The Sheriff of Shelter Valley. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      Greg nodded.

      “Is he still around?”

      “He’s still alive.” Greg sighed. The Mathers had physically deflated as he’d told them about the latest trouble Bob had gotten into. “After Molly, their daughter, was killed, they focused everything they had on Bob. He became their reason for living. He was a rebellious kid, but they pinned all their hope, love and energy on him.”

      “You knew Bob?”

      “We graduated in the same class.”

      “Is he good to them?”

      Greg wasn’t surprised by the compassion he read on Beth’s face. He’d been touched by her natural warmth the first time he’d run into her at the day care. He hadn’t needed his sister’s priming—her point-blank match-making attempts—to get his attention. Odd how someone could be so closed off and yet emanate such caring.

      “Bob somehow came out of it all believing that the world owes him a living. He’s a conniver who works too little and drinks too much.”

      “He’s not good to them.”

      Most of what Greg knew, he wasn’t at liberty to say. “He hasn’t been home to see them in over five years.” He could tell her that much.

      “What a shame. They’re such nice people.”

      “They are.”

      “It’s not right, you know,” she said softly, her arms wrapped around her middle as she leaned back against the wall, facing him and the room where her son played.

      “What’s that?”

      “Life, I guess. You have people like the Mathers, filled with unconditional love, great parents in an empty house, and their son, a jerk who’s completely wasting one of the greatest gifts he’ll ever get in this life. I’d literally give a limb to have what he’s just throwing away.”

      She stopped, stepped away from the wall and busied herself with closing the closet door and picking up the packaging from the dryer vent, the papers she’d been given with the appliances.

      She’d said more than she’d meant to. He could tell by the stiffness in her back. The way she wouldn’t look at him. Greg knew the signs well. He’d seen them again and again over the years as he’d questioned suspects. Could tell when just another push or two would wring the confession he was seeking.

      “How about we take this little guy out for ice cream?” he asked, walking toward Ryan.

      “Cweam?” the boy echoed, staring up at his mother.

      “He’s messy,” Beth warned.

      It wasn’t a no. Greg was elated. Probably far beyond what the situation warranted.

      “Messiness is an unwritten rule when you’re two,” he said lightly.

      He could read the uncertainty in her face. Which only made him want her capitulation that much more.

      If he was a nice guy, he’d give up. Go away and leave her alone, quit bugging her, as she seemed to want. Except, Greg didn’t feel at all sure that was what she wanted. From the very beginning, whenever their eyes met, which she didn’t allow often, he’d felt the communication between them.

      Something about this woman kept bringing him back, in spite of her refusal to have anything to do with him. And he had a pretty strong suspicion that she was drawn to him, too.

      Her mouth said no. But he wasn’t convinced the rest of her agreed.

      “Aren’t you worried about what people will think?” she said in a low voice.

      As excuses went, it wasn’t one of her better ones. “It isn’t against the law for sheriffs to eat ice cream with messy kids.”

      “Cweam?” Ryan asked again. Beth picked him up.

      “Greg—” She stopped abruptly.

      It was the first time she’d called him by his first name. He liked it. Too much.

      “You know what I mean,” she said, her shoulders dropping. “I’ve only been here six months and don’t know many people, but I’ve certainly seen how well-oiled the gossip wheel is in this town. It might make things uncomfortable for you if you’re seen with the cleaning lady.”

      “We aren’t snobs in Shelter Valley.”

      “I know, but I’m a nobody who cleans houses and you’re the boss of the entire county.”

      “I don’t think Mayor Smith would be too happy to hear you say that.”

      “Even I know that Junior Smith is just a figurehead in this town.”

      “Cweam?”

      The boy might not talk a lot, but he was persistent. Greg liked that.

      “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re so hesitant to be seen with me,” he said.

      She didn’t. But he had a pretty good idea that she wanted to. Her eyes were telling him so much, frustrating him because, as hard as he tried, he couldn’t translate those messages.

      She’d mentioned gossip. “You’re worried that they’re going to see us together once and start planning the wedding.”

      “I might worry about it if I believed for one second that anyone would think I was good enough for you.”

      “Bonnie’s been trying to hook us up for two months.”

      “No way!”

      “Yes, way. She’s invited you to dinner every Sunday for the past five weeks.”

      “So?”

      “I was invited, too.”

      “Cweam?”

      “Just a minute, Ry,” Beth said softly, kissing the top of the boy’s curly head.

      “That’s just a coincidence,” she told Greg, adjusting her son on her hip. Ryan slid a finger into his mouth.

      Katie would’ve been crying by now, demanding ice cream. Beth’s son didn’t seem to demand much at all. Something he had in common with his mother.

      “Trust me, there are no coincidences with my sister,” Greg told her, prepared to stay there arguing the point all night if necessary. “And she wouldn’t leave something as important as this to chance, anyway. She’s not the least bit subtle or embarrassed about how adamant she is to change my marital status. Nor has she been subtle about telling me what a fool I’d be if I let you get away—I’d be missing my chance of a lifetime.” He mimicked the little sister he adored.

      “So you’re doing this for her.”

      Greg took more hope from the disappointment he heard СКАЧАТЬ