Her Small-Town Sheriff

by Lissa Manley

  She pressed her lips together, and something flashed in her eyes. Sadness? Or a bit of anger? Frustration? He wished he could tell, but he’d never been good at deciphering emotions.

  Sighing, she said, “Carson, you broke your ankle today, and we’re standing in your driveway while you’re about to fall down. Can’t we talk about this later?”

  In answer, his ankle throbbed and the driveway lurched again. Despite the crutches under his arms, he involuntarily listed slightly away from her.

  Phoebe dug her feet into the ground and grabbed on to him hard, pulling him straight. “See? You’re in no condition to be standing out here talking.”

  Clearly, she was dodging the conversation. But she had a point; the E.R. doc had told him to keep his foot elevated for the next twenty-four hours, so he’d let her dodge away. For now. But one way or another, he’d figure out what was going on with her.

  “You’re right,” he concurred, adjusting the crutches under himself more fully without putting any weight on his bum ankle. “But something’s bothering you, and sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me what it is.”

  She applied pressure to the small of his back, nudging him toward the front door. “I’m going to agree with you just so you’ll drop the subject and get yourself into the house where you can put your foot up.”

  Her statement didn’t sit right with him, and he opened his mouth to question her again. But his response was cut off when Heidi ran out of the house, followed by Mrs. Philpot. He clamped his lips together, resigning himself to staying clueless—and worried—about Phoebe for a bit longer.

  “Daddy!” Heidi cried, hustling off the porch toward him, her hair blowing wildly in the ever-present ocean breeze.

  Phoebe stepped away, letting him stand on his own with the crutches for support.

  Heidi stopped short of mowing him down, her gaze fastened on the navy blue cast encasing his ankle. “Oh, wow. Cool cast.”

  “Yeah, just the accessory I’ve always wanted,” he said with a crooked smiled. “Goes with anything.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay,” Heidi said, her eyes sparking with residual worry. “Phoebe and I were really worried when you called.”

  He gave Phoebe a questioning look. “Oh, really?”

  She just stared back. Blank. Odd. Kind of Stepford-ish, actually. He slammed his eyebrows together. Who was this cardboard woman standing next to him? Not that he wanted her to worry unduly about him, of course. But some kind of reaction would set his mind at ease.

  Mrs. Philpot arrived, as calm as ever, precluding any further private discussion with Phoebe. “Sheriff, glad to see you home.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. P.”

  She gestured into the house. “I’m sure the doctor wants you off your feet and resting, and I’m guessing you’re starving. So I took the liberty of making you some soup and homemade bread for dinner.”

  His stomach growled, taking his mind off his injury—and Phoebe’s weird remoteness—for a few welcome seconds. “Bless you, Mrs. P., for thinking of that.”

  “Let’s get you inside,” Phoebe said, her voice sounding carefully modulated, so very un-Phoebelike, confirming his suspicion that something was bothering her. Something big. “Doctor’s orders, Sheriff Winters.”

  He allowed himself to be herded into the house by the three females determined to coddle him. He let them coddle away as he settled on the couch, his thoughts distracted by Phoebe’s demeanor. Had something happened since her birthday party? Her attitude had done an about-face worthy of a military march since then.

  Mrs. Philpot headed into the kitchen, and Heidi went off to find a pillow for his ankle. Wordlessly, Phoebe made to follow Mrs. Philpot.

  “Phoebe?” he called out. He wasn’t going to let her scurry off so easily.

  She froze, then turned slowly, smoothing her hair back behind one ear. “Yes?”

  “This conversation isn’t done.”

  The line of her jaw hardened. “I know,” she said, nodding.

  Her response, while logical, sent a chill into his heart; clearly she had something to say. Eventually. “What’s wrong?” he asked, giving it one more try.

  “We’ll talk later,” she replied, a stubborn tilt to her chin. “Now isn’t the time.”

  To accentuate that point, Mrs. Philpot came out with a tray in her hands. “Here you go, Sheriff. My special-recipe chicken noodle soup.”

  All he could do was nod at Phoebe as Mrs. Philpot set the tray on the coffee table.

  “Thanks, Mrs. P. It looks delicious.”

  The next thing he knew, Phoebe had quietly disappeared into the kitchen, and his gut churned as worry set in. She was putting up a wall, shutting him out. Figured she’d pull away just when he wanted her closer.

  Mrs. Philpot handed his soup bowl to him, but his appetite was suddenly nada. He took a bite anyway and made sounds of approval, even as a disconcerting thought dug its claws into him: Had he lost Phoebe before he’d figured things out enough to actually find her? That sobering realization hit him much harder than he’d ever expected.

  And suddenly his heart felt even more broken than his ankle.

  Chapter Fifteen

  With her heart in her throat and the stiff breeze cooling her cheeks, Phoebe stood on the Winterses’ doorstep the day after she’d driven Carson home from the hospital, dreading the conversation to come.

  But there was no help for it, no avoiding the inevitable. After a long, sleepless night and many prayers to God, she’d decided what she had to do about Carson.

  Her chest grew tight, forcing a wince.

