Tight-Fittin' Jeans. Mary Baxter Lynn
Tiffany swallowed the panic that rose up the back of her throat just as she heard the siren.
Taylor twisted out of her arms and rushed to the window. “Sheriff Wright’s getting out of the car.”
Tiffany didn’t wait for him to knock. She headed for the door herself, Taylor on her heels. “Uh-uh, young lady. You stay put right here.”
Taylor’s face bunched into a frown. “I don’t want to. ”
“Nevertheless, you’re going to.” Then, softening her words, Tiffany added, “As soon as I know what’s going on, I’ll be back.”
Taylor jutted her chin and averted her face. Tiffany hated knowing that the child was upset, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that at the moment. There was enough trauma going on in Taylor’s life without her seeing a man who might be—
Shutting down that thought, Tiffany raced out the door just as the sheriff walked onto the porch. “Howdy, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat. “I’m Porter Wright.”
It wasn’t that he was tall and lean to the point of gauntness, or that he wore a Fu Manchu mustache, that made her wince inwardly, but rather the smell that surrounded him—as if he’d just stepped in a patty of cow manure.
Unwittingly, she lowered her head, and sure enough, he had. His boots were caked with it. This time it was all Tiffany could do to hold her already queasy stomach in check.
“I’m Tiffany Russell,” she said at last.
“Suppose you take me to where this fellow is.”
“He’s...he’s in the barn.”
“Let’s go have a look-see.”
“Do I have to go with you?”
The sheriff removed his hat and scratched his head. “I don’t suppose so.”
“Never mind, I’ll come. I have to face the music sooner or later.”
Porter Wright gave her a strange look before commenting, “Most likely you’re in the clear, whoever this person is. Folks around here get real nervous when someone invades their privacy. You did the right thing, I’m sure.”
“Taylor, honey, I’ll be right back,” Tiffany called into the house. “You’ll be fine.”
Although it had been only fifteen minutes since the incident, it seemed like an eternity as Tiffany followed Sheriff Wright back to the bam.
He entered first_ Tiffany pulled up short behind him, just inside the door, and clung to the rustic facing for dear life, despite the fact that splinters were digging into her hand.
The man was sitting up and in the process of wiping the blood off his temple. Relief left her feeling even weaker than the earlier bouts of nausea. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. All she could do was stand there gaping at him, all the while praising the Lord that he was alive and she wouldn’t be going to the penitentiary.
The man, however, wasn’t at a loss for words. In fact, the expletives spilling from his lips sent the color rushing back into Tiffany’s face. She felt as if she’d suddenly caught a fever.
“Should L..call an ambulance?” she stammered.
“Hell, no!”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Sheriff Wright said, his features wrinkled in a grin.
“I’m glad you think it’s funny,” the man snapped, rising fully to his feet, though he was obviously still unsteady, and glaring at the sheriff.
Tiffany felt the urge to race to him and help him, but she knew that wouldn’t be the thing to do. He looked mad enough to chew a barbed-wire fence in two.
“Ms. Tiffany Russell, meet the man you’ve just waylaid,” Wright said. “Jeremiah’s neighbor, Garth Dixon.”
“Oh, no,” Tiffany whispered, but the words were loud enough for both men to hear.
“Oh, yes, Ms. Russell, or whoever the hell you are,” Garth lashed back.
Tiffany took a step forward, a hand outstretched. “Look, Mr. Dixon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He cursed again, cutting her off in midsentence. “Like hell you didn’t mean it. You nearly took my damn head off with that shovel.”
Tiffany flung a helpless look at Porter Wright. The sheriff seemed content to stand back and let the two of them go at it, grinning all the while, as if he were enjoying the exchange to the max.
Well, why not? Tiffany thought This incident was probably the most exciting thing that had happened around these parts in a long time. She would have liked nothing better than to knock that grin off Wright’s face, then turn around and knock the smirk off Dixon’s. Instead, she swallowed her own mounting anger and said, “If only you’d come to the house and told me who you were, I wouldn’t—”
“Hell, lady, that doesn’t excuse you, especially since I wasn’t a threat to you.”
“How was I to know that?”
Garth Dixon looked at her as if he wanted to throttle her, which she was sure he did, in retaliation for what she’d done to him.
“Hell, I see I’m wasting my time talking to you. Anyone that dizzy—”
Tiffany was enraged. “I’ll have you know that I’m not—”
“Save it, lady. I’m not interested.”
Instead of barking right back at him the way she wanted to do, Tiffany turned and stomped toward the door. Once there, she had second thoughts, and she whirled around, glaring at him. Who did he think he was? She wouldn’t let him get away with placing all the blame on her shoulders.
She was about to voice that thought when her gut instinct kicked in, telling her that for now she’d best keep her mouth shut, if she wanted to come out the winner here. For one thing, the man was in obvious pain. But more than that, he was livid, livid to the point that she knew her impulsiveness had gained her an enemy, which was too bad.
Garth Dixon was a good-looking man, even if he was a bit too thin. Pure eye candy. Even the red, purplish lump on the side of his head didn’t detract from the dramatics of his chiseled features, his salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—or the dark blue eyes surrounded by thick black lashes.
Too bad again that she didn’t give a fig if he was handsome or not. Not only was he too old for her—she guessed him to be in his forties—he was a poor sod-buster, which was an even bigger turnoff than his age.
Her grandmother had always told her that she could fall in love with a rich man as easily as a poor one. Tiffany had never forgotten those pearls of wisdom. But then, she didn’t have to worry. She wasn’t about to fall in love with any man, certainly not this one, who continued to look at her through cold, hostile eyes.
“Surely you were aware that Jeremiah asked me to keep an eye on the place while he was gone?” Garth asked at last.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Well, hell.”
“If it’s an apology you want,” Tiffany said, “then you’ve got it.”
Sheriff Wright shoved himself away from the post where he’d been leaning. “I guess that settles things, then. If Ms. Russell here is willing to apologize, then—”
“I don’t want her apology.” Garth focused his fierce gaze on Tiffany, then spoke directly to her. “All I want is for you to stay the hell away from me.”
With that, he turned and, cutting around her, stalked out of the barn.
“Whew!” Sheriff Wright said, taking off his hat and fanning his face. “I’d say he’s madder than a stirred-up hornet’s nest.”