The Sheriff of Heartbreak County

by Kathleen Creighton

  So it was maybe a good thing his cell phone picked that particular moment to ring, although he didn’t see it that way at the time. Some adrenaline squirted into his system, just enough to make his heart do a little hop-skip and his skin tingle with the disappointment of missed possibilities, and he was swearing as he snatched the trilling phone from his belt. He glanced at it to make sure it wasn’t Boyd or Susie Grace’s school calling, then thumbed it on and barked, “Roan.”

  “Uh, yeah, Sheriff,” came the cigarette-raspy voice of Carol Butterfield, the morning dispatcher, “sorry to bother you, but I’ve got somebody on the line here I think you’re gonna want to talk to. Fella says he’s a deputy sheriff down in Florida, has some information on the Holbrook murder-or rather, on the woman you arrested for it. You see the news this morning?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He glanced at Mary, who gave him a hostile look, then whirled and marched back to the counter and the coffeepot. “Okay,” he said, “put him through.”

  Mary leaned against the countertop, sipping her coffee and watching the tall, lean, golden-haired sheriff restlessly pace the two stingy steps the confines of her back stoop allowed him. Two steps…turn. Two steps…turn. Now and then he’d throw a glance her way, and when he did, some sort of electric current would shoot along her nerves and her muscles would tense and shiver, her heart would skip, her breathing quicken, and threatening tears sting her eyes and nose like pepper.

  Just tears of anger, she told herself. Tears of confusion.

  Confusion. Oh yes. She couldn’t think. Inside her head there was nothing but noise, a babble of voices all shrieking at the top of their lungs, like a town hall meeting gone berserk.

  I want him to leave!

  I want him to hold me…

  I want to be alone!

  I’m so tired of being alone…

  I want to run away, far, far away!

  But I’m so tired of running.

  All this emotion-I hate it! I was calm before-I want to feel calm again!

  Maybe you weren’t calm, just dead.

  At least I didn’t hurt!

  That’s what dead is, dummy. It’s pain that tells you you’re alive.

  Outside on the stoop, Roan was folding his cell phone, ready to come back in. Mary watched him through the divided panes with narrowed eyes and pounding heart, quivering inside. Turning the volume down on the voices, she prepared herself, ready to stoke up the fire of her anger again, because at least anger was a choice-something that let her be in control.

  He came through the door, tucking the phone into its holster on his belt. He closed the door behind him, then looked at her and said, “That was somebody you know.”

  Her stomach flip-flopped and her body went cold. She didn’t know she’d set her coffee cup down until it hit the countertop with a clunk that jarred to her elbow. “Not…”

  He shook his head, confusing her all the more. I thought he was angry with me. Why are his eyes so gentle?

  “A sheriff’s detective from down in Florida-Scott Cavanaugh. Says he only met you once, but you know his wife real well. Her name’s Joy? I guess the two of you used to be roommates?”

  “Joy?” It came from her mouth but she didn’t recognize it, that dazed and bewildered voice, like the cry of a lost child beholding a familiar face.

  Then, everything inside her simply…crumbled.

  In some disconnected but still-functioning part of herself she understood she was falling apart, but like a spectator watching a train wreck unfold before her eyes, she was powerless to stop it. She began to shake, then to laugh, and finally, to cry-all three happening to her at once, and while she could wrap an arm across her waist to contain the shivering and clamp a hand over her mouth to hold back the laughter, there was nothing she could do about the tears pouring from her eyes like a summer sunshine-and-rain squall after a long, long drought.

  Roan started toward her and she backed away from him, putting out her hand in what he knew must be an instinctive effort to ward off the inevitable, the way someone facing a gunman throws up his hands to stop the bullets. And with about as much effect.

  He folded her into his arms, though she fought him-fought desperately, folding up and barricading herself behind a wall of hands and arms and elbows. He knew to ignore all that; long years of experience dealing with a redheaded woman had led him to understand she was apt to fight hardest against what she needed-and wanted-most. And it had taught him to be patient with those kinds of contradictions.

