When he’d checked in with Adam earlier, his son had told him a strange tale of bats and ghosts and a woman in “bird boots” paying him five bucks to find her purse. If Dylan hadn’t already met the woman in question, he probably wouldn’t have believed Adam’s story. Adam had a tendency to make up a lot of stories, but not even Adam could have made up those boots.
“Hey, there, Dylan,” Paris Fernwood called out as she rushed from behind the counter, her arms filled with plates of food.
“Hey, Paris,” he returned and reached for his black Stetson. He took it off and ran his fingers through his hair. As he moved toward a vacant stool, he exchanged “heys” with several locals.
“What can I get for you, Sheriff?” Iona Osborn asked from behind the counter.
“The usual.” He took a seat on the red vinyl stool and placed his hat on his knee.
Iona grabbed a hidden pencil from the ten-gallon pile of wispy gray hair on her head and wrote down his order. Then she clipped it to the stainless-steel ticket wheel. “Two fries and two cheeseburgers to go,” she yelled, even though the cook stood just on the other side of the half wall. “One with everything, one plain with mayo only,” she added.
Without missing a turn of his spatula or looking up to see who’d placed the order, Jerome said, “I’ll get that right out to you, Sheriff.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Iona reached for a big gray tub and began to clear the counter of dirty plates and glasses. “So did ya find that flatlander?”
Dylan didn’t even bother asking how the waitress knew police business. In Gospel, everyone just knew. Not only did Iona have the distinction of having the biggest hair in town, she was also the biggest gossip, which in Gospel was quite an accomplishment.
“We found him on the lower east face of Mount Regan. He saw all that snow and decided to do a little skiing,” he said and hooked the heel of one boot on the stool’s metal rung. “In his shorts and tennis shoes.”
Iona dumped the last glass in the gray tub, then reached for a washcloth. “Flatlanders,” she scoffed and wiped down the counter. “Most of ‘em traipse off into the wilderness without so much as a first-aid kit.” She worked at a ketchup spot and got to the important question. “Well, did he bust anything? Melba’s bet on a heap of fractures this year.”
He knew about the Flatlander Pool, of course. He didn’t play, but he figured it was all pretty harmless. “Broke his right ankle and tore some ligaments in his knee,” he answered. “Has quite a case of exposure, too.”
“Right ankle, you say? I bet on a sprained right ankle. Don’t suppose I could claim a break as a sprain, though.”
“No, I don’t suppose you can,” he said and tossed his hat on the cleaned counter.
The front door to the diner opened, setting off the cowbell tied to the knob. Loretta sang her last note, a plate broke somewhere in the rear, and Iona leaned across the counter and spoke in a loud whisper. “She’s back!”
Dylan glanced over his shoulder, and there, standing by the jukebox, looking as fresh as a peach, was MZBHAVN herself. She’d changed out of her tight jeans and into a little summer dress with little straps. She’d pulled her hair up in the back and put away her boots in favor of flat sandals that crisscrossed over her feet.
“She was in here around noon,” Iona said beneath her breath. “Ordered a chef’s salad, dressing on the side, asking all sorts of questions.”
“What kind of questions?” He turned and watched Ms. Spencer walk right past him, eyes forward, as if she didn’t notice the attention she attracted. Through the thick odor of grease and the evening’s blue plate special, he could swear he almost smelled the scent of peaches on her skin. The hem of her dress flirted with the backs of her thighs as she moved to a booth in the back. She slid across the worn red vinyl to the corner and reached for a menu. A lock of her blond hair fell across her cheek, and she raised a hand and swept it behind her ear.
“She wanted to know if everything in her salad was fresh and she asked about available men.”
“Available men?” Hunger curled deep in the pit of Dylan’s belly, and he wasn’t positive it had anything to do with food this time.
“Yeah, available young men to clean out the Donnelly house. At least that’s what she says.”
He turned back to Iona. “And you don’t believe her?”
