Hometown Sheriff

by Cheryl St. John

“I’d forgotten what a great person she is.”

  “You lit out of here and didn’t look back,” he replied.

  He was right about that. Ryanne hadn’t spared a thought for the town or the people she’d left behind. Her sights had been set on the future, not the past. “It’s been a while since I’ve walked this far on anything other than a treadmill,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Belong to a gym?”

  “A health club, actually, but, well, I had a treadmill in my condo.”

  “Had?”

  “Have,” she corrected.

  “You were always running,” he said. “You don’t run anymore?”

  “Not like that.” She’d missed it, she realized. Missed the exhilaration of the exercise and the fresh air.

  They passed the business district and walked along tree-lined streets by homes she hadn’t seen in years. Some were the same, some had been remodeled. One was even gone, a drive-through bank in its place.

  As they reached their street, Nick noticed Ryanne slowing down. Maybe the walk had tired her. If he thought a walk would tire him, he’d keep going until he reached Milwaukee. The scent of her hair had driven him crazy all evening. Even when he looked away, her smell invaded his senses. Truly unfair that someone so obviously not right for him could still have such a disturbing effect.

  They came abreast of the Sinclair house. From the front sidewalk where they stood, the porch lights on both houses were visible, as well as the lot that stretched between, the land where Nick’s vegetable garden bloomed. “Right now there are only a few, but later in the summer, fireflies are thick through there.” He’d certainly watched them from his window enough to know.

  She said nothing.

  “Remember when you cut that Morse code alphabet from the back of a cereal box and we learned it?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  A wave of déjà vu washed over him. “We’d signal each other at night, then sneak out and meet over there.” He pointed toward the back of the lot.

  “It used to be a field,” she remarked, and they ambled in that direction. Now a row of houses stood where Mr. Sweeney’s beans had grown.

  The sharp green scent of tomato plants hung in the air here, masking her fragrance, affording him a much needed reprieve.

  “Even though the trees have grown, I can still see your window from mine,” he told her. “I saw the light the other night. That’s why I barged over.”

  “I thought we were going to forget that.”

  “You were going to forget that.”

  She headed for her house, and he followed. She climbed the porch steps. Nick stood below, one foot on the bottom step. “Did you lock up?”

  She shook her head, her hair gleaming under the porch light. A smile crooked one side of her mouth.

  “Want me to come in with you? Check it out?”

  “No. This is Elmwood. I’d forgotten what it was like, but I feel safe.” She took another step, then turned back. “Thanks for taking me tonight.”

  “Just being neighborly.”

  “’Night then.”

  “’Night.”

  She turned, stepped into the house and closed the door. The lock clicked. He still thought it was odd that she’d shown up out of the blue with enough boxes to make it look as though she’d moved in. Other than a holiday here and there, he couldn’t remember her ever staying in Elmwood for more than a weekend. And she’d never visited when her mother wasn’t here.

  He headed home. The moon passed behind a cloud, temporarily casting the beanpoles and rows of thigh-high plants into blackness. Unable to resist, he glanced back and watched the light come on in the dining room window.

  Inside his house, he checked the thermostat, took clothes out of the dryer, drank a glass of milk and climbed the stairs. He found Jamie enviably sound asleep and sat in the chair beside his bed for a while, thinking how fortunate his child was to be oblivious to the world for nine or ten hours a night.

  At last Nick got up and made his way to his room, where he was drawn to the window that looked out upon the Whitaker house. Ryanne’s bedroom light was the only one on now, lacy curtains preventing him from seeing more than shadows when she moved.

  Once again he came to the conclusion that there wasn’t much he could do to relieve his ever-present state of frustration in this little town. The place was too small for casual dating to go unnoticed, and he didn’t have the time or the energy to spend on anything more. Neither did he want to subject Jamie to unstable relationships. He just wanted someone to care about, to have fun with.

  He’d gotten used to a good many situations in his life that weren’t his first choice; lack of romance was just another on the ever-growing list. Like lack of sleep. Boy, how he’d love to lay his weary head down on his pillow, close his eyes and have mind-numbing blackness creep over him. Sleep peacefully until he’d had his fill. He could only imagine the bliss of waking refreshed and free of the burdens that plagued his restless nights.

  Yeah, right. Instead he’d become an expert on Australian football, the only programming on ESPN in the wee hours of the morning.

  He glanced at the clock, figuring how many hours he had until he had a prayer of sleeping, and decided to change clothes and head out to his garage to keep his mind and his hands busy.

  Around 3:00 a.m., he put his tools away, climbed the stairs and showered. With a towel wrapped around his hips, he leaned one shoulder against the window frame and scrubbed a palm over his face.

  Listening to the deputies at the jail had taught him that normal people thought night ended far too soon. Not him. Not by a long shot. Night was eternal when a person couldn’t sleep. Too much time to think. Too much time to regret.

  He’d thought about taking up smoking, but besides being a nasty habit, it was on the list of things he shouldn’t do. No caffeine, no stimulants, no alcohol before bedtime, no napping. But thinking the busyness might ease the passing of time and lessen the stress of night, he’d bought a pack, gagged on his first attempt and thrown them away. What was next? he chided himself. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s to numb the ol’ senses?