  So he corraled her with strong arms, gentle hands and soothing words, stroked her back and her hair, cradled her face against his thumping heart, smiling over her head and a little misty-eyed himself because there was a poignant familiarity about the feel of her quivering body in his arms, the little snuffling, hiccuping sounds, and even about the damp spot she was making on the front of his shirt. Erin had been prone to rain squalls like this. Some of his best memories of his life with her involved their sweet, sweet aftermath…which was possibly why, when he felt Mary’s shivering and tears subside and her body begin to relax, it seemed so natural to him to gently tilt her face up and kiss her.

  Chapter 11

  He kissed her eyelids first, the taste of her tears cool and briny on his lips…and so sweet it made his heart ache. He heard her breath catch and his muscles quivered with response, even as his mind was being slammed with the full realization of what it was he was doing.

  It hit him like a power surge-the awareness that this wasn’t his wife’s face he held, cradled like a precious treasure between his two hands. It froze him for a moment, shorted out his circuits, so he couldn’t think about who this woman was…only that her face was damp and warm from the tears she’d shed, the ivory perfection of her skin delicately blotched with pink like the petals of some exotic hybrid flower. He couldn’t let himself think about who he was, either…only that the woman he held in his arms smelled good…felt good…tasted good…and he’d been hungry a long, long time.

  He wiped away the dampness on her cheeks with his thumbs, let his lips caress that gentle curve…find the corner of her mouth and sip the drop of salt-sweet moisture pooled there. He felt her lips part…her breathing cease. And he paused…hovered there, his lips not quite touching hers, the suspense and the yearning an ache in his bones and a quivering in his muscles…a prickling behind his eyelids and a tingling in his skin. Breathing her in…lost in the forbidden wonder of it all.

  He heard the faint sound she made-a whimper of impatience. And then her head moved in his hands…turned slightly…seeking. Not moving closer, not demanding, simply feeling. Waiting…breathless…the way the world at dawn seems to hold its breath in anticipation of the sunrise.

  I can still turn back…I can stop this…now.

  But, it seemed, he could no more stop it than he could have stopped the sun from rising.

  He moved…or she did…just a little, enough so that their lips touched…breath mingled…and again he froze there, each of his heartbeats a hammer blow. He hadn’t known how painful it would be, this coming back to life after being numb…asleep…dead for so long. The blood running through his veins was like wildfire; there wasn’t any part of him that didn’t feel the burn. The roar of it in his ears drowned thought. All he knew was pain…and a need that was a thousand times greater than pain.

  He felt her trembling but couldn’t let himself wonder or care why she did. He knew she could have moved away from him if she’d wanted to. But she seemed as spellbound by what was happening as he.

  To test himself-and her-he let his hands fall away from her face, not holding her, still not claiming her mouth, neither moving away from her nor closer, releasing her if that was what she wanted. But she didn’t move, and pausing there with only breath between them, he let his hands come to rest on her shoulders…then move inward to caress her neck before making the return journey, taking the edges of her robe with them.

  He didn’t ask, but of her own accord, and moving no other part
of her body, she slowly lowered her arms to her sides. Delicately, like someone trying to mold moonlight in his hands, he eased the robe over her shoulders, over rounded flesh the velvety texture of rose petals, and heard the fabric rustle as it fell to the floor. It whispered to him like a blessing.

  He didn’t know how long they stood like that, facing each other, eyes closed, lips and bodies scarcely touching, hands down at their sides. Mary’s face was tilted up to his and her hair streamed down her back, and he thought they could almost feel each other’s hearts pounding. And then, like lovers finding one another in the dark, their hands came together…fingers touched…twined…then joyfully clasped. A gasp came from her lips-and at the same instant from his-and at last, at long last, he brought them together, his mouth sinking into the sweet welcome of hers like a lost soul coming home.

  The sense of profound relief and pleasure he felt lasted only a second. It hit him like a bomb blast-first the white-hot flash of awareness, the heavy thump of need in the bottom of his belly. Then desire blew through him like a shock-wind.

