“So if Sierra Vista goes for Hubble . . .” Jenny began.
“Right,” Joanna said, glancing at the screen where the display was now showing final tallies from precincts in Wilcox, Bisbee, Douglas, Tombstone, and Benson. So far that thousand-vote differential seemed to be holding steady.
“How’s Denny doing?” Jenny asked. “You brought him along, didn’t you? I always loved getting to stay up late on election night.”
Yes, Joanna thought, but both those other times we won. This time we might not.
“He’s here all right. Grandma Brady brought along a new Lego set to help keep him occupied.”
“What about Marliss Shackleford?” Jenny asked. “Is she there, too?”
Marliss, a reporter for the local paper, the Bisbee Bee, had been a burr under Joanna’s saddle for as long as she’d been sheriff. She had also been an unapologetic supporter of Joanna’s opponent.
“No sign of her so far,” Joanna answered. “I’m guessing she’s making herself at home at someone else’s post-election party.”
“I’m sure,” Jenny grumbled. “I wonder whose. Do you have your victory speech ready to deliver?”
“Not a speech so much,” Joanna said, “just a few words thanking the people who’ve done all the work.”
In actual fact Joanna had prepared two separate sets of remarks, one for a win and the other for a loss. She was still a Girl Scout at heart, and Girl Scouts are always prepared.
A couple of women, two of her loyal volunteers both proudly displaying their BRADY FOR SHERIFF buttons, approached the table. Joanna knew them both—they were old friends of her mother’s from the Presbyterian church who had also shown up at Eleanor and George’s post-funeral barbecue, but right that moment a weary Joanna couldn’t for the life of her come up with either of their names. Despite almost eight years in elected office, Joanna Brady had yet to master the one essential task that is the mark of a true politician—the ability to remember names.
“Some of the guests are here, so I have to go,” Joanna told Jenny quickly. “But I’ll call you when we have a final tally.”
“You promise?” Jenny asked.
“I promise.”
“No matter how late it is?”
“No matter how late.”
“Sorry,” Joanna said to the new arrivals, stowing the phone and hoping to cover her momentary failure in the name department. “It was my daughter checking in from Flagstaff.”
“I can’t believe Jenny’s already away at college,” said one. “Eleanor was just as proud as punch over her. Bragged about her constantly, like she was the greatest thing since sliced bread.”
If Eleanor Lathrop Winfield had bragged about her granddaughter to others, very little of that praise had ever made it back to Joanna’s ears.
Dennis chose that moment to slip away from his Lego project. He came over to where Joanna was sitting and snuggled up to her. “Are we still winning?” he asked.
Joanna glanced at the screen. The vote count had increased, so results from some of the more populous precincts must have come in. The difference between her votes and Hubble’s was now under a thousand—only a few votes under, but under nonetheless.
She gave her son a hug. “So far so good,” she said.
“Are we going to go home soon?” he wanted to know.
Joanna glanced at her watch and saw that it wasn’t quite ten. “Probably not very soon,” she told him. “Are you tired?”
Denny nodded and snuggled some more, a sure sign that he was right at the end of his endurance.
There was a seating area in one corner of the social hall that held a sofa and two matching chairs. “Why don’t you go over there and rest on that couch for a while?” she suggested, pointing.
“You’ll wake me up if anything happens?”
“I will.”
Without a murmur of objection, Denny headed for the sofa. “What a good boy,” one of the two women exclaimed, watching him go.
“Thank you,” Joanna said. “And yes, he is a good boy.”
“Come on, Alva,” the other said. “They’re putting out the coffee. Let’s go get some.”
That’s when the name surfaced: Alva—Alva Bullard. “Thank you both for all your help,” Joanna said.
“You’re most welcome, Sheriff Brady,” Alva replied with a smile. “It’s the least we can do.”
Joanna glanced up at the screen. Another 5,000 votes had been added to the total, and it looked as though her lead was slowly being whittled away. Now there was an 830-vote difference. Yes, once her lead disappeared completely, she’d be more than happy to let Denny sleep through the outcome.
More of her supporters filed in. As the room began to fill up, Joanna realized that aching back or no, it was time for her to put a smile on her face, pull on her big-girl panties—to say nothing of her shoes—and start working the room. She had located the stray shoes and was in the process of forcing her feet back into them when it happened—the sudden, undeniable gush of liquid as her water broke, accompanied by the pressure of that first full-on contraction. The baby didn’t give a whit that she was three weeks early or that her mother was up to her ears in election-night festivities. It was Sage’s time, and she was coming now!
The jolting intensity of the first contraction took Joanna’s breath away. When it finally passed, she turned around and tried to catch Butch’s eye. It seemed to take forever before he noticed her frantic wave.
“Don’t worry,” he said, hurrying over to her. “We’re still ahead.”
“It’s not the election,” she told him through gritted teeth. “It’s the baby!”
“The baby?” Butch repeated. “What, she’s coming now? Are you sure? Isn’t it too soon?”
“It may be soon, but yes, I’m sure. This isn’t my first rodeo. My water just broke,” she said. “I left a mess under the table, but we need to get me to the hospital now.”
“Where’s Denny?” Butch demanded. “I thought he was right here.”
“He’s over in the corner, sleeping, and let’s leave him there. If you tell Jim Bob what’s going on, I’m sure he and Eva Lou will look after him.”
“Okay,” Butch said. “I’ll go get the car.”
Except that was when the next contraction hit, and it was another surprisingly forceful one. With the second contraction coming so close on the heels of the first, Joanna knew that the baby was coming in one hell of a hurry.
“No car,” she gasped. “Call 911. We’re going to need an ambulance and an EMT!”
For a second it looked as though Butch was prepared to argue, but then he thought better of it and reached for his phone. Just then Marianne Maculyea appeared beside him. “Is something wrong?”
Not only was the Reverend Marianne Maculyea the pastor of the Tombstone Canyon UMC, she had been Joanna’s best friend since junior high.
“My water just broke,” Joanna told her. “Butch is calling 911.”
A minute or so later, when Butch and Marianne led Joanna outside, she was still barefoot and wrapped head to toe in a flowing robe of borrowed tablecloth. No doubt the party would continue without them, but regardless of how the final voting tallies came out, Joanna had other fish to fry that night and wouldn’t be on hand either to declare victory or face down defeat.