by Linda Turner
Because when the election was over and he was re-elected—and he would win, there wasn't a doubt in his mind about that—she would walk out of his life. The town just wasn't big enough for the two of them when it came to work, and if she wanted a decent job to support her daughter, she'd have to go elsewhere to find it. He wasn't going to stand in her dust and watch her walk off with his heart.
Upstairs, the sound of running water suddenly signaled that someone was awake and in the bathroom. Their time together was over. Riley felt Becca stiffen against him and carefully put her from him.
"I've got to go."
That was all he said, nothing more, as he rolled out of bed and tugged on his clothes. Silence thickened until it filled the room like a cold, raw fog.
Pale, painfully conscious of her nakedness in a way she hadn't been only moments before, Becca pulled the sheet up to cover herself and found herself waiting, for what she wasn't sure.
Maybe an acknowledgment that what had just happened between them in her grandmother's bed had shaken him as much as it had her. But his jaw was set in granite, his expression closed. Whatever was going on in his head, he didn't intend to share it with her.
"Are you going to be all right? .... Lost in her tumultuous thoughts, she didn't realize that he'd finished dressing and was watching her as if he expected her to fall apart at any moment. Straightening her spine, she almost choked on a painful laugh. All right? Why wouldn't she be?
This was what she'd told herself she wanted, wasn't it? No strings, no promises, no future. She should have been walking on air, not battling stupid, inexplicable tears.
"Of course," she said with a haughtiness that would have normally brought a glint of humor to his eyes.
"I'm not a morning person. It takes me a couple of hours to get my motor revving." Or a couple of kisses from him. But that was something she didn't want to think about, let alone discuss with him.
Silence fell, turning awkward. For the first time since they'd met, they had nothing to say to each other—no quips to trade, no smart remarks to parry. And they both felt the loss. Bending down suddenly, he picked up her gown and robe and laid them carefully on the bed beside her. His eyes, when they lifted to hers, were for a split second hotter than a blue flame. Then he turned away, and Becca couldn't be sure she hadn't imagined the whole thing.
"If you need to get in touch with me, you know where I am."
She wouldn't, but she nodded anyway, unable to manage anything else.
Then he turned and walked out, and she was alone just as she always was. Hugging herself, she tried and failed to convince herself that was all she wanted…
Striding into his deserted office fifteen minutes later, Riley found a note from Darrel Gabriel informing him that he was out on patrol. John and Lance were expected later that day, and Mark, not yet ready for active duty, was going to take over the dispatcher's duties for Myrtle, who'd had to stay home an extra day to take care of her sick husband.
Mark wouldn't report in until noon, however, and that was just fine with Riley. He was in no mood for company.
He could, in fact, have chewed glass if he could have just unclenched his jaw. He wasn't mad, he assured himself.
Why should he be? He and Becca had just parted like two reasonable adults after sharing a passion that had nearly burned them alive. What more could a man ask for?
The answer, much to his disgust, came all too easily. Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
So what was he so agitated about? Wasn't that what he'd wanted?
Grinding out an oath, he jerked open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, looking for some paperwork he should have filled out two days ago. But it wasn't where it was supposed to be, and he had only to take a closer look at the mess in the drawer to know that Mark had been filing again.
Whenever he was in the middle of the chore and got distracted by a call, he threw everything in the drawer and slammed it shut.
Just like a kid who picked up his room by throwing everything into his closet, Riley thought irritably. No wonder he couldn't find anything when he needed it. Muttering curses, he jerked the drawer all the way out and started throwing files on his desk, intending to clean it out and start all over again. But he'd hardly started when the front door opened and Sydney O'Keefe walked in like she wiled the place. Riley took one look at her and turned back to the files on his desk.
"I don't have time to talk to you now, Syd," he said curtly.
"I've got work to do. I've been out sick and it looks like the whole damn place fell apart while I was gone." "Oh, don't let me Stop you," she said airily.
"I'll just sit here and watch." And with a daring that had gotten her more than one headline, she pulled out his chair and dropped into it, rocking back as if she intended to stay awhile. Irritated, he snapped,
"Fine. Suit yourself. If you haven't got anything better to do than watch me sort these files, who am I to argue with you? Just don't get in my way, okay?"
A wise woman would have backed off and left him alone until he got over whatever was eating him. Sydney only grinned, her sharp eyes studying him with renewed interest.
"My, my, aren't we touchy? Did you just get up on the wrong side of the bed or are you always this ' grouchy after spending time with Becca Prescott?"
Riley froze, his narrowed gaze pinning her to the chair.
So word was out that he'd been at Becca's. Considering-the fact that his patrol car had sat in front of her place for over twenty-four hours, it hadn't exactly been a secret. Just as it was no surprise that the gossips had jumped all over that little tidbit like ducks on a june bug. He'd lived there long enough not to give a damn—it was a fact of life that if you put three people within a day's ride of each other, two of them were going to talk about the third.
But he only had to see the glint in Sydney eyes to know that the locals were no longer linking Becca's name with his just because of the election. The talk—and speculation—had turned personal, and that stuck in his craw.