  He felt powerless against it…didn’t know when he let go of her hands. He was aware that they touched him, though only on the edges of consciousness. He had already lost himself in her…the taste of her mouth, the texture of her skin, the sweet moist warmth of her body. It had been so long since he’d held a woman’s body in his arms.

  He gathered her in, his hands roaming hungrily, sweeping across the valleys, swells and plains of her body that was at once strange to him, yet seemed achingly familiar. His hands were marauders, roving where they pleased…pillaging her lush curves…taking…wanting more. Wanting his clothes and her nightgown gone, wanting her skin touching his skin and her long sleek body under his and the rich, dark mystery of her female body folding close around him…embracing him…inviting him in. It had been so long since he’d lost himself in a woman’s body.

  Thoughtlessly, heedlessly, he gathered the nightgown’s silky fabric in greedy handfuls, gathered it until he’d uncovered what he wanted. He heard her gasp when he cupped her nakedness with his hands, and she clutched at the back of his neck as if the earth had dropped out from under her feet. He took advantage of the moment to plunge his tongue deep into her mouth and felt her fingers tangle in his hair and her soft breasts pillow against his thumping heart.

  It shocked him to realize how close he was to taking her then and there, how much he wanted to make love to her in her frilly pink kitchen with sunshine streaming through the windows and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee in the air. Shocked him…but not enough to make him stop.

  Stop him? Mary could have, but she was as lost as he.

  And then, suddenly, they did stop. Both of them. Stopped, looked down and stared like dazed crash survivors at the moth-eaten yellow-orange tomcat doing drunken figure eights around their ankles.

  For a few moments, except for those sinuous movements and the sound of raspy purring, everything seemed to stop. And as shocked as she’d been when Roan kissed her-and she’d kissed him back-for Mary the shock of stopping was a thousand times worse. It had been so long since she’d been kissed. So long since she’d been touched. So long since her body had felt the sting and ache of desire.

  She felt her nightgown slither down to cover her naked bottom, a cool, silky caress where a delicious rough warmth had been before. Her fingers cramped and ached when she withdrew them from the crispy softness of his hair…and oh, how hard it was to tear herself away from that warmth…that strength…from his hands, his arms…his chest…his mouth.

  It might have been easier if he hadn’t still been holding her, hands firm but gentle on her arms, as if he feared she’d topple over if he let her go. She heard a rumble that must have been an apology. She made similar noises and was careful not to raise her eyes too far. Not far enough to meet his. She couldn’t bear to see what was in those keen blue eyes now. Would it be desire still? Or perhaps only contempt now…or worse, pity?

  A moment ago she’d prayed he would go on holding her, touching her, kissing her, forever. Now she prayed for him to let her go-quickly, before he could feel how devastated she was. Before he could know the power he had over her…the power to make her tremble and ache…the power to make her cry. It had been a long time since anyone had held such power over her. She’d forgotten how terrifying it was.

  But she couldn’t hide it-the shaking, at least. He must have felt it, because he muttered, “You’re cold,” and bent down and picked up her robe and draped it around her shoulders.

  She murmured an acknowledgment…a thank you, and managed to salvage enough pride to pull herself away from him. She felt stiff and awkward as she made herself busy, getting out a can of cat food, opening it, filling Cat’s food dish.

  Her face felt hot, and every muscle in it hurt. She wanted, desperately, to crawl into a hole somewhere and cry.

  It had been a long time since she’d cried. She hated to cry. Crying was defeat. Crying was giving in, letting the loneliness win.

  But you did cry.

  Yes, she’d almost forgotten! She’d cried because he’d told her about Joy. The once-loved name blew into her mind like a breeze bearing promises of spring. She dropped the cat-food can in the sink, turned on the water…took a breath, cleared her throat. Miraculously, words came. “You…said you…talked to Joy?”

  She heard him take a breath…clear his throat. When it came his voice sounded normal, as if nothing untoward had happened between them. As if he hadn’t just turned her world upside down. “I talked to her husband, Scott. He said to tell you Joy sends her love. I’m supposed to tell you she knows you didn’t do it.”