  She took a deep breath, lifted her hand and knocked, willing herself to stay, face him and tell him the truth. She owed him—and Heidi—that much.

  A few moments later, he answered the door, his crutches tucked under each arm. He wore a blue T-shirt and athletic shorts—undoubtedly to accommodate his cast—and his hair was messy, as if he’d been jamming his fingers through it repeatedly.

  Even so, he looked as handsome as ever with his shadowed jaw and dark coloring. Perfect, actually. Too bad that wasn’t enough.

  His mouth broke into a smile. “Phoebe! I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I guess I should have called.” But then she might have chickened out.

  “No, no.” He used his crutches to back up. “Come in.”

  Thrusting her chin up for courage—no matter how false—she stepped inside and smoothed her hair down, fighting the urge to bolt. He shut the door with his left crutch, then deftly hobbled around her.

  “You’re getting pretty good with those things,” she said, going for impersonal right off the bat, as if that might help her keep her heart out of saying what had to be said.

  “Yeah, I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  He lifted his broad shoulders. “Not really. Ibuprofen seems to be doing the trick.”

  “Good, good,” she said inanely, hating the sound of the small talk she’d started, but at a loss as to how to approach the difficult discussion to come.

  “Phoebe, why are you here?” he asked after a long silence.

  She cleared her throat. “Can we go sit?” She nodded to the leather couch in the living room.

  “Sure.” He pointed left with his crutch. “After you.”

  Hitching her purse up on her shoulder, she walked to the sofa and sat down, holding her back ramrod straight.

  Carson made his way over, then set his crutches on the floor. Nimbly he hopped the last little bit and eased himself down next to her.

  He smelled like laundry detergent and man, so she tried not to breathe.

  Turning to face her, he put an arm on the top of the couch behind her. “You gonna put your purse down and stay awhile?” he asked with a lift of one brow.

  Her cheeks heated. “Oh, yeah.” She set the bag down at her feet, then clasped her hands tightly together in her lap.

  “I take it you want to continue the conversation w
e started yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What makes you think that?” she said before she realized how ridiculous the question sounded.

  “Lucky guess. You seem mighty uncomfortable.”

  “I do?” Why did he have to be so perceptive? Although, she was sure her body language spoke volumes.

  “Yep. You look like you’re going to bolt.” He glanced down. “And like you’re going to squeeze the life out of your own hands any second now.”

  Unclenching her knotted fingers, she forced her spine to relax a bit, to alter her body language enough to present a serene front.

  “Sorry.” She stared at her toes and fought the urge to straighten the cuffs on her roll-up capris. “Guess I am a bit stressed out.”

  Patiently, he waited for her to go on. Words stuck in her throat, though. How was she going to do this, to herself and to him? Maybe she’d made a mistake by coming here…

  “Phoebe, haven’t we always been honest with each other?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “So why stop now? You’ve obviously got something on your mind. With all due respect, I would hope you think enough of me to let me in on what’s going through that pretty head of yours.”

  Good point. In fact, she wished she didn’t think so highly of him; telling him about her decision would be easier if she didn’t care about him and his daughter so much.

  “You’re right,” she said, turning to give him her full attention, forcing herself to look right at those compelling dark eyes. “So, at my birthday party, I talked to Lily, and I really thought maybe you and I…had some kind of future together.”

  He took her hand, burning her skin where he touched her. “I do, too.”

  His words took her off guard, and something melted inside of her. “You do?”

  “Yep. I saw you with Heidi, and something clicked.”

  Her chest started burning. “I didn’t know that,” she said. But even if she had known, would it have changed anything? His point was moot now; she’d made her choice, and there was no turning back.

  “That’s because you shut me out last night when you brought me home, and I didn’t have a chance to tell you.” He brought up her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Sometimes you miss important things when you clam up.”

  Regret for putting him off burned through her, but the touch of his lips on her hand literally seared her. “I see that now,” she managed. “I…guess I just wasn’t ready to talk.”

  “But you’re ready now, right?” He squeezed her hand. “Because I have some things I want to say, too.”

  She should have known this wouldn’t be a one-way conversation. “You do?”

  “Of course.”

  She blinked.

  “What?” He gave her a tilted smile. “You think you’re the only one who’s been doing some thinking about the two of us?”

  The two of us. She liked the sound of that…no, no, she didn’t. There was no us, and never would be. Not now that she’d survived another harrowing scare, believing something terrible had happened to the man she’d thought she could let herself love.

  “Of course not,” she said weakly.

  “I thought we said we were going for honesty,” he replied, his voice gentle and devoid of reproach.

  “Yes.” She pulled her hand away from him so she could think clearly. The loss of his touch hollowed her out, made her feel raw inside. “Honesty is the theme of the day.”

  He looked at her expectantly. “You go first.”

  First. Wonderful.

  She drew in a deep breath and tried to ignore her bleeding insides. The time had come for her to tell him goodbye. To do the right thing. To protect her heart once and for all from loss, without looking back or letting herself be a foolish slave to possible regrets.

  Except…funny how doing the right thing, the only thing, felt so completely and utterly wrong.

  *

  Carson saw Phoebe suck in that shaky breath, as if she were bracing herself for something bad. Something that might break his heart?

