by Terri Reed
“By whom? Do you think Pete Kinsey killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you’re afraid you’re next?” He hadn’t meant for his tone to sound harsh.
Though her peaches-and-cream complexion turned to chalk, her chin lifted and she sat up straighter. The staunch bravado may have returned, but she couldn’t quite hide the anxiety in her eyes.
“So what happens now?” she questioned.
Brody tore his gaze from the slight cleft dimpling the middle of her chin. “You’re my guest until I can verify your story, because as far as I know, Pete Kinsey owns that house.” He stood and motioned her toward the cell. The small, barred cubicle was barren except for a cot, a pillow and a blanket.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“It’s not the presidential suite, but it’s better than most, and it’s clean.” And safe.
Those bright green eyes glared at him with haughty indignation that rivaled his younger sister Meghan’s. He smothered a smile.
Kate moved into the cell and turned her back on him. An unsettling protest nagged at Brody. He didn’t like seeing the petite redhead behind bars. She seemed harmless and innocent, hardly a hardened criminal.
He took a step and pain shot down his leg, reminding him sharply that appearances could be deceiving. He’d learned his lesson and he’d sworn never again to let a pretty face distract him from his job. He shifted his weight and eased the pain.
“Here.” Kate slipped the jacket from around her shoulders and shoved it at him. He took it, then closed the cell door, along with the door to his bleeding heart.
Exhaustion overtook Kate and seeped into her bones, making her limbs heavy with lassitude. She grabbed the blanket from the cot and fluffed the pillow with her fist.
Sleeping in a jail cell wasn’t exactly how she’d planned on spending her first night on the east coast, especially not on charges of breaking and entering.
She’d probably said more than she should. Her lawyer had sternly told her not to say anything, ever, without his presence. A self-deprecating grimace pulled at her mouth. Of course, if she’d heeded Gordon’s advice and not left town, she wouldn’t be incarcerated right now.
Sitting down on the narrow, makeshift bed, she muttered, “Better a jail cell than a coffin.”
Her hands twisted the rough blanket. The material grew warm beneath her palms. Her lips formed a wry smile. Thank You, Lord, for giving me such a safe place to sleep tonight.
She looked at the sheriff. From a distance, his big, male body wasn’t nearly as intimidating while hunched in front of his computer screen, his large fingers stabbing at the keys.
The set of his square jaw revealed his concentration and she doubted he realized his dark, wavy hair still glistened with rainwater. His soaked brown uniform emphasized his wide shoulders and broad chest. She could appreciate his masculine appeal with him across the room, but with him up close she’d found herself struggling to breathe evenly.
Abruptly, she shook off the notion of attraction and attributed the thudding of her heart to fear. A tight knot formed in her stomach. Soon, he would learn the complete story of Paul’s death and the police’s interest in her.
The sheriff had been too perceptive by half, his dark, intense eyes assessing her like an oddity. His questions and offer of help spoken in that much-too-pleasing accent had nearly unhinged her, making her want to open up, to tell him what haunted her nightmares. But Paul’s final words echoed inside her head.
Trust…no one.
During the last several weeks, Kate’s natural inclination to look for the good had dimmed until she was afraid even to allow herself to trust a man who should be trustworthy. But the police in Los Angeles had made her very aware that trust had to be earned.
The only person she remotely trusted now was Gordon Thomas, her lawyer. The kindly older gentleman had entered her life when her mother had hired him to deal with her divorce. Over the years he’d stayed a part of their lives, becoming a surrogate uncle for Kate, always willing to listen when she couldn’t deal with her mother. Kate was grateful he’d taken an interest. Gordon had guided Kate in her college and career choices. She hated to think what path she’d have followed without his tutorship.
But this situation demanded she act on her own. She couldn’t ever have the peace and security she craved if she didn’t pursue the truth.
