Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster

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СКАЧАТЬ been the magic words. Dan threw the car in reverse, and backed it up to the start of the circular drive. Before I could say Deputy Dawg, or worry about my state of dress–or lack thereof–he’d parked on the drive in front of the house.

      “You opened it?” He strode toward my porch. Well, if he had put the box there, his reaction didn’t feel right. Shouldn’t he have been more flirtatious instead of angry?

      “Well, yeah. How else am I supposed to figure out what it is?” I dropped the lid and reached for the tissue. “Some sort of floral arrangement.” A light breeze blew one half of the tissue back and revealed a bunch of greenery, the stems artistically bound with a white satin ribbon. I lifted the small envelope from where it nestled in the leaves. My name was printed in block letters on top. “And it’s for me.”

      Odd, the handwriting looked nothing like Burt’s or anyone else’s I knew. As the librarian, I saw a lot of different handwriting styles on a daily basis. The sample I held was completely unrecognizable.

      I remained crouched on the porch, so when he stood on the step below, he towered over me. “Recognize the handwriting?”

      “Suspicious much?” The breeze kicked past and blew a strand of hair into my eyes. I was about to push it back when Dan bent and gripped my wrist.

      “Stop. That’s poison oak and, if I’m not mistaken, ragweed.”

      I must have looked pretty dopey staring up at him. A gust of hot breeze carried a swirl of dust and pollen to my face as I reacted to the warmth and strength of his hand wrapped around my wrist. Before I could think of something to say, much less move, I sneezed. Truly elegant and attractive.

      “That box is one mass of toxins. Aren’t you super allergic to hay fever stuff?”

      Stunned, I let him pull me up. He knew that about me? Then again, in our little town, who didn’t?

      I looked up at him but didn’t see anything beyond professional concern. Even one step down, he stood taller than eye level with me. I still had the envelope in my hand. “Yes. I live on allergy meds all spring and summer.” And weekly shots. All of which I’d left sitting on the bathroom counter upstairs. I might have been able to ditch them all if we’d moved to the coast, but every year Burt reminded me we couldn’t afford living there. Another sneeze rocked me and my eyes began to water. Applied in a timely manner, the meds made it possible for me to live a somewhat normal life, including time in my allergy-friendly garden where I’d planted low pollen plants as defined by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America. Unfortunately, I was about an hour past my usual time, so I sneezed on Dan’s fine white t-shirt again.

      He didn’t flinch, but he did stare at me for a few seconds.

      “Sorry.” I reached to wipe away the miniscule spots, but he stopped me.

      “Let’s get you inside. Don’t touch anything, hear me?”

      “Yeah, yeah. I’ve dealt with poison oak before. How’d you recognize it in the dark? My porch light isn’t very bright.”

      “I have good night vision.”

      I could only wonder what that meant as he dragged me past the screen door he held open. I liked to skinny dip in the pool out back from time to time, but only very late on the darkest nights. Had he been able to see me from his brother’s kitchen window? I’d almost done it tonight. Heat raced across my face.

      “Where do you keep your first aid kit? I assume you have something to treat this.”

      I lost my train of thought with my next sneeze, which echoed in the foyer as we passed through. “What?”

      “Your first aid kit. Where is it?”

      “The cabinet by the back door.” After a few bouts with stubbed toes on the pool apron and bug bites from working in the yard, I’d found it easier to have the kit on hand for fast grabbing.

      Dan stopped by the sink and turned on the water so I didn’t have to touch the faucet. He had me drop the envelope into a plastic baggie, and after pumping soap into my hands he began searching the contents of the first aid box.

      “Calamine? It doesn’t do diddly, Rumple. Not on poison oak.”

      Rumple? Good heavens. I half snorted, half sneezed. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in twenty years.”

      Once I’d cleaned my wedding rings, I pulled the set off and dropped it into the little dish on the window sill. I’d never liked wearing rings when doing dirty work in the kitchen and often left them there overnight. Burt objected every time he saw me do it, calling me irresponsible with how I treated the two-carat diamond on the engagement ring. I figured I saved the ring set some wear and tear. Especially on the days I forgot to wear the set altogether. The first time he’d caught me at work without… Well, I’d learned to be very careful when he was in town.

      Dan stiffened, shot me an irritated glance, and kept digging. “Mint oil? Menthol? Camphor? Lanacaine? Do you have anything along those lines?”

      “Aloe with Lanacaine? Witch hazel, rubbing alcohol…”

      His hand plunged into the box. “Antihistamine cream and hydrocortisone. Those’ll work.” Appropriate tubes captured and officially subdued, he turned and observed my scrubbing efforts.

      Unusually fast, the sting had started to set in. Thank God for his exceptional night vision. I would have carried the box into the house and set it on the counter before recognizing the toxic plants. The oil from the poison oak would have been everywhere, not to mention the evil pollen of the ragweed.

      “Who’d you piss off?” Dan handed me a paper towel. “Pat, don’t rub.”

      “Aye, aye, Deputy.” Off duty, he wore jeans, a no longer quite so pristine white t-shirt, and three day stubble. Yowzer. Even though I’d been married for seventeen years, I had no immunity to all that raw manliness standing six inches away from me for the second time that day. Young manliness. Two years younger than I. Twelve years younger than my husband. I patted my hands and face dry, did my best to delicately blow my running nose, and tossed the paper towels into the trash.

      “Funny.” He squeezed out the antihistamine cream first. “Rub that in and we’ll follow with the hydrocortisone. Got a pair of chopsticks or tweezers?”

      “What?” Out of the blue, the question struck me as bizarre.

      “I want to read the card inside the envelope,” he said slowly with exaggerated patience and a touch of sarcasm. In truth, I’d been thinking about him to hide my real turmoil. My mind, still reeling from the fact someone would send me such a rotten arrangement, had trouble catching up to him.

      “Tweezers equals no touchy.” He wiggled the fingers of one hand.

      “Funny.” I repeated his one word sarcastic answer before sneezing, that time into the sink. “Top drawer, grab one of the wooden pairs of Japanese chopsticks. They have the pointier end.” I took the fresh paper towel he handed me, and oh-so-demurely wiped my running eyes and drippy nose.

      “You’re a real comedian, library lady. Exactly what do you wear under your proper suit of straight skirt and prim white blouse, with your hair up in a bun?”

      He gave me СКАЧАТЬ