The Sheriff's Son. Barbara Daille White
“I’ll give you the price of a car wash and make sure Kevin knows what he did was wrong. Let it rest with that.”
“Can’t. Pranks can lead to worse things. We sure don’t want Dillon overrun by hooligans.”
“I agree with you there. But egging a car is childish mischief, Tanner.” Ticket be darned. She’d take on a mountain of debt before she’d let her son be railroaded by a deputy carrying a grudge along with his gun. “Are you calling my son a hooligan?”
The very idea of this man doing Kevin an injustice set fire to her maternal instincts, and she raised her hands in frustration.
Instantly, Tanner reached out to curl his sturdy fingers around her wrists, and another basic instinct competed with the first, turning her insides all warm and mushy.
Somehow, she kept her wits about her enough to notice his barely concealed anger. To observe his admirable restraint as he placed her palms down flat on the countertop. To realize she might have edged her toes over the line between getting a ticket and getting carted off to jail.
“Simmer down. I wasn’t referring to Kevin. But—”
“And you’ve done lots worse than egging a car yourself, Tanner Jones, or don’t you remember?”
Suddenly, all signs of his anger disappeared, leaving her wondering if it had only come from her imagination. He smiled down at her with those sea-blue eyes she’d so loved.
He leaned closer, jerking her from her thoughts and bringing those eyes…his face…his lips on a level with hers. “I remember a lot of things, Sarah.”
If she thought his tone gave special meaning to the statement, his next words left no doubt.
“I remember how it was having a conversation with you, instead of arguing, like we are now.”
“That was before you left Dillon—and everyone in it—behind.” She lifted her chin. No tears. No trembling. “I’d call that a real conversation stopper.”
A flush began at his neck, crept up his smooth-shaven jaw, stained his lightly tanned cheeks.
“Dammit, Sarah, I told you my reasons the night of graduation, after we…” He stumbled to a halt, the words dying on his lips.
The way she had died inside when he left her.
Her eyes hurt from the effort to keep her gaze locked with his, to stop him from reading the thoughts her face would plainly show.
“Listen,” he continued, “I’d told you my plans. You’re the one who wouldn’t talk to me after that.”
“After that,” she echoed in a frosty tone, “I had nothing to say to you.”
“Yeah, and after that, you ran off and got married.” He took another deep breath. “We’re grownups now, Sarah. Why don’t we put all this behind us and go on?”
“I have.”
“Sure. That’s why you—”
The front door opened, and his protest disappeared beneath a wave of familiar female voices. It didn’t matter. She didn’t care to hear whatever he’d planned to say.
“You’ll have to excuse me.” Her cold, polite tone came without effort. “The Bookies are here.”
His jaw dropped. “What the—? Bookmaking’s illegal.”
She forced a laugh. “You’re trying too hard to find criminal activity in Dillon, Tanner—you’re not planning to arrest Mrs. Gannett for studying popular literature, are you?”
As she edged between him and the adjacent bookcase, he turned, catching her off guard. His body brushed lightly against hers.
Somehow, from somewhere, she found the strength to push past him and flee toward the front of the store.
Chapter Two
In the distance, female voices buzzed like static from the County car’s radio.
Tanner tuned them out. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the notebook into his pocket. His muttered curse would’ve earned him a week’s detention from Mrs. G.
Where had this stubbornness of Sarah’s come from?
For that matter, what had gotten into him, cracking down so hard on her and the boy? Much as he hated to admit it, he knew: the first sight of Sarah had unsettled him.
Turning on his heel, he put his back to the chattering ladies. He could see into her small office, as cluttered as the bookstore.
A two-drawer filing cabinet sat in one corner, books and catalogs spilled across the top. A bulletin board held a haphazard collection of crayoned pictures. Then there was the desk. Neat and clean as a rookie’s uniform the morning of inspection, with papers marching in parade format along the surface. As different from the cluttered bookstore as it could be.
Somehow, the military precision gave him an uneasy feeling.
“Tanner Jones!”
At the sound of his former schoolteacher’s unmistakable voice, he cringed, just like in the old days when she’d caught him shooting spitballs.
Sarah had a point about his schoolboy shenanigans.
But he wasn’t a kid anymore. And the teacher wasn’t scolding him now. He turned around.
“Morning, ladies.” He made his way forward, tipped his Stetson to all, and wrapped his former teacher in a bear hug.
“Hey, Mrs. G.” He drawled the nickname all the boys used for her, though not to her face—not till they’d grown up. She had a real passion for formality in the classroom.
He stepped back again and surveyed the women. “I’m surprised at y’all,” he said, straight-faced. “What’s this I hear about you being involved in illegal bookmaking?”
Everyone laughed. Except Sarah.
“Book discussion, not making, Tanner,” Mrs. G said in her lecturing tone. “Isn’t that right, Sarah?”
“That’s right.”
“But,” the older woman continued, “we were just discussing a different subject. Your sheriff’s car. We saw it outside. It looks a little worse for wear.”
“Sure does.” He looked at Sarah. She stared back, lifting her chin. No sense bringing her boy’s troubles out in the open. Yet.
“But you, Tanner Jones—” Mrs. G held him at arm’s length, inspected him up and down “—you’re a sight for sore eyes, you are.”
He wanted to dig his toe in the dirt. Another flashback to the old days.
“So, you’re with the Sheriff’s Department. That’s good to hear. With Deputy Worth still recuperating from his hernia operation, he’s let things slide a bit. We could use your assistance with a few items.”
“Such as…?”
“Oh, you’ll find out.” Behind her glasses, her eyes gleamed. “We’ll meet this evening at Town Hall,” she said firmly, already in organizational mode. He’d had a Staff Sergeant like her once, in his early years in the army. “You’re available, Tanner?”
“If Sarah’s bringing her pecan loaf, I am,” he blurted. To his own surprise.
The women all turned to him. He shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, y’all know it’s her specialty.”
His mouth watered at the very thought of it. In high school, he’d lived for his Saturday night movie dates with Sarah, their slow walks home afterward, and a slice or three of her pecan loaf to top off the evening.
Everyone nodded and smiled, except