"I didn't see you at the game Saturday."

"I swung by for a couple of innings." He'd spotted Cassie in the stands, and he hadn't wanted to make her uncomfortable.

"You didn't make it to Sunday dinner yesterday at the farm."

"Did you miss me?"

"Not particularly." But there was something in his eyes that wiped the sneer off her face. "Is something wrong, Devin?"

"No."

"Jared told me about Joe Dolin, the work release. It's bothering you."

"That's a mild term for it. I'm keeping my eye on him," he murmured, and turned his face into Layla's sweet-smelling neck to nuzzle.

"I'll bet you are," Savannah murmured. She brushed a hand over her daughter's head, then let it rest on Devin's shoulder in a gesture of affection and support that surprised both of them.

"Am I growing on you, Savannah?"

She let her hand drop, but the corners of her mouth quirked up. "Like you said, I'm stuck with you. Now give me my kid."

Devin settled Layla in her mother's arms, then kissed Savannah, firm and quick, on the mouth. "See you. See you, Bry," he added as he rose.

Bryan mumbled something, hampered by a mouthful of apple-filled doughnut.

"Damn MacKades," Savannah said under her breath. But she was smiling as she watched Devin stride away.

By noon, the town was bursting at the seams. People crowded the sidewalks and spilled over porches and front yards. Kids raced everywhere at once, and the bawling of fretful babies rose through the air like discordant music.

Several streets were barricaded to keep the parade route clear. Devin posted himself at the main intersection so that he could soothe travelers who had forgotten about parade day, or were from far enough out of town that they'd never heard of it.

He offered alternate routes, or invitations to park and join the festivities.

The two-way radio hitched to his belt belched and squawked with static or calls from deputies placed at distant points along the route.

Across the street from him, at the corner of the gas station, a clown sold colorful balloons. Half a block down, ice cream and snow cones were big sellers. They melted in the heat almost as soon as they were passed from hand to hand.

Devin looked at the wrappers, the spills, the bits of broken toys and balloons. Cleanup was going to be a bitch.

Then, in the distance, he heard the first of the marching bands approaching the square. The brassy music, the click-clack of booted feet, had his practical frame of mind shifting into the pleasures of his youth.

What the hell—there was just nothing like a parade.

"Officer! Officer!"

Resigned, Devin turned back to the barricade, where another car had pulled up. With one look, he summed up the middle-aged couple in the late-model sedan as hot, frazzled and annoyed.

"Yes, ma'am." He leaned down to the open window and gave them his best public-servant smile. "What can I do for you?"

"We have to get through here." The driver's irritated tone carried the flavor of the North that went with his Pennsylvania tags.

"I told you not to get off the highway, George. You just had to take the scenic route."

"Be quiet, Marsha. We have to get through," he said again.

"Well, now." Devin ran his hand over his chin. "The problem here is that we've got a parade going on." To prove it, the marching band let out a blare of trumpets, a boom of drums. Devin pitched his voice over the din. "We won't be able to open this road for another hour."

That sparked a heated domestic argument, demands, accusations. Devin kept the easy smile on his face. "Where y'all headed?''

"D.C."

"Well, I'll tell you what you can do, if you're in a hurry. You turn around and head straight up this road for about five miles. You're going to see signs to route 70. Take the eastbound. You'll hit the Washington Beltway—that's 495—in just about an hour."

"I told you not to get off the highway," Marsha said again.

George huffed. "How was I supposed to know some little one-horse town would block off the streets?"

"If you're not in a hurry," Devin continued, calm as a lake, "you can turn around and pull into that field where there's a sign for parking. It's free. We got a nice parade here." He glanced over as a junior majorette tossed up her baton and snagged it, to the forceful applause of the crowd. "I can give you a nice, pretty route into D.C."

"I haven't got time for any damn parade." Puffing out his cheeks, George slapped the sedan in reverse. Devin could hear them arguing as he jockeyed the car into a turn and headed off.

"Ain't that a shame..." Devin muttered, and turned, nearly knocking Cassie over. He grabbed her instinctively, then let her go as if her skin had burned his hands. "Sorry. Didn't see you."

"I thought I should wait until you'd finished being diplomatic."

"Yeah. George and Marsha don't know what they're missing."