The waitress’s lips pursed with disapproval. “I called Ada over at the motel, and sure enough, the woman checked in there. I guess she made a long-distance call from the lobby. Ada says she made a big stink, yelling and cursing and carrying on about weeds and dirt, and I guess the place is full of bat- you know what, but she didn’t say ‘you know what.’ Ada says she has a foul mouth and a bad temper. Ada also said the woman started right away asking about available men, even before the ink was dry on her paperwork. She isn’t wearing a wedding ring. So she’s probably divorced, and she told us if we knew anyone interested in helping her that she’s staying at the Sandman Motel for a few days. Sounds to me like she’s lookin‘ to start things up out there again.”
Which Dylan figured was one of the dumbest things he’d heard in a while, but it didn’t surprise him. Even after five years, people in town stilled loved to talk about Sheriff Donnelly and the things he’d done in that old house. The unsavory details of the sheriff’s personal life had been the biggest shock to hit town since the earthquake of ‘83. “Sounds like she just needs help cleaning up bat droppings. Nothing wrong with that.”
Iona shoved the tub below the counter, then folded her arms across her ample bosom. “She’s from California,” the waitress said, as if no further explanation was needed. She gave one anyway. “Ada said that when the woman was in the motel, her jeans were real tight. She didn’t have a detectable panty line, so we figured she’s obviously wearing thong underwear, and the only reason a woman would ever wear something that uncomfortable is to show off for men. Everyone knows those California women play fast and loose.”
Dylan looked over his shoulder and watched Paris take the blond woman’s order. Ms. Spencer pointed to several different places on the menu, and by Paris’s pained expression, she was obviously one of those pain-in-the-ass “on the side” girls. Ms. Spencer looked like trouble, all right, but not the kind Iona meant. Dylan unhooked his bootheel and stood. “I guess I better go ask her about those panties,” he said. “Can’t have a woman walking around in a thong and me not knowing about it.”
“Sheriff, you’re bad.” Iona giggled like a teenager as he walked away, across the red-and-white linoleum, to the booth in the back.
When Ms. Spencer didn’t look up, he said, “Hello, there, heard you’ve had a real rough day.”
She gazed up at him then. Looked at him through the clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen. Blue the color of Sawtooth Lake. So clear he could see the bottom.
“You heard about my problem?”
“I heard about your bats.”
“I guess good news travels fast.”
She didn’t ask if he’d like to sit, and he didn’t wait for an invitation. He slid into the seat across from her.
“My son is one of the boys you paid to retrieve your purse.”
Her gaze moved over his face and she said, “Then Adam must belong to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He settled back in the bench seat and folded his arms across his chest. Her expression gave nothing away. Purposely smooth, this woman was in control.
“I hope you don’t mind that I hired your son.”
“I don’t mind, but I think you overpaid those boys just to get your purse for you.” He made her nervous, which didn’t really tell him anything. His badge made most people nervous. Could mean she had unpaid parking tickets and nothing more. It could also mean she was hiding something, but as long as she stayed out of trouble, she could keep her secrets. Hell, he understood about secrets. He had a big one of his own. “I also hear you’re looking to hire young men to help you clean out that house.”
&
nbsp; “I didn’t specify age. Frankly, I’d welcome your great-grandfather if he’d kill those damn bats for me.”
Dylan stretched his legs and his foot bumped hers. He’d crossed the boundary of her personal space, and as he suspected she would, she immediately drew her feet back and sat a bit straighter. He didn’t even try to hide his smile. “Bats won’t hurt you, Ms. Spencer.”
“I’ll just take your word for that, Sheriff,” she said, then glanced up as Paris set a glass of iced tea and a small plate of sliced lemons on the table.
“They don’t get any fresher than that.” Paris’s thick brows lowered over her brown eyes. “I just sliced them.”
The corners of Ms. Spencer’s lips turned up in a very insincere smile. “Thank you.”
