by Irene Hannon
Raking his fingers through his hair, Dale shrugged. “She seemed pretty scared when I tried to help her. And she didn’t want me to get anywhere near her. I wondered if alcohol could be causing that reaction, but I didn’t detect any evidence of it. Any chance she might be on something else that could produce irrational behavior?”
“I didn’t see any indication of that. She was very coherent, and I didn’t notice any anxiety while I examined her. Under the circumstances, the behavior I observed seemed normal.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll run her over to Marge’s. Sorry again about interrupting your evening. Give Cara my apologies, too.”
Grinning, Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “She’s used to far worse, trust me. Compared to my old hours in Philadelphia, Oak Hill is a cakewalk.”
The inner door opened, and Christine appeared on the threshold. There was a bit more color in her cheeks, and she was holding an ice pack gingerly against her temple.
“The sheriff has suggested you spend the night at the Oak Hill Inn, Ms. Turner, and I second that motion,” Sam told her. “I’d rather you not be alone for the next few hours in case you have any problems.”
Expecting an argument, Dale was prepared to press Sam’s point. But to his surprise, the woman capitulated.
“Okay. That might be best.”
“Don’t hesitate to call me—at any hour—if you need my assistance,” Sam added.
“I will. Thank you, doctor.”
“I’ll drop you off at the inn on my way home.” Dale held open the door.
Panic—chased by a hint of revulsion—whipped across her face, and Dale shot Sam a quick “see-what-I-mean?” look. The doctor quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgment. It seemed there was something about Dale in particular that disturbed Christine. But why? He was sure they’d never met.
It didn’t matter, of course. Considering she’d already been in town two months and their paths had never crossed, it was unlikely he’d see much of her in the future, either. But for some reason her aversion irked him. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything to earn it.
She continued to stand by the door to the inner offices, and Dale sent her a disgruntled look. “I’m already late getting off duty, and I’ve got a five-year-old waiting to be picked up. So if you’re ready…”
Looking from one to the other, Sam stepped in. “I’d be happy to save you a trip, Dale. I’ve got to stop at the hardware store. I can drop off Ms. Turner, if that’s okay with her.”
The tightness in her features eased. “Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”
Feeling dismissed, Dale folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll call the garage and make sure your truck is pulled out of the mud. And I’ll run you out there in the morning to get it, if you’re up to driving.”
He waited, wondering if she’d rebuff that offer, too. But she clamped her lips shut and ignored him, speaking to Sam instead. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“I’ll lock up and be right with you.”
Without another word, Dale turned on his heel and exited. She hadn’t even thanked him for his assistance, he reflected as he strode toward his car. That was downright rude. As for her hostile nervousness in his presence—no way would he classify that as normal behavior.
No matter what Sam said.
Chapter Two
A faint knocking penetrated Christine’s slumber, pulling her back to consciousness. There must be someone at the door. Or maybe the pounding was only in her head, which was throbbing just as it used to when…
Her eyes flew open as the painful memories crashed over her, and she sat bolt upright.
Bad mistake.
At the abrupt movement, the hammering in her temples increased and she grabbed her head with both hands. An ice pack beside the pillow registered in her peripheral vision, and more recent memories displaced the older ones. She’d had a car accident. The sheriff had picked her up. She’d spent the night at the Oak Hill Inn.
“Christine?”
A woman’s voice came through the door, and Christine gingerly scooted to the edge of the bed and swung her legs to the floor. She recognized the jeans and shirt draped over a nearby chair, but had no idea where she’d gotten the oversized caftanlike nightgown in psychedelic shades of purple and hot pink. She had a vague recollection of slipping it over her head last night, but she’d turned the lamp off because the bright light bothered her. Otherwise she surely would have noticed the loud colors, which did nothing to ease the ache in her temples.
“Christine? Are you awake?” The voice was more anxious this time.
“Yes. Just a moment.”