  Nick snorted at his bleary thoughts. Sanity always fled somewhere after three in the morning. And now he had Ryanne to add to the list of things to not think about until his scheduled worrying time. He thought he’d gotten over her, but her presence, even after all these years, had the power to make him feel like a silly teenager.

  And she still thought of him as a friend, a brother, something he’d resented back then, something he resented still.

  Ryanne Whitaker still turned him inside out.

  * * *

  RYANNE GOT UP early the following morning, dressed in shorts and a tank top, tied her Nikes and, after securing her hair on top of her head, headed out. She paused on the front steps to stretch, and while bending over her right leg, noticed a man in shorts walking up the front walk.

  “Ryanne Davidson?”

  She straightened. “Yes.”

  “Seems odd to deliver mail here. Your mother has everything forwarded to her. But these are in your name.” He extended two envelopes.

  “Yes, I had my mail sent here for a while,” she replied, accepting them. “Thank you.”

  “Trying to beat the heat,” he commented. “Unseasonable warm, even for the Midwest.”

  She nodded.

  “Nice to meet you,” he continued, as if he had all day to stay and chat. “Name’s Pat Grant.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she replied.

  “Well, stay cool.”

  “Sure.”

  He sauntered across her lawn toward the Sinclair house.

  Ryanne glanced at the return addresses and tore open the envelopes. One was a check from a consignment store, where she’d left clothing to be sold, and she sighed in relief. She’d have cash for groceries and postage this week. The other piece of mail turned out to be a final bill for overdue utilities, more than she had in her bank account or her purse.

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nbsp; She tossed them both inside the screen door and jogged down the stairs and along the street. At the corner, she turned north and jogged toward the street behind her mother’s house, checking out the new homes, with their nice lawns and two-car garages.

  Continuing northward, she discovered two more blocks of homes, and then the neighborhood ended, giving way to the dusty road and cornfields she remembered.

  Pacing herself, she ran as far as she thought she should and still be able to run home without killing herself, then turned back.

  A car approached, and as it grew near, she moved to the side of the road. The car slowed, and she noted the sheriff’s logo on the door. Wearing a brown hat with the brim shading his face, and sunglasses, the officer rolled down the window. “Morning.”

  She recognized Nick’s voice, and then saw his lazy smile. “Morning, Officer. A renegade cow reported out here somewhere?” she asked.

  “Something like that.” He turned and picked up an object from the seat beside him, then handed it out the window. “You’d better wear this.”

  She took a step forward to accept the ball cap with Crawford County Sheriff’s Department embroidered on the front. “Thanks.” She put the cap on, removed it to adjust the size, and replaced it on her head, arranging her ponytail to stick out the hole in back.

  A brief glance inside the car revealed a rifle strapped to the dash, a CB radio and a clipboard. Seeing Nick in his official capacity made him seem all the more like a stranger. She took a step back. “Be careful, Matt.” As kids they’d watched Gunsmoke and Bonanza and had shoot-outs in the side yard.

  He grinned and touched the brim of his hat. “Will do, Miss Kitty.”

  She couldn’t help herself; her insides turned to liquid. She turned on her heel and jogged away, her pulse raised by more than the miles she’d run.

  An odd nagging feeling compelled her to stop. Slowly, she turned back.

  He was still sitting parked, watching her in the rearview mirror. All she could see of his face was his mouth and chin.

  What was happening here? None of this was normal. She felt like she’d been plucked out of her life and slammed down in the middle of a Stephen King novel. “What are you looking at?”

  “You.”

  Heat rushed up her cheeks. Anger replaced the sense of displacement. Ignoring his rudeness, she turned and ran, self-conscious now.

  Behind her, she finally heard the car move on.

  She needed to get her life straightened out, and Nick Sinclair was messing it up. At times last evening, it had seemed as though she and Nick had picked up where they’d left off so long ago, comfortable with one another, enjoying a solid, dependable friendship.

  But then something would happen—he’d give her a look, or she’d notice him anew—and she’d feel like they were strangers playing a dangerous cat and mouse game. Their friendship had evolved into unfamiliar territory. She didn’t like the difference one bit.

  And yet she loved it. Deep down inside, at the heart of her woman’s spirit, she loved this exciting, on-the-edge change.

  What was wrong with her?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN THE HEAT of the day, Ryanne put the finishing touches to her résumé, printed it out and read it over, trying to ignore her discomfort. She’d forgotten the stifling humidity here, so unlike the northern California weather she was accustomed to. The mugginess probably wasn’t good for her laptop; hadn’t she heard somewhere that climate control was important? Maybe she should run the old window unit, just a little while during the afternoons. She could come up with a few dollars somewhere to pay her mom the difference in the electric bill.

  Her musing was interrupted by a knock at the door. She removed her reading glasses and discovered Jamie on the front porch. “Hey, Ryanne.”

  “Hi, Jamie.”

  “I came home early today. Grampa’s watching me.”

  “That’s right, you go to summer camp.”

  He nodded. “Not day care.”

  “You’re too big for day care.”

  He nodded again. “You got any Popsicles?”

