The Sheriff's Surrender (9 page)

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Authors: Marilyn Pappano

BOOK: The Sheriff's Surrender
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He mouthed a curse seconds before she sat again and folded her hands together. “Okay,” she said cheerily. “Which one's the lie? Have you ever in your life had your heart broken by a married woman, or are you really not interested in any married women?”

He forced an unsteady smile. “You broke my heart when you picked Rafferty over me.”

“Oh, darlin', I never touched your heart. It was already in pieces—broken by a woman married to someone else, or so you said. Wasn't true, was it?”

“I said she
belonged
to someone else. You made the leap
to marriage on your own.” He tried not to squirm under her steady gaze, but wasn't successful. “Look, it's a part of my life that I wish had never happened and would give anything to forget. I didn't want to discuss it with you or anyone else, so I lied.”

“So she wasn't married. And she didn't choose another man over you.”

In a sense, she did. She'd chosen to defend Leon Miller, knowing that he was guilty, knowing that Reese was opposed to it. She'd weighed her relationship with
him
against the rights of a wife-beating bastard to go free to do it again, and she'd chosen the bastard.

“Did you love her?”

“No.” The flat lie didn't sit well on his conscience, but he ignored the twinge. “We had an affair that never should have happened, and it ended badly. End of story.”

“You didn't love her, you were just using her for sex—but she broke your heart and you're still not over her.” Shay squeezed his hand gently. “Sounds to me like you're a long way from the end of this story.”

He forced a careless grin. “Why are we even discussing it? It's got nothing to do with anything. It was a long time ago. It's over. Nothing's ever going to change. It was a mistake, and could never be anything but a mistake.”

“Hey, you don't have to convince me, darlin'. I'll believe you.” She paused. “I'm just not sure you believe yourself.”

“Change the subject or go take care of your customers.”

She glanced around the dining room, then turned back to him, apparently satisfied that her waitresses had everything well in hand. “I'll change the subject. So…who was the woman at your house Monday night?”

“You know what you remind me of when you're like this, Shay? Pinky, Inez Taylor's little mutated rat dog. When Pinky grabs hold of something, she won't let go to save her life.”

“Yeah, and I heard the last thing she grabbed hold of was your ankle.”

“Tore holes in a pair of perfectly good uniform pants and
left teeth marks in my boot. Given a choice, I would've shot her right then and there, but Inez would have had my hide.”

“Given a choice,
I
would have shot Inez,” Shay said sourly. There was no love lost between the Raffertys and the Taylors—between anyone in town and the Taylors. They were unpleasant people whose goal in life was to torment everyone around them, and they did it quite well, which meant Reese dealt with them more than he would have liked.

“So call me Pinky, and tell me about this mystery woman.”

One of the waitresses set his breakfast in front of him and flashed a smile before rushing off to deliver the other four plates she carried. He sprinkled everything with salt and pepper, cut the ham into bite-size pieces, then broke open the biscuit and ladled cream gravy over it before finally facing her. “All right. I'm going to tell you this in confidence, and you have to swear to me you won't repeat it to anyone else.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She made the accompanying gesture, then waited expectantly.

“You remember my cousin Jace?”

“Six foot two of ooh-la-la?” She pretended to fan herself.

“Oh, yes, I remember Jace.”

“You know he's a cop in Kansas City. He's got this case where this guy's trying to kill the assistant D.A. who sent him to prison. Jace put her—”

“The assistant D.A.'s a woman?”

He nodded. “He put her in a safe house and the bad guys shot it up, so he brought her here.”

“To your house? Why didn't he lock her up in jail?”

“They found the safe house. Generally, only cops have that information. If he's got a dirty cop, she wouldn't be safe in jail. But here… She has no ties to Heartbreak. No one would think to look for her here. No one knows she's here except Jace and me—and now you.”

Shay's expression turned regretful. “And Easy. And Olivia, Guthrie, Ethan and Grace.”