Grasping the post on the elaborate Victorian headboard, she stood. Her legs felt a bit unsteady, but strong enough to support a trip to the door. Moving with caution, she worked her way across the ornate room, which looked as if it had been transported intact from the 1880s. She’d driven by the pale pink, gingerbread-bedecked B and B a few times since moving to Oak Hill from Nebraska, but she’d never been inside until now.
When she pulled open the door, Marge Sullivan, the owner of the inn, was standing on the other side. The woman’s attire of orange capri pants and a fluorescent yellow-and-pink tunic top edged with beads tipped Christine off to the source of her borrowed nightclothes. Considering they’d met only once, when Marge had stopped by the farm with a welcome gift of the B and B’s signature homemade cinnamon rolls, the older woman’s kindness was heartwarming. Even if her taste was a bit on the flamboyant side.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Marge asked.
“Improving, thanks.”
“Your color is better. That’s a good sign.” Marge gave her a swift perusal, her head cocked to one side, and nodded in approval before turning apologetic. “I’m sorry to wake you, but Dale stopped by to drive you to your truck. I told him you were still sleeping, so he said he’d come back in an hour. That was thirty minutes ago.”
With a frown, Christine checked her watch. Nine-fifteen. She’d slept for almost twelve hours!
“I had no idea it was this late. I’ll get dressed and be down in a few minutes.”
“I have some breakfast waiting for you.”
Food was the last thing Christine wanted. The pounding in her head had subsided to a dull throb since she’d stopped moving, but her appetite was nonexistent. Nevertheless, she managed a weak smile. “Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, after dressing and running a comb through her hair, Christine started down the grand staircase that led to the foyer of the inn, gripping the rail as she took the steps one at a time. She was halfway down when the doorbell rang, and Marge bustled out from the rear of the house to answer it.
Seeing Christine on the steps, the innkeeper called up to her as she passed, “Be careful, dear. Like everything else in this monstrosity of a house, those stairs are overdone. Extra wide. I’ve almost taken a tumble myself a time or two.”
As Marge pulled open the front door, Christine resumed her descent, now more careful and focused than ever. She paid no attention to the rumble of voices until she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to find the sheriff taking them two at a time.
On instinct, she tried to back up. But her heel connected with the step behind her and she lost her balance. The sheriff skipped the final two steps and lunged for her as she wavered, his grip firm on her upper arms until she got her footing.
Even then, he didn’t release her at once. His steel-blue eyes probed hers, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as he inspected the discolored lump protruding from her temple. In daylight, and at this close range, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and a few sprinkles of silver glinted in his dark hair. There was strength in his face, and character, she reflected. The kind that you expected to find in an officer of the law. But she’d been fooled before. And she wasn’t about to repeat that mistake.
When she attempted to pull out of his grip, he shifted his attention away from the knot on her forehead, his gaze locking on hers.
“I doubt either of us wants to visit Dr. Martin again.” His voice was calm and quiet, but there was an edge to it that hadn’t been there last night. “I’m not sure what it is about me you don’t like, but I suggest you take my arm going down the steps so we can avoid any more accidents. Considering the size of that lump, I suspect your head is throbbing, and you’re probably not as steady as you’d like to be.”
For a second, Christine thought about contradicting him. But why argue with the truth? She would feel more secure with a solid body beside her—even if it belonged to a cop.
In silence, she slipped her arm in his, aware of the muscles bunching beneath her fingers and of the discrepancy in their heights. She figured he had a good seven or eight inches on her five-foot-five-inch frame. An intimidating size advantage. After reaching level ground, she broke contact at once and edged away.
“You’re early, Dale,” Marge pointed out. “Christine hasn’t had breakfast yet.”
“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry,” Christine assured her.
“Nonsense. You have to eat something. Dale, how about a cup of coffee and one of my famous cinnamon rolls?”
A grin tugged at his mouth, softening the tension that had hardened his jaw when he’d spoken to her, Christine noted. “I could be tempted.”