  He shifted on the couch, preparing himself for whatever she was going to lay on him. He’d let her say her piece, and then deal. Isn’t that what he always did? Buck up and handle life’s bullets?

  “So,” she said. “When you called me yesterday to tell me you were in the hospital, it brought back a lot of memories of another call I received telling me someone I cared about was in the hospital.”

  He froze as jagged realization jolted through him. “Your fiancé.”

  “Yes,” she said in an overly even voice. As if she were holding on to her composure by a thread and had to compensate, but went too far and sounded like a robot instead of a person. Who could blame her, given the tragic subject matter?

  “Oh, man.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I should have realized.”

  “No, you’re not responsible for taking care of me.”

  “I’d like to be,” he said before he could call back the words.

  After a blink and a pause, she held up a rigid hand. “Don’t distract me from what I have to say.”

  He inclined his head in agreement.

  “Justin lived for a short time after he got caught in the wildfire.”

  Horror shot through Carson, dark and awful. He nodded for her to go on; if she could deal with talking about this, then he’d listen all night if necessary.

  “His parents and I drove overnight to the hospital in Bend, Oregon, where they took him after the accident.” Her lips trembled and her eyes watered. “He died before we could get there.”

  He reached for her hand, but she waved him off. “No, let me finish. So when you called, memories of that day came back, and I was so, so scared.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, then continued. “And I realized that I can’t set myself up to care for someone, only to have that person yanked away from me.”

  “But I’m fine,” he said, spreading his arms wide, then gesturing to his cast. “I hurt myself stepping in a pothole. This thing will be history in six weeks, and then I’ll be as good as new.”

  “Next time might be another story.”

  He shook his head. “There won’t be a next time,” he replied, trying to stay calm when everything within him screamed to shake her and tell her that her reasoning was flawed. Wrong.

  “You’re a cop, Carson.”

  “In Moonlight Cove,” he replied, scoffing. “Hardly a hotbed of dangerous criminal activity.”

  “You’re splitting hairs,” she said.

  “No, I’m being realistic.”

  “And I am, too. My fears are real. Feelings are feelings, so your point is moot.”

  He looked at her helplessly; this conversation was getting away from him, and he had no idea what to do about it. “What are you saying?”

  “That no matter what, I won’t let there be a next time,” she said in a voice rife with determination.

  A chill ran through him. “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “I could have fallen in love with you, Carson,” she said, her voice breaking.

  His hopes soared and his heart squeezed.

  Tears crested and tumbled onto her pale cheeks. “But after what happened, after I got your call, I realized I have to stop myself from falling completely in love now, before I’m in so deep I can’t walk away without ripping out my own heart, and before losing you one way or another would completely devastate me.”

  Echoes of Susan’s desertion reverberated through him. “This conversation is familiar,” he said, feeling as if he’d been knifed in the heart. “Too familiar.”

  Phoebe blinked, then whispered, “Your ex-wife?”

  He nodded crisply once.

  “You’ve never told me what happened.”

  By design. Maybe that was his problem. Too little too late, probably. But he sensed he needed to heed the lesson being shoved on him, even if he dreaded the subject matter.

  He let out a weighty breath, then awkwardly stood and hobbled over on
his crutches to look out the front window, noting the gray clouds moving in. Then he opened his mouth and forced himself to reveal his greatest failing and most profound shame. “Susan blamed me for CJ’s death,” he admitted. “Said it was my fault and that she wouldn’t ever be able to forgive me.”

  Silence.

  He went on. “She couldn’t deal with it, refused to, actually, even for Heidi’s sake.”

  A tiny gasp.

  “So one day, she got up, packed a suitcase and left without saying goodbye to either me or Heidi, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I felt like she’d hit me over the head with a two-by-four.”

  After another beat of quiet, Phoebe sniffed, then said, “Carson, I’m so sorry. The way she left was terrible. Obviously she was so caught up in her grief she wasn’t thinking straight.”

  He swung around. “You’re defending her?”

  With a lift to her chin, Phoebe stood and said, “Yes, I am, because she lost a child, too, and her heart was broken just as yours was.”

  She drew in a shuddering breath. “I know how awful that feels, to lose someone you love and have your heart hurt so much you don’t think you’ll survive.” Shaking her head, her eyes shimmering, she added, “I was so crazy with grief, I thought of doing all kinds of stupid things in the months after Justin died.”

  Her point hit home, and his heart swelled with emotions he refused to name; this was one incredible woman here, and he wished he could take away the shadows of her grief and pain. But he couldn’t.

  But he could recognize the validity of her statement, which might allow him to see Susan’s heartbreak through fresh eyes.

  Phoebe’s eyes.

  Somehow, he felt as if some of the burden he’d been carrying lifted slightly, as if her thoughts would, ultimately, help him forgive Susan for her desertion, and maybe even forgive himself for CJ’s death. Bless Phoebe for that amazing gift. “I guess I never thought of it that way,” he replied.

  “I’m not saying what she did was right, but I understand.”

  “I guess I understand a bit more, too.” He reached out and took her hand. “Thank you for that.”