Page 8 of Protected By the Single Dad Sheriff

Isabella glances back at the changing room where the white gown is presumably heaped on the floor. "I'm not sure. I don't need it anymore."

"Libby sells clothes too," Emma informs her. "Maybe she could sell it for you."

Libby looks startled at being volunteered, but quickly recovers. "I don't typically handle formal wear that... high-end, but I could make some calls if you're interested."

Isabella considers this. "Would it sell here? It's a Marchesa. Retails for—" She cuts herself off, looking embarrassed. "It was very expensive."

Libby whistles low. "Honey, no one in Cedar Falls is buying Marchesa, but I have a contact at a bridal consignment shop in Portland who might be interested."

"That would be wonderful," Isabella says, relief evident in her voice. "I'd like to be rid of it, honestly."

There's a story there—more than just a last-minute case of cold feet, I suspect. The way she looks at that dress, like it represents something that was suffocating her.

"I'll need your contact information," Libby says, moving toward the register. "For when it sells."

Isabella hesitates. "Actually, could you donate the proceeds to a local charity? Maybe something for children?"

The request surprises me. Most people don't casually donate what must be thousands of dollars.

"Our school's art program could use funding," I find myself saying. "Budget cuts hit them hard last year."

Isabella's face brightens. "Perfect. I love art."

"You're an artist?" Emma asks, suddenly more interested.

"I used to be," Isabella replies, something wistful entering her expression. "I studied art history in college and worked at a gallery for a while."

"What happened?" The question slips out before I can stop myself.

She meets my eyes, and there's a quiet resignation there that makes me regret asking. "Life happened. Family expectations. Practical considerations."

I know that tone. It's the same one I use when someone asks why I haven't moved to a bigger department with better pay and advancement opportunities. Sometimes our choices aren't really choices at all.

"Well," Libby interjects, breaking the moment, "let's get you rung up. I've put together a few outfits that should get you through several days."

As Isabella pays for her new clothes, I notice she uses cash—a thick envelope of it pulled from her small purse. No credit cards. Another clue that she's trying to avoid being tracked.

"Do you have luggage?" I ask when she finishes the transaction.

She shakes her head. "Just the dress I came in and whatever I'm buying now."

Libby produces a sturdy canvas tote bag with "Cedar Falls" printed on the side. "On the house," she says with a wink. "Consider it a welcome gift."

"Thank you," Isabella says, genuine gratitude in her voice as she folds her new clothes into the bag. "For everything."

We exit the shop, Isabella now looking like any other tourist who might be passing through our town, except for the slightly shell-shocked look in her eyes that suggests she's still processing her own actions.

"Libby mentioned the motel is full," I tell her as we approach the cruiser. "She said there's another one in Millfield, about forty minutes from here."

She bites her lower lip, uncertainty crossing her features. "Is there a bus station in town? Or a car rental place?"

"Bus comes through once a day, at 6 AM. Nearest car rental is in Portland, about two hours away." I hesitate, then add, "Look, it's getting late. The girls need dinner, and you look like you could use a hot meal yourself. Why don't you come to our place? We can figure out your next steps after everyone's fed."

The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise her. I've never invited a stranger to my home—especially not a woman, and definitely not with the girls. Claire would be shocked. I'm a little shocked myself.

"I couldn't impose," she says right away.

"Mac and cheese!" Sophie reminds her, bouncing on her toes. "And Dad makes the good kind, with the crunchy stuff on top."

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