Her gaze wandered back to the sheriff. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he shifted in his seat, obstructing her view of his eyes, though she could see the angry red marks running down the side of his cheek left by her nails. She hoped he wouldn’t scar, although she doubted even the puckering of wounded flesh could decrease the handsomeness of his ruggedly sculpted face.
Overhead, the lights dimmed and then blinked off and on. The sheriff lifted his head and their gazes locked. For a moment they stared at each other and a shaft of embarrassment darted up Kate’s spine to settle in her cheeks. She was staring. She turned sharply away from his hooded, watchful eyes.
“Oh, man.”
The sheriff’s disgruntled voice brought her head back around.
“What’s up?” Warren asked, his wiry form unfolding from his desk chair.
“Computer’s down.” The sheriff straightened and rolled his massive shoulders.
“You look done in. Why don’t you head home? I’ll stay here with the prisoner.”
Kate stiffened at the deputy’s words. Staring hard at the sheriff, she held her breath, waiting for his reply. Don’t go. Lord, please don’t let him leave.
Sheriff McClain leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His lids dropped, hiding the darkness of his eyes. After a heartbeat he replied, “No, I’ll stay. But there’s no sense in us both being here. You go on home to your pretty wife.”
The deputy slanted Kate one last curious look, shrugged and picked up his jacket from the back of his chair. “Suit yourself. See you in the morning.”
Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the deputy disappeared through the station door. While probably capable, the deputy just didn’t seem as made for the task of protecting her as the sheriff did.
Her attention shifted back to Sheriff McClain. Didn’t he have a wife to go home to? A wife waiting, worrying and wondering if he’d return or would this be the day he died for his dedication to his job? What type of woman would claim the love of a man with a dangerous occupation?
A woman like her own mother.
A woman unlike herself.
She squashed her curiosity. The sheriff’s private life was none of her business. If he left his wife alone and lonely while he gave his job the attention his wife craved, what was that to her? Right now Kate needed him to do his job. She was thankful he’d stayed, but she wasn’t going to dwell on the sheriff or why his presence was comforting.
Instead, she lay down on the cot and pulled the blanket to her chin. She doubted sleep would come, but closing her eyes and pretending sure beat staring at the too-handsome man who’d arrested her.
The storm’s wrath didn’t seem to penetrate the station walls and the room fell silent. Feeling relatively safe for the time being, Kate tried to relax. Unaccountably, she felt the sheriff would keep her from harm. God had put her in his care. She’d face her worries again with the new day.
Her body grew heavy and her lids felt weighted down as sleep settled in. Faintly, she heard a rustling of noise. The sheriff finally moving from his reclined position. His quiet footfalls echoed inside her head, but she was too groggy to open her eyes to see what he was doing.
Even when she heard the quiet click, then the slight squeak of the cell door opening, she couldn’t muster up enough panic to rouse her from slumber.
She felt the added weight of another blanket being laid across her. With a sigh, she snuggled beneath the cocoon of rough material and drifted completely to sleep.
Brody stared at the sleeping woman.
Katherine Wheeler. No, he much preferred
the informal Kate that she’d referred to herself as.
Why did he care if she grew cold? It shouldn’t matter. But it did.
There was something compelling about her, something that pulled at him. Maybe it was the vulnerability he saw in her large, springtime eyes or the fact that she’d felt safe enough to allow herself to rest. Whatever the case, it had to stop. He couldn’t allow himself to be drawn in by her.
Until Kate’s story checked out, he had to think of her as a criminal. He half hoped she did own the house; he’d hate to see her end up in Walpole. Massachusetts Criminal Institute Cedar Junction was no place for such a pretty woman.
But then again, if what she said was true…what if she decided to become a resident of Havensport? Brody had an uneasy feeling that having her in the same town for any length of time would be hazardous to his carefully tended solitude.
Ha! As if you’d ever let a woman get close to you again, reprimanded his inner voice. As if this woman, who drips with class, would ever want to get close to you.