Smiling, she watched the senior majorettes twirl and tumble. But in her mind she was still seeing Devin in his uniform. So competent and male. "I know. You must be hot. Would you like me to get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine. Ah..." His tongue was in knots. He didn't know the last time he'd seen her in shorts. And over the years he'd done his best not to think about her legs. Now here they were, all long and smooth, showcased by neat little cuffed shorts the color of plums. "Where's Emma?"

"She's made friends with the little McCutcheon girl, Lucy. They're in her yard." It was easier to talk to him if she wasn't looking at him, so Cassie concentrated on the slow-moving convertible and its passenger, the waving and flouncily dressed current agriculture princess. "Are you angry with me, Devin?"

"No, of course not." He stared so hard at the princess that she flashed him a brilliant, hopeful smile, and a very personal wave. But it was Cassie he saw, looking shocked and delicate. And beautiful.

"You've flustered Julie," Cassie murmured, noting the exchange.

"Julie? Who's Julie?"

Her quick laugh surprised them both. Then they were staring at each other. "Are you sure you're not mad?"

"No. Yes. Yes, I'm sure." He jammed his hands into his pockets, where they would be safe. "Not at you. At me. Like I said, I was out of line the other day."

"I didn't mind."

The blare of the next band rang in his ears. He was sure he hadn't heard her correctly. "Excuse me?"

"I said I—" She broke off when his two-way squawked.

"Sheriff. Sheriff, this here's Donnie. We got a little situation down to quadrant C. You there, Sheriff?"

"Quadrant C, my butt," Devin muttered. "He's at the elementary school. Watching too many Dragnet reruns."

"I'll let you go," Cassie said quickly as he whipped out his two-way. "You're busy."

"If you'd—" He cursed again, because she was already hurrying through the cheering crowd. "Mac-Kade," he snapped into the receiver.

The little situation turned out to be a harmless brawl between overly loyal students at rival high schools. Devin broke it up, snarled at Donnie, then helped a mother deal with her terrified daughter, who had lost her breakfast over the idea of twirling her baton in public.

By the time the last marching boot clicked, the last flag waved and the last balloon drifted into the sky, he had to oversee the traffic headed for the park and the cleanup detail, and help a couple of weeping lost children find their way back to Mama.

He took his time cooling off under the stingy spray of his office shower, then gratefully retired his uniform until the next official event. By the time he made it to the park and snuck the cruiser in behind a trail of cars, the picnic, with its grilling food and boisterous games, was well under way.

There was Softball, horseshoes, pitching contests, egg-throwing contests, three-legged races. He saw Shane nuzzling Frannie Spader, the curvy redhead he had so generously offered Devin a few days before.

There was Rafe, stepping up to bat, and Jared winding up to pitch. Regan and Savannah were spread out in the shade with their babies.

There were dogs and kids, big-bellied men sitting in lawn chairs, discussing sports and politics, old women fanning themselves and laughing. There was Cy, the town mayor, looking ridiculous as always, sporting a pair of violently checkered Bermuda shorts that still exposed far too much of his hairy legs.

Mrs. Metz was shouting encouragement to her grandchildren, gnawing on a chicken leg and gossiping with Miss Sarah Jane.

Good God, Devin thought, he really loved them. All of them.

He wandered over the grass, stopping here and there to chat or listen to a complaint or a snippet of news. With his hands tucked in his back pockets he watched solemnly with old Mr. Wineburger as horseshoes were tossed and clanged against the pole.

He was debating different techniques of horseshoe pitching when Emma came up quietly and held out her arms. He picked her up, settled her on his hip while Wineburger wheezed out opinions. But Devin's mind had begun to wander.

Little Emma smelled like sunshine and was as tiny as a fairy. But she was nearly seven now, he recalled with a jolt. Soon she wouldn't want to be picked up and held. She would, like the young girls he saw over at the edge of the field, be flirting with young boys, want to be left alone to experiment with being female.

He sighed and gave her a quick squeeze.

"How come you're sad?" she wanted to know.

"I'm not. I'm just thinking that you're growing up on me. How about a snow cone?"

"Okay. A purple one."

"A purple one," he agreed, and set her down. Hands linked, they walked toward the machine manned by the American Legion. He bought two, then settled down with her on the grass to watch the soft-ball match.