Dylan had grown up with Paris. Played Red Rover and kickball with her in grade school, been in most of her classes in junior high, and listened to her valedictorian speech on graduation night. He’d have to say he knew her pretty well. She was usually pretty easygoing, but somehow, MZBHAVN had managed to irritate the hell of Paris.
“Ms. Spencer here is our newest citizen,” he said. “Appears she’s going to be staying out at the Donnelly place.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Growing up, he’d always felt a little sorry for Paris, and he’d always gone out of his way to treat her nice. She had beautiful long hair that she usually wore in a braid. Shy, she didn’t talk much, and while a man could appreciate that sometimes in a woman, she also had the misfortune of being built like her father, Jerome, tall, big-boned, with man-hands. A guy could overlook a lot of physical imperfections in a woman. A big nose and linebacker shoulders were one thing, but wide hands and beefy fingers were something a man really couldn’t overlook. They ranked up there with a mustache. A guy just couldn’t get himself excited about kissing a girl with facial hair, and there was absolutely no way he ever wanted to look down and see man-hands reaching for his Johnson.
“Can I get you something while you wait, Dylan?” she asked.
“Nothing, thanks, honey. I’m sure my burgers are just about up.” And it probably didn’t help that Paris’s mother was only slightly more feminine than her father.
Paris smiled and threaded her fingers in front of her stomach. “How did you like that raspberry cobbler I dropped off the other day?”
Dylan hated any sort of fruit with little seeds that got stuck in his teeth. Adam had taken one look at it, declared it looked “all bloody,” and they’d thrown it out. “Adam and I ate it with ice cream,” he lied to make her happy.
“Tomorrow’s my day off and I’m making up some Amish cakes. I’ll bring one by.”
“That’s real sweet of you, Paris.”
Her eyes lit. “I’m getting ready for the fair next month.”
“You planning on winning a few blue ribbons this year?”
“Of course.”
“Paris here,” he said, focusing his gaze on Ms. Spencer, “wins more blue ribbons than any other woman in the county.”
Ms. Spencer raised the glass of tea to her lips. “Oh, how thrilling for you,” she murmured before she took a drink.
Paris’s brows lowered again. “My next order is up,” she said and turned on her heel.
Dylan tilted his head to one side and chuckled. “You’ve been in town less than twenty-four hours, and I see you’re already making friends.”
“This town hasn’t exactly sent out the Welcome Wagon.” She set the glass on the table and licked a corner of her lips. “Of course, it may have come but I wasn’t home. I was standing in the lobby of the Sandman Motel, getting abused by a woman in sponge rollers.”
“Ada Dover? What’d she do?”
Ms. Spencer leaned back and relaxed a little. “She practically needed my entire family history just to rent me a room. She wanted to know if I’d been convicted of any crime, and when I asked her if she wanted a urine sample, she told me I might not be so ornery if my jeans weren’t so tight.”
Dylan remembered those jeans. They’d been tight, all right, but there were several women in town whose Wranglers were downright painful to look at. “It’s probably not personal. Ada takes her job too serious sometimes. Like she’s renting out rooms at the White House.”
“Hopefully I’ll be out of there by tomorrow afternoon.”
His gaze lowered to her full lips, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to wonder if she would taste as good as she looked. He wondered what it would be like to eat the lip gloss from her mouth and bury his nose in her hair. “You still planning on staying for the whole six months?”
“Of course.”
He still had his doubts about her lasting more than a few days, but if she planned to stay, he figured he should let her know exactly what she was in for. “Then let me give you some advice that I’m sure you don’t want, and I’m equally sure you won’t take.” He raised his gaze and put an end to his mind’s wanderings before he embarrassed himself. “This isn’t California. People here don’t care if you’re from Westwood or South Central. They don’t care if you own a Mercedes or an old Buick, and they don’t care about where you shop. If you want to see a movie, you have to drive to Sun Valley, and unless you have a satellite dish, you get four television stations.
“We have two grocery stores, three gas stations, and two restaurants. You’re sitting in one. The other is down the street, but I would advise you not to eat at the Spuds and Suds. They were shut down twice last year on account of health violations. We have two different churches and a large Four-H Club.
