Where Love Abides. Irene Hannon

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