  The tears were rising again. Mary pressed her fingertips to her lips…fought them down. Laughed instead.

  His voice came gently from too close behind her. “The two of you were close?”

  She nodded, and after a moment said without turning, “I guess Scott told you everything?”

  “He told me enough.” She didn’t have to look at him to know his eyes would have that diamond-bright glitter again. His voice told her. “I need to hear the rest from you.”

  Mary nodded, sick, aching inside.

  “First, though, you better go put on some clothes.” And now a certain gravelly thickness in his voice made her look at him with quickened heartbeat and questions in her eyes, and when she saw the softening, and the off-center tilt to his smile, felt a new tremor begin somewhere deep inside her. “That’s the ugliest damn robe I ever saw,” he growled. “I can’t be held responsible for wanting to tear it off of you again.”

  The squeak that flew out of her mouth could have been laughter. Taking no chances, she touched the back of her hand to her nose and fled.

  In the quiet and calm of the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror…and felt herself go cold. Not because she didn’t recognize the face looking back at her. But because she did.

  Flushed cheeks…kiss-swollen mouth…eyes bright with laughter and hope…Yancy’s face.

  Gripping the edges of the sink so hard her fingers went numb, she watched the color drain from her cheeks and her eyes go gray as rain. “Stupid…” she whispered. “Stupid…stupid.”

  Stupid Yancy, who’d spent too many years chasing rainbows and fairy tales…certain happiness lay just beyond the next hill.

  Stupid Yancy. Now stupid Mary…doing the very same thing.

  A man makes you feel good…makes you feel safe and cared for…and you’re ready to forgive him anything, go anywhere with him, do whatever he tells you. He kisses you…touches your naked body with his strong cowboy’s hands, and you’re already dreaming of happily-ever-after, thinking he holds the sunshine of your life in his smile.

  Stupid-this isn’t a fairy tale and he isn’t Prince Charming. He’s the sheriff who arrested you for murder, the one who showed the man who wants to kill you exactly where to look.

  Stupid-maybe for you he’s the forbidden garden, but he’s not your happiness…or your future. Maybe you can t
rust him with your life-yes, okay, that, because he’s a good man and a good sheriff-but for God’s sake don’t be stupid enough to fall in love with him.

  While she was in the bathroom, Roan poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it standing at the kitchen sink, while he stared out the window and watched a jay pull nesting materials out of a brush pile in the yard next door. His body felt bruised…hypersensitized. The coffee felt like whiskey going down. It burned his throat and warmed his belly and he shuddered as if he’d just come in from a blizzard half-frozen to death.

  It took a few minutes for the warmth and the caffeine to do their thing and his body to settle down and his brain to start hitting on all cylinders again, which was maybe why it took longer than it should have to occur to him how vulnerable the house was. No fences…wide open to the neighbors’ yards on each side and the cover of trees and scrub behind.

  A killer wouldn’t even have to break into the house to get at her. All he’d have to do is park himself out there somewhere and shoot her through the window. Any half-competent hitman could do it and be gone before the echoes died…

  His body went cold again and the coffee turned bitter in his mouth.

  He turned when he heard Mary’s step and watched her come into the kitchen. She’d put on jeans and a long-sleeved pullover with no particular shape to it, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was twisted up in back of her head in its usual any-old-whichway knot, but there wasn’t a single thing mousy-looking about her now. Even dressed as she was and with her face scrubbed shiny as a child’s and not a smidgen of makeup, she managed to look both elegant and sexy.

  He wondered whether it was just him, that he saw her differently now, or if there really was something different in the way she carried herself…the way her head sat on her neck, and the tilt of her chin…

  And it hit him then, what the difference was: She wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

  She went straight to the coffeepot and poured herself some, careful to avoid looking at Roan, though the image of him was clear as a color photograph in her mind: Long lean body in a casual slouch propped against the sink, ankles crossed, one hand holding a coffee mug and the other thumb hooked in a pocket of his Levi’s…morning sunshine pouring through the window curtain behind him touching his hair and shoulders with a soft pinkish-gold, like a lover’s blush.