“That’s what I figured.” Marge tilted her head, her spiky white hair reflecting the rainbow of color streaming through the art glass on the stairwell. “Cara’s in the back, but she’s getting ready to leave.”
Without waiting for a reply, she led the way down a hall and into a kitchen that was as sleek and modern as the rest of the house was classic Victorian. Stainless steel appliances and work surfaces dotted the large room, and a red-haired woman looked up with a smile as they entered.
“Cara, this is Christine Turner. Christine, Cara Martin, chef extraordinaire. She serves gourmet dinners at the inn three nights a week. You met her husband last night, Sam Martin.”
The woman moved forward and extended her hand. “Hello, Christine. Welcome to Oak Hill. I’m sorry about your accident.”
“Thanks. It could have been worse.” Christine returned her handshake and smile.
“Marge has been telling me about your farm. I’d like to talk with you about supplying some ingredients for the restaurant,” Cara continued. “We try to feature fresh local products and I’d love to patronize an Oak Hill business.”
“I’ve only been at it two months, so I’m just starting to reap results. But I’ve got a good supply of herbs and flowers, and I’ve put in blackberries, raspberries and strawberries. They aren’t producing much this year, but I expect by next year I’ll have a good crop.”
“Where are you selling?”
“The farmers’ markets in Rolla and St. James.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you,” Cara observed. “I do some of my shopping there.”
“Enough business for today,” Marge interrupted. “Christine needs to eat.”
“And I bet Dale is going to mooch a cinnamon roll or two.” Cara sent him a teasing look.
“I’m not mooching,” he protested. “Marge offered.”
“Only because you showed up early,” the B and B owner retorted. Softening her remark with a smile, she tucked her arm in his and led him to one side of the kitchen, where a small walk-out bay window had been transformed into a cozy dining nook complete with an oak table and chairs. “Have a seat. You, too, Christine.”
Dale remained standing as Christine approached, taking his seat only after she chose the one on the opposite side of the table.
“Nice to meet you, Christine. I’ll be in touch.” Cara slung her purse over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers at Dale as she headed for the back door. “See you around, Sheriff.”
The plate that Marge set in front of Christine a few moments later was enough food to feed a sumo wrestler. A hungry sumo wrestler, Christine decided, as she inspected the intimidating breakfast. The huge omelet, bursting with cheese, mushrooms and ham, was accompanied by a generous serving of pan-fried potatoes laced with onions, plus a fresh fruit garnish. On her best days, Christine didn’t eat much more than an English muffin or a single scrambled egg. And today was definitely not one of her best days.
She looked up to find the sheriff watching her across the table with those discerning—and disturbing—blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing. He took a measured sip of his coffee as Marge set a large cinnamon roll in front of him.
“There now. Eat up, both of you.” The phone rang, and Marge gave them an apologetic look. “Sorry. Dig in. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Don’t want to lose a customer!”
She hustled down the hall, leaving a heavy silence in her wake. The ticking of the clock on the wall seemed magnified as Christine picked up her fork and surveyed the overflowing plate in front of her, trying to formulate a plan of attack.
“Marge’s breakfasts are generous.”
At the sheriff’s comment, Christine looked his way, then dropped her gaze again to the food. “More than.”
“She won’t be offended if you take some home.”
Once again, she was struck by the man’s insight. And by his civility. Despite her “keep your distance” cues and her rudeness—she hadn’t even thanked him for coming to her rescue last night, after all—he’d shown up today to drive her back to her truck. She doubted that was one of the local sheriff’s required duties. Perhaps he was just being kind. But she was more inclined to believe there was some hidden agenda or ulterior motive. There usually was, based on her experience with small-town cops.
His assessing perusal was disconcerting, so Christine tried to focus on her food. By the time Marge returned, she’d managed to put a slight dent in the omelet. The sheriff, on the other hand, had demolished the cinnamon roll. A few miniscule crumbs were the only evidence it had ever existed.
“Well, you certainly made short work of that.” Marge propped her hands on her ample hips as she sized up Dale’s plate.