  “No. I have a couple of apples. Would you like an apple?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on in, and I’ll wash us each one.”

  “Okay.” He followed her through the house, curiously looking at her things spread across the dining room table. “What’s all that?”

  “Work.”

  “I thought you was taking a vacation.”

  “It’s hard to figure out adults, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  He accompanied her to the kitchen, where she washed two pieces of fruit.

  “You still have my picture,” he said, looking at the crayon drawing on the refrigerator door.

  “Sure do. Why don’t we sit on the front porch? It’s shady there.”

  “It’s hot in your house.”

  “Don’t I know it.” They sat on opposite ends of the wide banister, their backs up against the columns, their feet in front of them, hers bare, Jamie’s in blue tennis shoes with an animated race car on the sides. “What’s that on your shoes?”

  Jamie chewed a bite and swallowed. “That’s Super Sprint.”

  “Is it a cartoon character?”

  “No, it’s a TV show.”

  “Oh.” She was so far removed from children’s television, she had no idea what he was talking about. “Ever heard of Punky Brewster?”

  “No.” He took a bite that crunched loudly. “Does she live in Elmwood?”

  She stifled a giggle. “No. She was in a TV show when I was a kid.”

  “Oh. That was a pretty long time ago. I don’t think they show that anymore.”

  Wounded, she conceded, “Probably not.”

  “My dad said they showed Scooby-Doo when he was a kid, though.”

  “Yes! Do they still show that?”

  “Yup. On Nickelodeon. I got a beach towel and a tent of Scooby-Doo.”

  “Wow. Your dad and I used to set up a tent. Sometimes we even slept in it for a night.”

  “Really? Cool!”

  “Well, we started out in the tent, but we never really made it the whole night. One of us always wanted to quit and go home before we ever fell asleep.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “Kind of. Back there where those houses are now used to be fields. At night it was pitch-dark, with no light except the moon and stars.”

  After they’d finished their fruit, they saw who could throw their core the farthest, and Jamie won, declaring he got his right under the maple tree where the blue jays would come down and eat it.

  They sat in the grass for a while, waiting for a bird to show up, but the birds were smart enough to stay out of the heat. Jamie studied the ants crawling over the apple core and wanted to find the anthill they’d come from. Ryanne was crawling through the grass with her behind in the air when a deep voice startled her.

  “What are you doing?”

  Abruptly she sat up, finding Nick towering over them, still in his uniform, hat and black sunglasses. The automatic she’d seen up close and personal the night of her return rode in a holster on his hip.

  “Dad!” Jamie jumped up and ran to give his father a boisterous greeting. Nick knelt and opened his arms. The hat flew backward, the sunglasses dislodged and fell to the grass and Nick landed on his rump, laughing. “Handcuff me, Dad!”

  Nick obliged by snapping silver handcuffs around Jamie’s slender wrists, but the child immediately slipped them off and made an escape, running around Nick and giggling. Nick caught him and fastened the cuffs around his ankles. Jamie tried to walk, falling repeatedly and laughing.

  “So,” Nick said to her, rising to his knees, the fabric of his uniform pants stretched taut across his thighs, “what were you doing crawling around on the grass?”

  “Looking for an anthill, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Dad, do you know Punky Brewster?” Jamie asked.

  “How ol
d do you think I am?” his father replied. “I’m not old enough to remember that.”

  “You are so,” Ryanne said.

  “Ryanne remembers,” Jamie told him.

  “Well, Ryanne’s older than I am,” he said with a teasing emphasis on the word older.

  “How would you like a family of ants stuffed up your nose?” she asked.

  Jamie whooped with delight at that, tried to stand and tripped.

  “If you think you’re big enough,” Nick said, daring her by flaring his nostrils. Both hands rested on his thighs. “Come on.”

  She got to her feet and brushed grass from her knees.

  Nick’s regard climbed the length of her legs, before finally meeting her eyes. “I do think you’re big enough,” he declared in a low voice.

  Flustered, she avoided his scrutiny and hated the heat creeping up her body to her face.

  Jamie crawled to the apple core and reported, “There’s a hundred here! Are you really gonna try to put them in my dad’s nose?”

  “No,” she replied. “I think there’s a city ordinance preventing cruelty to—insects.”

  Jamie looked to his father. “Is there really, Dad?”

  “I’m not sure, Jamie. I work for the county, not the city. I’d have to check into that. For now, we’d better go see your grandpa and scrounge up something for supper.”

  “Can we have hot dogs?”

  “Again?” At Jamie’s nod of certainty, he said, “You can have a hot dog. I think Grandpa and I’ll have something we can sink our teeth into.”

  “Steak?”

  “You want those cuffs off yet?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for playin’ with me,” Jamie said to Ryanne. “Maybe I can come back tomorrow.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Wanna have supper with us?” Nick asked over his shoulder as he took a key and released Jamie.

  “Oh, no thanks. I planned something light.”

  “Three steaks is as easy as two,” he coaxed, standing to his full height.

  “Come on,” Jamie begged. “I can show you my new Super Sprint video.”

  She met Nick’s blue-eyed regard. “You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?” he asked.

  “Well...”