"I was sick, Syd," he stated flatly.
"Toss-your-cookies, burning-up, out-of-my-gourd sick. So if you think there's some kind of juicy gossip here, forget it. I was out that way when it hit and couldn't make it home. Mrs. Prescott was kind enough to offer me a bed. End of story." Her grin never wavering, she only settled into a more comfortable position and crossed her legs.
"If you say so."
"Dammit!" he exclaimed, scowling at her.
"I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. There's nothing to report about me and Becca Prescott, so go find yourself something else to write about. There's bound to be a traffic accident or something that needs your attention."
Too tenacious to be put off by his blustering, she merely widened her eyes at him, her grin teasing.
"Why, Sheriff, you almost sound defensive. I wonder why. Is there something going on between you and your opponent that the rest of us should know about?"
"No!"
"Then what's got you so hot under the collar?"
"None of your damn business!"
Not the least offended, Sydney chuckled.
"In case you've forgotten, I get paid to stick my nose into people's business. But only when it's newsworthy. So relax. Romantic gossip might be titillating, but I don't work for a scandal sheet. Your secret's safe with me." It was an old reporter's trick—pretend you know something, then sit back and wait for the other person to give something away. Not fooled in the least, Riley gave her a taste of her own medicine.
"I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to think of something like that getting around."
"What?"
Just that easily, she walked into his trap.
"I thought you already knew."
"I lied," she replied with outrageous honesty.
"How 'bout you?"
His lips twitched into a grin.
"That's for me to know and you to find out. Now get out of here," he said, shooing her away.
&nb
sp; "I've got work to do and I can't concentrate when you're chattering like a magpie."
More miserable than she'd been in a long time, Becca would have liked nothing better than to lock herself away in her grandmother's room and cry her eyes out. But that would only worry Chloe and the grannies and stir up questions she had no intention of answering. So she bathed and dressed and went into the kitchen to start breakfast.
At her insistence, her three neighbors had stayed one more night to make sure they were completely recovered, and she'd kept their diet bland just to make sure there would be no problems. Back to normal by now, though, they would no doubt be ravenous, which was fine with her.
The more people she had to cook for, the less she had to think.
Throwing herself into the task with single-minded determination, she had a smile plastered on her face and enough food on the table to feed an army when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
"Come and get it, ladies," she said easily.
"We've got eggs and bacon and hash browns. Oh, and biscuits!
I nearly forgot them. " Whirling, she grabbed a hot pad and pulled open the oven ....
"Goodness," Margaret exclaimed, spying the feast spread out on the round kitchen table.
"You must have been cooking since dawn."
Her back turned, Becca winced, but no one saw.
"I—I knew you all would be starving," she said huskily.
"Everything looks delicious," Lucille said.
"I can't believe you went to so much trouble."
"We would have been happy with cold cereal," Clara added, "but this is much better."
"Is it ready?" Chloe asked eagerly.
"Can we eat now?" Chuckling, Becca deposited the biscuits on a trivet in the center of the table, then scooped her daughter up for a hug.
"Yes, sweetheart, you can-eat." Motioning the others to the table, she said, "Please, sit down and butter your biscuits while they're hot.
I'll get the coffee and juice."
She bustled around, making sure everyone had what they needed, taking her seat only to bow her head for grace. If anyone noticed that her appetite was nonexistent or her smile a little forced, they didn't say anything.
But she saw the three older women exchange glances in silent communication and knew they weren't fooled by her bright chatter, especially when Chloe asked about Riley.
"He had to get back to work, honey," she explained her gaze leveled on the milk she was stirring into her coffee
"But he didn't even say goodbye."
"You were asleep, and he had things to do."
"Just as we do,"Clara told her.
"Have you forgotten your mother's having a big sale? We have to help her get everything set up. There's going to be a lot of people here in a couple of days and we have to get ready for them."
"Yes, I've been meaning to talk to you about that, Becca," Lucille said.
"Have you decided what prices you're going to ask for your grandmother's things?" Thankful for the distraction, Becca shook her head.
"Actually, with everything that's been going on, I haven't given it a thought."
"That's perfectly understandable, dear," Lucille replied.
"So I hope you don't mind that I looked around yesterday while you were busy and made a list for you." Efficient as ever, she pulled it from her skirt pocket and handed it across the table to Becca.
"These are just suggestions," she reminded her.
"I haven't had my shop in a while, of course, but I've kept up with the prices of things and I think these are acceptable You don't want them so high that people won't think they're getting a bargain, but you don't want to give your furniture away, either.
What do you think?"
"Oh, I'm sure whatever you came up with is fine," Becca began, only to stare in stunned disbelief at the prices the older woman had put on the first two items of the list.
Her horrified gaze flew to Lucille's.
"You can't be serious! These are outrageous!
Lucille laughed, not surprised by her response.
"Your grandmother left you some very fine antiques, dear. Some of them are quite rare, in fact. Believe me, with the ads you put in the El Paso and Tucson papers, you're going to have people coming out of the woodwork with their checkbooks in hand. And I'd be right in line with them if I still had my shop. Even at these prices," she continued, motioning to the list in Becca's hand, "I'd consider myself damn lucky to get them."
