryl Crow song. Heather folded her arms and leaned against the bar as she watched. “I still think you should have tried out when they were holding auditions in New Jersey, Melody. You can sing circles around these contestants.” She winced as the redhead struggled to hit a high note.

      Melody took several shot glasses down from the shelf and refilled them with tequila as Mark Adams, a local firefighter and the biggest flirt in town, approached the bar. He asked for another round of shots. “Good luck, Heather. We’ve been trying to convince Mel to try out every season for three years.”

      “I’m too old, guys,” Melody said, sliding the shot glasses toward him. She tossed her long, wavy chestnut hair over one shoulder as she added, “Besides, I gave up on that dream a long time ago.”

      At twenty-one, all she’d wanted to do was leave Brookhollow and move to Nashville to pursue a career in country music. But then she and Patrick had gotten married and the boys had arrived...and the dream had turned into more of a quiet longing.

      She held up her textbook. “I have a new dream now.” One that made sense. One she could depend on. One that would provide a secure future for her children. Nothing kept her more firmly planted in reality than two boys who needed new clothes, school supplies, sporting equipment and medicine.

      Heather scoffed. “You’d be an instant star in Nashville and you know it. And you’re always writing your own songs.”

      Melody’s shoulders tensed. She wished Heather would drop the subject. She hadn’t written a new song in a long time. Sure, she often hummed original tunes that popped into her head, or made up random lyrics, none of which she could ever remember afterward, but she hadn’t actually put pen to paper in more than three years. Not since the last song she’d cowritten with Patrick.

      After Patrick’s death, a record label had approached her, offering to buy any original material Patrick may have had, but she’d been unable to sell the music they’d written together. She only had a few mementoes left of him—his lyrics and musical scores were vital to her.

      “Oh, I love this guy,” Heather said, her attention captured by the screen. “Victoria and I saw him in New York last summer when he opened for Toby Keith.”

      “Who?” Melody asked, turning to look at the television.

      She lost her grip on the wet beer mug in her hand and it crashed to the floor, shattering in a million pieces at her feet.

      Brad Monroe, her husband’s former bandmate and friend, sat in the guest judge’s seat on the critique panel, commenting on the girl’s performance.

      Her