“Gospel also has five bars and five gun-and-tackle stores. Now, that should tell you something.”
She reached for her tea and raised it to her lips. “What, that I’ve moved to a town of alcoholic, gun-toting, sheep-loving Four-H’ers?”
“Oh, boy,” he said as he shook his head. “That’s what I was afraid of. You’re going to be pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
“Me?” She set the glass back down and innocently placed a hand on her chest. “I swear to God, you aren’t even going to know I’m in town.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” He rose from the booth and looked down at her. “If you need help with the Donnelly house, ask the Aberdeen boys. They’re about to turn eighteen and not doing anything this summer. They live right across the street from you out there on Timberline, but ask before noon or they’ll already be out on the lake.”
Hope gazed up at the man towering over her, at his deep green eyes and the lock of brown hair that fell in an arc over his forehead. The light from the windows picked out streaks of gold that Hope would bet her Porsche were put there by the sun and not a beautician’s brush. Too bad he had no sense of humor, but she supposed when a man looked like the sheriff, humor wasn’t essential. “Thank you.”
He smiled, and for the first time, she noticed that while he certainly could have been cast in a big-budget Western, his teeth weren’t movie-star straight. They were white enough, yes, but they were a little bit crowded on the bottom. “And good luck, Ms. Spencer,” he drawled.
She supposed he meant she needed luck finding someone to take care of her bat problem and she hoped she didn’t need luck. He headed toward the front of the diner and her gaze followed.
His tan shirt fit flat against his back and was tucked inside tan pants with a brown stripe running down the side of each leg. Those pants should have looked like a fashion nightmare, but on him they seemed to accentuate his tight glutes and long legs. He had a revolver strapped to his hip, a pair of handcuffs, and a variety of leather pouches and cases hooked to his service belt.
Even with all that leather and hardware, he managed to move with the easy grace of a man who was in no great hurry to be anywhere other than where he happened to be. He exuded the confidence and authority of a man who could take care of himself and the little woman in his life. A testosterone cocktail that some women might find irresistible. Not Hope.
She watched him reach for the cowboy hat on the counter with
the same fluid motion he used to comb his fingers through his hair. He shoved the hat on his head and spoke to the older waitress near the cash register. The woman with the big hair giggled like a girl, and Hope glanced away. There had been a time in her life when she, too, might have melted just a bit beneath his slightly imperfect smile. Not anymore.
She looked back one last time at the sheriff and watched the rude waitress with the long braid hand him a paper sack. The journalist side of her brain churned with questions. She’d noticed the absence of a wedding ring on the man’s finger, not that that meant a damn thing, but by the conversation he’d had with the waitress, Hope would guess he wasn’t married. She would also hazard a rather obvious guess that the waitress had a thing for the good sheriff. Hope wondered if they were involved, but she doubted it. From just the few moments she’d witnessed them, any feeling beyond friendship seemed to be completely one-sided and rather pathetic. If the waitress had been nicer to Hope, she might have felt sorry for her. But the waitress wasn’t nice, and Hope had problems of her own.
Chapter Three
DEMONIC CAR ALARM HYPNOTIZES COMMUNITY
The hard chair in her motel room put Hope’s behind to sleep. She stood, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned. Her eyes, fixed on the blank screen of her laptop, blurred and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands. Nothing. For three hours she’d sat in that chair, straining her gritty eyes, racking her tired brain for something to fill up the screen. Anything. Yet the screen remained empty. She didn’t have one idea. She hadn’t written one sentence. Not even one bad sentence she could expand into something better.
Hope dropped her hands and turned from the laptop. She flopped on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. If she were at home, she was sure she’d be scrubbing her spotless bathroom, ironing her T-shirts, or flipping her mattress. If she had her nail kit, she’d be giving herself a manicure. She’d gotten so good at it, she sometimes wondered if she should just give up writing and do nails for a living.
True Confessions Page 3