Thankful she was sitting down—her knees would have never held her otherwise—Becca stared blindly at the prices the older woman had listed, too fascinated to look away.
"I can't believe this."
"She knows her onions, honey," Margaret said, smiling as she spread j am on her biscuit and took an appreciative bite.
"When she had her shop, she used to have people come from all over to buy her stuff. If she says you can get a bundle for them, you can take that to the bank."
"But you do what you feel is right," Lucille quickly added.
"A lot is riding on this sale and I wouldn't want you to put out any prices that you weren't comfortable with."
Torn, Becca almost told her that that took care of the entire list.
On her own, she never would have the nerve to ask anything near what Lucille was suggesting. But if she followed Lucille's advice and was able to sell the antiques for such astronomical prices, her property-tax worries would be history. If, on the other hand, she asked too much and no one bought anything. Lord, she didn't even want to think about it. What was she going to do?
In the end, there really was no decision to make. She'd be a fool not to trust Lucille's knowledge of the market and price her grandmother's furniture accordingly. So that's what she did. But every time she put a price tag on a treasured item, she winced. By the day of the sale, forty-eight hours later, she was a nervous wreck and up at five, too restless to sleep. Prowling through the downstairs, trying not to think about the well loved family pieces she was selling like used cars, she positively dreaded the rising of the sun.
Lucille had warned her people would arrive early; she just hadn't expected them to start driving up at six-thirty.
Hurriedly getting Chloe up and dressed, she let out a sigh of relief as her neighbors blew in the back door, the three of them practically tittering with excitement.
"Have you looked out the front window?" Clara, her blue eyes dancing, could hardly stand still.
"The cars are lined up half a mile down the highway!"
"And you thought no one would show," Margaret teased.
"We told you not to worry. Clara predicted all along that it was in the cards."
Lucille, well organized as usual, handed out the receipt books she'd prepared for each of them last night. A half smile curling one corner of her mouth, she turned to Becca.
"There's more where these came from. Just let me know when you need them. Are you ready?"
Becca laughed shakily.
"Ask me in an hour."
What followed far exceeded anything she could have ever imagined. She opened the door to the crowd gathering outside, and for the next four hours, she didn't have a chance to draw a breath, let alone marvel over the success of her sale. Madness. There was no other way to describe it.
People were shouting and jostling and snatching up pieces as if they were marked with bargain-basement prices, and Becca hardly had time to finish writing one receipt he fore she was hurriedly scribbling another. She'd never seen anything like it in her life.
If she'd had the time, she would have laughed and cried. With every rocker or table or wardrobe that was carried out, the buyer took a chunk of her heart. She'd never he able to walk through the front door again and see her grandmother's bonnet hanging on the hall tree as if she'd just come in. Or hear the chiming of the mantel clock and' remember how, when she'd come to visit when she was little, she'd loved to watch her grandmother wind the old clock with its fancy key.
But she coul
dn't regret selling the pieces—not when it meant keeping the house. Had her grandmother been there, she would have given Becca a-hug and told her she'd done the only thing she could. So shrugging off the sadness she forced a smile and wrote another ticket, this one for a dealer from Tucson who hadn't blinked an eye at the breath-stealing price on the piano.
"I'm afraid you're going to have to wait awhile to get it out of here," she told her as she handed her a receipt marked Paid.
"It's just too crowded."
"No problem," the older woman assured her. I'll go into town for breakfast and be back later. "
Becca recommended the City Diner to her and gave her directions, then turned to see who else might need a receipt.
Only to come face-to-face with Riley. Startled, she felt her heart tumble and her knees start to tremble, and it was all she could do not to walk into his arms. It had been two days since they'd made love, two days since she'd heard from him, two days since she'd allowed herself to think about him. She hadn't realized until now that it seemed like an eternity. God, she'd missed
"I didn't see you come in," she said huskily, clutching her receipt book to her heart as if it would stop the ache that was already starting to throb deep inside.
"Was there something you needed?"
You.
The answer came too easily, rattling him. He'd spent the last two days trying to convince himself that getting over her would he as simple as staying away from her. The ironic part was that he'd almost come to believe it until his eyes met hers. Then the passion that they'd shared came rushing back at him like a runaway train and he just wanted to touch her, to assure himself that she was really there, within reach.
Someone behind him jostled him, jerking him back to his surroundings.
"I saw your ad in the paper and thought I'd come out and see what you had for sale," he said stiffly.
"I like the looks of that mirror above the fireplace.
Is it for sale? "
Beeca glanced over her shoulder at the elegantly carved lines of the Victorian mirror that had been her grandmother's pride and joy. She'd debated over selling it, had even, in fact, considered sticking a Sold sign on it several times since the sale had started to discourage potential buyers. It had been in the family for four generations, and she just couldn't imagine it in someone else's home when it had been hanging above her grandmother's fireplace for well over fifty years.