Brody drew back from the sleeping woman on the cot. He rubbed the spot on his hip where he bore the constant reminder of what trusting a woman could do. Old anger and helpless rage roared to life and Brody let out a compressed breath. He spun away and stalked back to his desk to stare at the blank computer screen.
The quicker he cleared up the mess with his guest, the better. Then his nice quiet life could resume the way he wanted it.
Alone.
THREE
Sunshine streamed through the barred window of the jail cell, spilling slanted lines of light across the cement floor and onto the cot where Kate lay. The warmth of the golden rays touched her cheek, and roused her from sleep.
Turning her head fully into the light, Kate frowned at the faint scent that clung to the air. She couldn’t place it, but she knew it. A masculine fragrance, which stirred up images of a hard body pressed against her, a handsome face and a tender gesture.
The sheriff.
Kate’s lids popped opened, her body tensed on the hard cot. Now she remembered where she was and why. Staring up at the gray ceiling of the jail cell, she listened for movement. Only the sounds of her own breathing met her ears. Was she alone in the jailhouse? She only had to turn her head to see through the black bars, but she stayed motionless, assessing her situation.
Strangely, she hadn’t dreamed last night. One would think being locked up in a cold jail cell would bring her nightmares on full force. But she felt rested and ready to tackle the task of discovering why Paul had been murdered.
First she had to deal with Sheriff McClain.
Once Gordon explained about the house, the sheriff would have to let her go. But she had a disquieting feeling her association with the man wouldn’t end there. He seemed the type to press, to find challenge in uncovering secrets. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe the sheriff could help.
She sat up abruptly.
No. She couldn’t trust anyone, save God. Even this man who’d sounded so sincere when he’d offered his help, who had cared enough to supply another blanket, who’d…she glanced down.
On the floor, next to her feet, sat a tray with juice, cereal and milk. Surprise and a good dose of pleased warmth suffused her.
Her gaze sought out the sheriff. He sat leaning over his desk with his cheek resting on his forearms. Asleep. He looked boyish, with waves of ebony spilling over his forehead and dark lashes splayed across his cheeks. Kate shook her head in wonder. Just when had Sheriff McClain brought the tray in? She’d heard the squeak of the cell door only once, when he’d brought her the blanket.
A violent shudder swept her body. She’d spent a dreamless night within the cell, lulled to sleep by a false sense of security. Anyone could easily have killed her in her sleep. Anyone being the sheriff.
But he hadn’t.
Sheriff McClain was not the enemy. He hadn’t known Paul. The man was simply a small-town sheriff doing his job. In her heart, she acknowledged that as truth, but her brain wasn’t so sure.
Trust no one.
“Get a grip, girl,” she muttered as she opened the milk carton and poured the liquid into the bowl of corn flakes. Paul’s warning couldn’t have extended to the sheriff. There was no reason she couldn’t trust Brody McClain.
As she finished the cereal and was about to open the orange juice, a pained grunt split the air. Kate’s gaze jumped to the sheriff. His once-relaxed features pulled back into a grimace, his head jerked and a moan slipped from between his lips.
She realized he was gripped within a nightmare. She knew what it was like to feel helplessly lost in the dark swirl of fear, memory and sleep. Compassion filled her chest until it ached with the need to relieve him of his dreams.
“Sheriff McClain?” Her voice bounced off the walls but held no power. “Sheriff?” she tried again, but to no avail. His head thrashed across his bent arms, his big body tense.
Taking a deep breath, Kate used her diaphragm to add more strength to her voice. “McClain!”
Her voice snapped through the station like the slam of a door.
As a wake-up call, it worked well.
Brody jerked his head up and blinked several times before he realized he was at the station, not on a darkened street in the middle of a storm facing the barrel of a gun.
His gaze met that of the woman occupying the cell. Red curls framed her face, emphasizing her large, compassion-filled eyes. She’d witnessed his nightmare. Great.
