A Lawman in Her Stocking. Kathie DeNosky
knew for sure he’d turned the tables. He could tell Brenna had been as affected by the touch of his hand as he’d been by hers. And, she was trying to give him the bum’s rush.
But he’d be damned before he let it happen. She’d started this confrontation. He intended to finish it.
“Where do you want me to sit?”
Her eyes grew round. “You…you don’t mean you’re staying?”
“Yep.” At her stunned reaction, he didn’t even try to hold back his satisfied smile. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Oh, this is wonderful,” old Corny said, clapping her pudgy hands to gain the women’s attention. “Now that Dylan’s taking the class, we shouldn’t have any trouble convincing our men they could use a measure of culture, too. I intend to speak with Myron about it this very evening, and I encourage every one of you to do the same with your husbands.”
Dylan’s triumphant grin evaporated, and he barely controlled the urge to squirm when several of the women bobbed their heads in eager agreement. He’d forgotten all about the guys over at Luke’s. Once they got wind he was taking an art class, he’d never hear the end of it. Now, short of humiliating himself in front of the entire room full of world-class busybodies, there wasn’t any way out.
Every Tuesday night for no telling how long, he’d miss the poker game over at Luke’s. He’d be forced to listen to Brenna’s soft voice as she instructed the class. He’d have to watch her silky, red hair brush the top of her shapely rear—
His body tightened noticeably, and muttering a curse, he removed his Resistol, lowered it to zipper level and took a seat. As he sat watching Brenna, his mood lightened and he fought back a grin. If any good came out of this mess, it had to be the dazed look on her face.
Brenna Montgomery looked like she’d just sat down on a bumblebee.
Two
Dazed, Brenna turned and slowly walked to the front of the class. What had she been thinking? The sheriff had been ready to leave. And he would have, if she’d just kept her mouth shut.
But, no. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’d tried to get even for this afternoon’s disagreement—tried to practice being assertive—and ended up making a mess of everything. Becoming a stronger, more self-assured woman was a balancing act. And she’d just proven she was tilting a little too far to one side.
“Okay, ladies…and gentleman.” She purposely avoided looking at the man as she handed out the supply lists. “These are the items you’ll need for the course.”
“What’s the difference between Folk Art and painting a landscape or a portrait?” one of the women asked.
Brenna perched on the edge of the desk as she tried to organize her tangled thoughts. The sheriff’s presence was playing havoc with her already jangled nerves and had her ready to kill for a Hershey bar.
“Originally the label Folk Art was given to all forms of art created by people who knew little, if anything, about method or design. A folk artist ‘created’ without knowing how or what they’d done. Fine art requires more disciplined techniques.”
“How did it get started?” Mildred Bruner asked.
“You could say it evolved out of envy,” Brenna answered, trying her best to ignore the man sitting in the back of the room. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “In Europe, peasants wanted to simulate the expensive furnishings of the noble class, so they used Folk Art to paint their furniture, dishes and pottery. They even used it on store signs.”
Mrs. Worthington frowned. “Store signs?”
Brenna nodded. “Around the seventeenth and eighteenth century, the craft was used for practical, as well as decorative, purposes. Most of the common people were illiterate. But by having signs painted with bright colors and bold designs, shopkeepers could effectively advertise their product.” She paused as she searched for an example. “Let’s say Luke’s had a wooden sign with nothing more than a large beer stein with suds running down the side.” She smiled. “I don’t think any of us would be left to wonder what Luke sold, would we?”
“Oh, how quaint,” Mrs. Worthington said, her face brightening with a wide smile.
By the time Brenna went over what the ladies and Sheriff Chandler could expect to learn, it was almost time to dismiss the class. “Are there any more questions?” When no one responded, she smiled. “Then I’ll dismiss class early. I have all the supplies at my shop. Stop by and I’ll help you find everything you need so we can start painting next week.”
On their way out, several of the ladies stopped to tell Brenna how enthusiastic they were about the class and to inquire about her new craft shop. Her spirits soared and the incident with the sheriff was all but forgotten as she closed the door to the community room and stepped out into the late-November night.
She’d accomplished two very important goals tonight. She’d generated a lot of interest in her new business, but more important, she’d found the courage to stand in front of a class to teach. She only wished Tom had been around to see just how far she’d come in the year since he’d dumped her, and how wrong he’d been about her ambitions.
Thinking about the man who’d taken her to the cleaners, both emotionally and financially, she cringed. How could she have been so naive, so blind about his self-centeredness?
“Ms. Montgomery, could I have a word with you?” a male voice asked from behind her at the same time a hand came down on her shoulder.
Her surprised cry echoed through the deserted streets of Tranquillity as she spun around and swung her tote, her aim directed where it would hurt the most—her assailant’s groin.
“Take it easy, lady,” Dylan said, quickly turning his body to protect himself. “It’s just me.”
“Sheriff Chandler!” She placed her hand over her heart as she glared at him. “Do all the men in this town get some kind of kick out of frightening women?”
Dylan stepped closer and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He couldn’t understand why she’d been so upset about the incident with Pete. If the way she swung that bag was any indication, she could easily take care of herself.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, thankful that he’d been quick enough to side-step her blow. If he hadn’t, he’d be writhing around on the sidewalk right now, feeling as if death would be a blessing. “I was just trying to stay out of the way until I could talk to you in private.”
“Do you want to withdraw from the class?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
Nothing would make him happier. But he’d be damned before he gave her the satisfaction. “Nope. I think I’m going to enjoy learning to paint,” he lied.
Her hopeful smile vanished. “That’s nice, Sheriff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.”
Dylan frowned. That was the second time this evening that she’d tried to dismiss him. And it didn’t sit any better this time than it had the last.
“Not so fast, Ms. Montgomery. We need to talk about what happened this afternoon.”
She shook her head as she stared up at him. “I really don’t see the need, Sheriff. I told you what happened. And you made it quite clear that you thought I was overreacting to the situation.”
Dylan studied her upturned face for several long seconds. She really was the best-looking trouble he’d seen in years. Her guileless blue eyes held an intelligence that he found sexy as hell and her perfect cupid’s bow lips were just begging to be kissed.
The ridiculous thought caused his stomach to twist into a tight knot. Thinking along those lines could get a man in serious trouble. He’d been there once and he had no intention of ever going there again.
Taking