“What else can a man do when faced with the world’s best cinnamon roll?” He grinned and took a sip of his coffee.
“Hmph. I think you picked up a knack for that glib Hollywood flattery while you were in L.A.” The flush of pleasure that suffused Marge’s face, however, belied her chiding comment. “As for you, young lady…” She inspected Christine’s plate. “I suspect you’re still feeling a bit under the weather.”
“I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” Christine avoided giving the woman a direct response. “May I take it home? This will be enough for me for the next day or two.”
“No wonder you’re so thin. I should follow your example. But I like food too much.” Marge gave a hearty chuckle and lifted Christine’s plate. “I’ll wrap this up for you.”
While the older woman busied herself at the counter, Dale leaned back in his chair and regarded Christine. “I talked to Al at the garage. He pulled your truck out of the mud first thing this morning. From what he could see, there didn’t appear to be any damage.”
“Thank you.”
The words sounded forced, and Dale sent her a quizzical look, trying to get a handle on her attitude. She’d been fine with Sam, related well to Marge and Cara. He was the problem, it seemed.
But he suspected there was more to it than that, considering the woman had been in town two months and few people had caught more than a glimpse of her. Although he’d asked his mother a few discreet questions when he’d picked up Jenna last night, she hadn’t known much about the organic farmer, either. The reserved Christine Turner was an enigma to the friendly folks of Oak Hill.
What had produced that wariness in her soft brown eyes? Dale wondered as he studied her. What had made her guarded and cautious, unwilling to mingle with the residents of her adopted town? And why was his presence a source of tension and nervousness?
Dale suspected she’d been hurt at some point in her life. He’d seen that look of distrust, anxiety and uncertainty on a
woman’s face before. His own wife’s, in fact, on occasion. Though he’d opened his heart to her, his love hadn’t been enough to overcome the problems in her past. To mitigate her cynicism and convince her that he could be a source of emotional support. To banish the demon of depression that had plagued her. Perhaps this woman, too, had suffered a similar trauma.
If she had, he felt sorry for her.
But he also knew there was nothing he could do to help her, just as he’d been unable to help Linda.
Not that she wanted him to, of course. Christine Turner had already posted a large Keep Away sign. And he intended to honor it.
Because the last thing he needed in his life was another woman with problems.
Christine finished the note to Marge and pulled out her checkbook. When she’d prepared to leave the B and B a few days ago, Marge had refused to let her pay for the room. While Christine hadn’t wanted to make an issue of it in front of the sheriff, she didn’t intend to take advantage of the woman’s kindness and hospitality. She could afford a night’s lodging. And she didn’t want to incur any obligations, to owe anyone anything that could be used to manipulate her. Not that she suspected the affable Marge of such intent. But she hadn’t suspected it of Jack, either.
Gazing out the window of her small, two-story farmhouse, Christine suppressed the shudder that ran through her as she thought of the man who’d wooed and won her in a whirlwind courtship that had fulfilled every romantic fantasy she’d ever had. Elegant dinners, dozens of roses, winging to black-tie events on the company plane he’d often piloted. She’d felt like Cinderella.
But her fairy tale had worked in reverse. First had come the happily-ever-after part, then the bad stuff. Her world had crumbled as she’d realized that Jack’s interest and attentions had been a sham, a carefully crafted plan to win a woman who would meet his father’s approval and pave the way to the top spot in the family-owned business.
Sudden tears stung her eyes, and she swiped at them in anger. She’d done enough crying, and enough regretting, to last a lifetime. The past was behind her, and tomorrow would be better. Fresh Start Farm was up and running, and while she’d never get rich on her small-scale operation, it allowed her to spend her days in a wholesome environment, in fresh air and open spaces. The income from the farm, combined with the modest returns on the investments she’d made with her smaller-than-expected inheritance from Jack, would allow her to live a comfortable, independent life. One in which she didn’t owe anyone a thing. Including Marge.