Once she'd finished blurting out names, Reese took a few minutes to eat and consider the news. Olivia and Guthrie Har
ris were the Raffertys' nearest neighbors, and Guthrie and Ethan James were half brothers. The six of them were best of friends and had few, if any, secrets. They were also decent, honorable people who knew when to keep quiet and what was better left unsaid.

“I'll tell them I forced the truth out of you this morning—that she was just an old girlfriend from college. You spent a few days together, which helped you remember why you dumped her all those years ago. No big deal.”

“Works for me.” After all, it wasn't so far from the truth. Unfortunately, in addition to remembering why their affair ended, he also kept remembering why it had started. Frequent reminders that the beginning wasn't important—that was what he needed, along with vivid reminders why the end
was
important. Those were easy enough. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could easily summon an image of Neely in the courtroom, arguing Leon Miller's case, smugly, righteously insisting that the charges against him be dropped. That image was always followed by another—Judy Miller, sprawled grotesquely on the courthouse steps, blood turning her white blouse red, her eyes open, unseeing, yet somehow accusing.

His appetite gone, Reese pushed his plate away, then pulled his wallet from his pocket. Shay made a shooing gesture. “Your money's no good here, Sheriff.”

“Hey, I'm not one of the deputies. I actually get paid a living wage.”

“My apology for talking too much. Of course, if you'd get a steady girlfriend, we wouldn't all be so tempted to gossip about a woman at your place.”

He slid out of the booth and picked up his Stetson. “If I ever get a steady girlfriend,
then
you'll have reason to gossip.” With a sly wink and a lazy grin, he clamped his hat on his head and left the café. By the time he reached the Blazer, his grin had faded into a hard, flat line. He wanted neither a steady girlfriend nor a woman at his place. He'd been the
subject of enough gossip in his lifetime, and the last thing he needed was more.

No, the very last thing he needed was Neely on his mind. In his house. And sure as hell not in his life.

 

In all her life Neely couldn't remember a time when she'd had the freedom to lounge around and do nothing but watch television all day. Throughout her father's arrest and trial, she'd run the house and taken care of the younger three girls while her mother went through what was politely described as a nervous spell. All through junior high she'd continued to shoulder responsibility for the family while Doris Irene worked, and in high school she'd spent every spare minute studying or working at one of three part-time jobs. She'd been obsessed with getting through college and law school, with gaining the education and the expertise to help people like her father, and since her mother couldn't help her, she'd helped herself. She'd won scholarships, baby-sat, clerked in a store, flipped burgers, cleaned houses—had done everything, it seemed, but get enough sleep and food.

Now she had an entire day to do nothing. She didn't have to get dressed or shower or brush her teeth if she didn't want to. She could eat soup straight out of the can or cook a full meal, could sleep all day, veg out with the TV, read or snoop through the house from top to bottom.

Of course she did shower, dress and brush her teeth—but the clothes she put on were the same shorts and T-shirt she'd slept in, and the toothbrush she used came from Reese's medicine cabinet. That was because hers was gone—her toothbrush, toothpaste, clothing, shoes, purse, everything. He'd taken every damn thing except the clothes she was wearing and her reading glasses—left behind, no doubt, so she could read his smug little note.

She'd searched the house and found the locked closet in his bedroom and the locked truck in the garage and assumed her stuff was one place or the other. He was smart to lock it away, because if she could have found one clean outfit, one pair of
shoes and the money and credit cards stashed in her purse, she would have been long gone, and he never would have seen her again.

Which would make him very happy.

And her, too. That was what she wanted. Really, it was.

She sat at the kitchen table, a can of pop in front of her, watching the second hand on the wall clock sweep around. His note had said he would be back “this evening.” In her book, evening started at six. Did that mean she had only one more hour to go nuts with boredom before he came home and gave her a target for her frustration? Or did evening to him mean eight, nine, ten o'clock?

She smiled thinly. If it did, she would kill him.

