Lassoing the Deputy. Marie Ferrarella

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       “I wasn’t leaving because of you.” Her tone was no longer cool. It was downright cold. “I said I had to get back to the office—”

       She was lying. He knew she was lying. So, it had come to this. The most honest woman he’d ever known in his life was lying to him.

       He’d done that to her, he thought with a bitter pang.

       “I’ll go,” he told her quietly. “You stay and have your lunch. Or at least finish your lemonade.” And then, because something inside him longed to reach out to her, to just talk to her for a moment, he said, “Still like those things, huh?”

       There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile on her lips. She looked as if she was barely tolerating breathing the same air as he was. “When I like something, I stay with it. I don’t see any reason not to.”

       “Ouch.” He smiled at her then. It was a small, sad smile that struggled to filter into his eyes. “That was a direct hit,” he announced, the way he might have once done when they played Battleship.

       Her eyes narrowed to small, dismissive slits. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

       He was tired, so tired. A part of him had hoped that by coming back here, he could reclaim at least a small part of his soul. But he’d been wrong. Maybe he didn’t deserve to reclaim his soul after what he’d done.

       “Yes, you do,” he told her softly. “We both do. You don’t have to run away each time I show up.” It was almost a plea.

       Ordinarily, by now she would have relented, put the hurt behind her and moved on. But this hurt was too large to ignore, too large to place behind her. She’d be a fool to let it go and leave herself open to more pain. Because without the hurt to cling to and use as a shield, she’d be putting herself at risk all over again.

       He was here only for the wedding. She only had to remain strong for two weeks. Just 20,160 minutes, that was all.

       “You had nothing to do with it. I—” And then she stopped abruptly. Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, she put it to her ear. “Hello?”

       “I didn’t hear anything,” Cash said.

       Covering the bottom of the phone for a second, she told him in a hushed, annoyed voice, “That’s because it’s on vibrate.” And then she turned her attention back to the cell phone. “Right. I was just coming back. Be there in a few minutes, Sheriff. I’ll take care of it then,” she promised.

       With that, she ended the call and slipped the phone into her back pocket again.

       “Take care of what?” Cash wanted to know. She’d already begun walking away from him.

       “I’m sorry, but that’s on a need-to-know basis,” she informed him crisply, recalling the line from a TV program she’d seen recently, “and you don’t need to know.”

       His eyes pinned her down for a moment. “You’re lying again, aren’t you? I’ve never known you to lie before, Alma, and now you’ve done it twice.”

      I’ve lied to you more than that since you came back to town, she told him silently.

       She raised her chin, a clear sign that she was getting ready for a fight.

       “I have no control over what you think or don’t think, and frankly, I could care less.” There, another lie to add to the pile.

       With that, she turned on her heel and got into the Jeep.

       She was aware that Cash was watching her. And that he continued watching her as she started up the vehicle and drove away from the diner.

       Cash was right and it annoyed the hell out of her. There’d been no phone call. She’d made it up, just as she had made up the so-called conversation she’d had with the sheriff. It was the first thing that had occurred to her in her effort to get away from Cash.

       At least it had worked, she congratulated herself. She’d managed to get away without becoming entangled in any kind of verbal confrontation with him.

       So what did she do for the other thirteen days before the wedding? she asked herself as a feeling of uneasy desperation undulated through her.

       With effort, she banked it down.

      This, too, shall pass, she promised herself—and fervently hoped she was right.

      Chapter Four

      Sleep had eluded her for most of the night, finally descending on her at almost three in the morning. Because she was so exhausted by then, she had overslept.

       Feeling as if she was running on empty, Alma rushed through her shower and into her clothes. Her stomach protested the lack of fuel, rumbling and growling as she hurried to her car.

       She knew she wouldn’t be of any use to anyone if she didn’t have at least something to eat. So, with a sigh, she made a quick side trip to the diner. She was going to get an order of French toast to go. French toast was her number-one comfort food, something her mother used to make in order to cheer her up when she was a little girl. Eating it always made her remember those days and how secure she’d felt.

       She needed a dose of that right now. Badly.

       Miss Joan looked up the second she opened the door.

       “I was hoping you’d come in today.” Glancing over her shoulder, she called out to the cook in the kitchen. “Roberto, one order of French toast to go.”

       Alma blinked, surprised. “How did you know?” she asked.

       “I know a lot of things. What I don’t know,” Miss Joan said, coming closer, “was what the hell that was yesterday.”

       Alma did her best to look innocent, hoping Miss Joan would take the hint. “What do you mean?”

       “You know damn well what I mean, baby girl,” Miss Joan said. “The second Harry’s boy came in with him, you hightailed it out of here like some scared jackrabbit who’d just backed up into a coyote.” There was both annoyance and disappointment in the woman’s voice.

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