Taking a shuddering breath, Brody composed himself and rose from his chair. Rigid, stiff muscles objected to the stretching. His limbs ached. The need to work out the kinks demanded his attention, but Brody had a job to finish first. The gym would have to wait.
He moved away from the desk to the coffee machine. With each step of his right leg, pain shot into his hip. He refused to allow himself the luxury of limping when meadow-green eyes followed his every move.
By rote, he went through the process of making strong coffee. Soon, the sound and smell of brewing French roast filled the air. Brody inhaled the rich scent for a moment, and pushed away the unease of Kate having witnessed what he worked so hard to keep beneath his heel. He walked steadily to the cell and opened the door. “Good morning.”
His charge stared at him. Her head listed to the side and questions fairly radiated from her expression. “Good morning.”
The corners of her mouth kicked up in a tentative smile that sneaked inside his chest and made it difficult to breathe.
“Thank you for breakfast…and the blanket.”
He swallowed against both her gratitude and the effects of her smile. He didn’t want either one. “I hope you slept well.”
“I did, actually.” She stood and stepped past him, then stopped in the center of the room. She looked around uncertainly. “Is there a restroom I could use?”
“Down the corridor, on the left.” Brody watched her disappear before he shifted his feet and took his weight onto his left leg, easing the ache in his right hip. Why was he bothering? It didn’t make sense; vanity wasn’t usually one of his faults. But letting her witness his weakness was…out of the question. He didn’t want her to look at him with pity.
Most everyone in town knew vague details of how he’d acquired his limp. Few dared approach the subject and even fewer knew the truth of the situation. Taking a bullet was a hazard of the job that every law-enforcement officer faced. Only for Brody it was so much more and so much worse.
Forcing his torturous thoughts to recede, Brody limped over to his desk, sat down and tried to boot up the computer. The screen remained blank. He made a mental note to call the local computer expert and have him take a look at the infernal machine, which was always on the fritz. Somewhat ruefully, he figured he’d have to check out his guest the old-fashioned way.
As he reached for the phone, it rang, the shrill sound ringing hollow in the small station. Picking up the receiver, he answered, “Havensport County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff McClain speaking.�
��
“I understand you have Katherine Wheeler in your custody.” The gravelly voice boomed in Brody’s ear, the tone sharp, the words clipped.
“And you are?”
“Gordon Thomas, Katherine’s attorney.”
Figured a Beverly Hills address could buy attitude. “She was caught breaking into one of our residents’ summer home.”
“The Kinsey residence?”
“Yes.”
“The house belongs to my client.”
Brody didn’t like the condescending tone in the man’s voice. “I’ll need proof of that.”
“What’s your fax number?” the man asked curtly.
Brody rattled off the number and a few seconds later the machine in the corner beeped and hissed. Paper rolled out; sheet after sheet until finally it gave one final beep and remained silent.
“Sheriff McClain, I’d like to speak with Ms. Wheeler.”
“Sorry, she’s indispos…” Brody’s voice trailed off as he noticed Kate standing beside his desk. Even with her wrinkled clothes and finger-combed hair, she radiated a quiet confidence. He’d give the lady credit; she was no fragile flower.
“Here she is.”
Kate took the phone and turned away. He could hear the urgent note in the low tones of her voice. Picking up the fax, he flipped through the pages and realized Katherine Wheeler, though he liked Kate better, had been telling the truth. She now owned the house.
“Here, he wants to talk with you.”
Kate’s little smile grated on Brody’s nerves. So she hadn’t been lying. Big whoop. The fact that one female had the ability to tell the truth should make him happy, but he couldn’t stop the unsettled feeling that something wasn’t right. How did Pete Kinsey fit into this?
“Everything seems to be in order. I still have questions.”
“I’m sure you do, Sheriff, but first things first. Release Mrs. Wheeler. There’s no need for her still to be in your custody.”
Brody wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t deny Kate’s name appeared on the copies of her late husband’s will and the deed to the house. She had every right to walk freely away and go about her life, yet he hesitated.
