The Sheriff Wins A Wife. Jill Limber
swallowed again and felt the tips of her fingers tingle as she remembered how she’d loved to touch him.
Dangerous, forbidden feelings surfaced like hot water bubbling out of a thermal spring. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him or forget no other man had ever made her feel the way Trace had.
She’d told herself over the years that she’d exaggerated her memories of him. It was only normal. After all, Trace had been her first love and she’d been an inexperienced teenager with overactive hormones. Of course he’d seemed exciting, passionate, wonderful.
So why did she suddenly think he might still all of those things, and possibly more?
She looked down, fiddling with the tie at the waist of her dress as she tried to compose herself.
She didn’t need those kinds of thrills. She didn’t want them. A relationship with that much passion was too complicated, too messy and took up far too much time.
She had her life right where she wanted it. And it didn’t—couldn’t—include Trace.
The sound of the idling mower caught her attention. Trace had spotted her.
He stood in the middle of his yard like a bronzed statue. His large hands clutched the handle of the unmoving mower, and he was staring at her.
She couldn’t read the expression on his face. He seemed distant. It shouldn’t bother her, but it did.
Jenn pasted on a smile and stepped into the sunshine, hoping he would think she had just arrived. “Hey, Trace.”
He leaned over the mower and shut it off. The sun glistened in his hair, and bits of grass clung to his sweaty skin. He straightened, and the silence that stretched between them seemed very loud.
She took a hesitant step forward, then said in a rush, “I need to talk to you, but you’re busy. I can come back.” Chicken, she scolded herself.
He shook his head, then wiped his arm across his forehead. “Now is fine. I could use a break.”
He left the mower in the middle of the yard and picked up a hose, dousing himself with water and then shaking like a dog.
He’d always been so at home with himself, a quality Jenn, who usually felt self-conscious, admired.
As Trace picked up a T-shirt hanging from the back porch railing and dried himself off, she tried her best not to stare. What was she doing, alone with a half-naked man? She could almost hear her mother’s often-voiced refrain: what will the neighbors think?
Jenn glanced around and realized Trace had no neighbors within sight. She could grab him right here, outside, and there would be no one to see.
Now she had managed to shock herself.
“Jenn? Something wrong?” Trace pulled the rumpled shirt over his head.
“No! Everything’s fine.” She shook her head. At least he had removed the visual temptation.
“Well, not exactly fine,” she said. Where did she begin?
Politely, still keeping his distance, he motioned toward the back door. “Come on in. Let’s get out of the sun. I’ve got cold sodas in the fridge.” He climbed the back steps and toed off his grass-caked shoes.
He held the door for her and she stepped past him into a tiny utility room. He smelled like sunshine and grass and sweaty man. A tempting combination.
Trace ushered her into a tidy kitchen with clean white counters and white appliances. A row of windows looked out on the backyard and a round wooden table sat on the terra-cotta tile floor. The only thing that looked out of place was the holstered gun sitting in the middle of the table.
“Soda?” He was still watching her with that unreadable expression on his face.
She wanted to tell him she didn’t plan to be here that long, but manners had her saying, “Thank you. Diet if you have it.”
He looked her up and down, and her temperature rose several degrees. He shook his head as he reached in and pulled out two red cans. “No diet.”
Did he mean he didn’t have diet, or she didn’t need it?
He popped the lid on one of the cans and handed it to her, then propped his lean hips against the counter next to the stove and opened his own can.
She was staring down at his bare feet, wondering where to start, when his voice brought her back.
“Do you want to sit down?”
Abruptly she met his gaze. “No. This will just take a minute.” Like ripping off a bandage, it would be better to get it done quickly.
Jenn took a deep breath and said, “Miranda and I were cleaning out a room for the baby and I found a box of papers in a closet.” She stopped and took a sip of soda, needing to wet her suddenly dry throat.
He nodded, a puzzled look on his face.
She lowered the can of soda and said, “There was an envelope from the state of New Mexico.”
At that, his expression and body language changed. He stood up a little straighter and his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, but made a little motion with his hand, encouraging her to continue.
She took a deep breath and let the words rush out. “My mother never completed the forms for our annulment.”
He stared at her for so long she had to fight not to squirm. She babbled instead. “I called the number on the form. They checked and…” She let the sentence trail off, not wanting to say the words out loud.
His voice was very quiet. “And what, Jenn?”
She cleared her throat. “We’re still married.”
Neither one of them moved.
Finally Trace shook his head and set his soda on the counter beside him. He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression still unreadable. “So now what do we do?”
She pasted on a plastic smile. “It’s not really a problem. We can file the papers ourselves. There are grounds.”
“Desertion?” Trace gave a hard bark of laughter.
“That would work.” Yes, it fit. For both of them.
There was a hint of anger in him she’d never seen before. She took a step back, feeling uncertain of this Trace, this man she couldn’t read.
Immediately he relaxed against the counter. “Do you want me to take care of it?” he asked in that neutral voice she was beginning to hate.
“No. I’ll do it.” She headed for the door, needing to get away from him and the feelings that crowded her head. “Thanks for the soda,” she said over her shoulder. How inane to be polite after what had just transpired.
“You’re welcome,” Trace replied just as politely to her back.
She went through the utility room and out the back door, squinting into the bright sunlight. She made her way back to her car, fighting against the urge to cry.
They’d never really been married. He’d stepped up because she was pregnant. They’d never even spent even one night together as Mr. and Mrs. Trace McCabe. So why did she feel as if she’d just lost something?
Key in hand, she slid onto the hot upholstery of the driver’s seat and had to blink away her silly tears to find the ignition.
It was done, and over. Grow up and stop being so maudlin, she told herself. What had happened was eight years in the past.
She had her life in Dallas, the job she’d always wanted and her son. She was happy.
She pulled away from the curb. Telling Trace the truth had gone better than she’d hoped. Very civilized. He’d been…like a stranger.
Instead of feeling elated, she felt as if she’d just lost her lover