She heard the sound of the garage door opening first, then saw the lights flicker on the alarm keypad next to the back door. If she had a pair of shoes, she could dash out one door while he was coming in another. She would head north because there were no windows on that end of the house and by the time he realized she was gone, she would be… Where? In his pasture? Racing down the driveway into his town? Pleading with one of his neighbors to help her escape? Oh, yeah, like
that
would work.

He was whistling tunelessly when he came into the kitchen. When she turned her iciest glare on him, he stopped short, ended the song and simply looked at her.

He looked better in the green and khaki uniform than any man had a right to. In spite of a day's wear, the creases were sharp, the fabric hardly wrinkled. The shirt fitted snugly across his broad shoulders and tapered just as snugly to his narrow waist, and the pants—

She was better off not noticing how snugly
they
fitted.

After laying his hat upside down on the table, he unhooked the radio attached to his belt and set it aside, also.
Keep going,
she silently urged.
Take off the gun belt and give me just one lousy chance at the pistol…

He started to pull apart the Velcro fastener that secured the heavy black belt, then gave her a narrow look and thought
better of it. Instead he went to the sink to wash his hands. “Jeez, Neely, you didn't even bother to get dressed?”

Her fingers curled around the pop can as she tested its weight. It was half full—enough to make a mess, enough to let him know he'd been hit—and while he reacted to that, she would have time to grab a knife, a frying pan, a chair. But she didn't throw the can, though she did crumple it a bit. “Where are my shoes? My purse? My suitcase? My
clothes?

“Oh. Guess I should have left something out for you.”

“Get my stuff.”

“I will in a—”

The can crumpled a little more as she slowly stood. “Get my stuff now.”

He looked from her to the can, then picked up the radio and the cowboy hat and disappeared down the hall. A moment later he returned with her suitcase in one hand, her purse in the other. She thought of all the rude things she would like to say, but settled instead for snatching her property from him and stalking into the guest room.

The first thing she did was change into a lavender jumper. It was sleeveless, as soft as a well-worn T-shirt and reached to her ankles with a slit to one knee. Immediately she felt better.

Her next step was to locate a pair of sandals…or loafers…or tennis shoes. She had dresses, shorts, jeans, shirts and lingerie, but no shoes. Even her fuzzy little house slippers were gone.

“Bastard,” she muttered as she reached inside her purse for her wallet. If he was going to insist on locking up her possessions every time he left—and she would bet he was—she would be prepared next time. Her toothbrush would be in the guest bath and her cash and credit cards would be easily accessible under the—

Dumping the contents of her bag onto the bed, she sorted through everything, though it was obvious her wallet wasn't there. It was easily the largest item she carried in her purse,
to say nothing of the fact that it was cherry-red. “Damn him! Damn, damn—”

“Looking for something?”

She dropped her empty bag on the bed, then slowly turned to face Reese, standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. How did he manage to look so damn honest and open when he'd
stolen
from her? “I want it back.”

He pretended neither innocence nor ignorance. He simply shook his head.

“You can't do this! You can't just take my stuff!”

“Oh, come on, Neely. It's not as if I'm going to go out and run up your credit cards, spend your cash or sell your ID. I'm just…holding it. You'll get it all back.”

There were things in the wallet besides the credit cards, cash and ID, she wanted to point out—sentimental things such as photographs of her family, a note or two, a single dried flower. The photos were replaceable—her sisters each had copies—but the notes and the flower weren't. If he recognized them—and how could he not?—Reese would be more likely to destroy them than preserve them.

If he gave them back to her at that very moment, she would happily consider destroying them herself.

Her cheeks were flushed with anger and more—the prospect of humiliation?—as she fought the urge to childishly stamp her foot. “I want my wallet back.”

He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms over his chest. “What's in it that you don't want me to see?”

The temperature of her blush climbed a few degrees higher. “N-nothing. It's…it's the principle. It's mine, and you have no right to take it.”

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