The Sheriff's Proposal. Karen Smith Rose
I’m a little short on family right now.”
The pain on his face hurt her. He looked as if he were far away somewhere, and she suspected he was thinking about his son. “I’m sorry, Logan. That was thoughtless of me.”
When he met her gaze, the pain was still there but controlled now. “You couldn’t be thoughtless if you tried.”
“You just met me.”
“Maybe so. But in my business, I have to read people in an instant sometimes. My life has depended on it.”
“Willow Valley must seem tame compared to what you came from.”
“It’s different. But that’s what I wanted when I moved my family here.”
Despite how Logan had reacted at the bakery when she’d mentioned Travis, she wouldn’t let his son be a taboo subject between them. “Aunt Lily told me Travis wasn’t happy here.”
“He wasn’t. He had his mind set before we came.” Logan’s curt tone told her he still preferred not to discuss his son.
Meg examined the living room. A gray sofa, streaked with abstract shapes of navy, sat across from an ebony entertainment center. A gray easy chair complemented the sofa. A ladder-backed rocker, two end tables with gray ceramic lights and a coffee table completed the room. But the place still didn’t look lived-in.
She crossed to the entertainment center and picked up a framed picture on one of the shelves. A teenage boy stood by the trunk of a maple tree, staring absently across the yard. “Travis?”
Logan nodded.
“He’s a handsome young man.” He looked a lot like his father.
Logan crossed the room and stood beside her. “He’s an unhappy young man.”
Meg thought about her own upbringing. “Raising children is complicated.”
The silence between them lasted a few moments. Finally Logan said, “You’re determined to make me talk about him, aren’t you?”
“You need to talk about him, about more than his disappearance.”
When Logan raised his hand, she knew he was going to touch her. His fingers on her cheek gave her a thrill of pleasure she’d never known.
His voice was husky when he asked, “How did you get so smart?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with being smart. The heart and the head don’t always speak the same language.”
He smiled. “I guess the trick is getting them to understand each other.”
She nodded and, when his fingers slipped away, she wished he was touching her again. She took the picture with her to the sofa. “Tell me about him.”
Logan sat beside her, his knee barely brushing hers. “He’s sixteen, thinks he’s the smartest kid in the world and is more rebellious and stubborn than any teenager I’ve ever known.”
“He’s a junior?”
“Yes. At least he would be if he came home.”
“What does he like to do?”
Logan looked at a loss for a moment. “Besides getting in trouble, I don’t really know. We haven’t had an amicable conversation in a long time.”
Logan’s expression was full of regret for all that had been. “The last time we talked, he called me his jailor. If he wasn’t home by curfew, I’d go out and find him. I think he hated me.”
“Logan.”
“That’s the truth, Meg. And now I can’t sleep at night wishing I’d handled everything differently. If I could just find Travis, I’d tell him I don’t care if he wears three earrings or torn jeans or shaves his head. I’ll even make his curfew an hour later. I just want him home.”
Meg reached out and covered Logan’s hand. “Doc said the whole town is praying. Is there anything else anyone can do?”
He sandwiched her hand between his and gently rubbed his thumb over the tops of her fingers. “No, there’s nothing anyone can do except pray.”
She stared into his eyes, feeling his pain, feeling his need, drawn to him in an elemental way. Finally Logan cleared his throat and released her hand. “I have the chicken wrapped in foil on the grill. We’d better get to it, or it’ll be too dry to eat.”
Supper. That’s why she was here.
Logan had already set the picnic table. A light breeze stirred the paper napkins under the silverware. Steps led from the deck down to a long yard separated by a spirea hedge from the next-door neighbor’s property.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“There’s a salad in the refrigerator.”
Besides the salad, Logan’s refrigerator was practically empty. Two bottles of beer, two cans of soda, a hunk of Swiss cheese, the remainder of a head of lettuce and a package of carrots sat on the top shelf. Other than that, his cupboard was bare.
Meg carried the teak salad bowl outside. Logan had just placed the chicken on a platter and unwrapped the foil from two baked potatoes. As she slid onto the bench, he straddled the one on the other side and gave her a quick grin. “I forgot to buy butter at the store. But I have salt and pepper. I don’t cook often.”
“You don’t spend much time here, do you?”
He swung his other leg under the table and raised his head. “No. Is it so obvious?”
“Nothing out of place in the living room, a spotless kitchen. Sure signs.”
“I spend most of my time in my office. When I’m hungry, I run up to Gibson’s Grocery.”
“Chips and cookies?”
“Uh-oh. The lady is on to me.”
She smiled. “Quick and filling. I do the same thing when I’m on the run. I get tired of cucumber sandwiches at receptions and hotel food.”
“Where’s your home base?”
“An apartment in Chevy Chase.”
“Are you looking forward to getting back?”
When she was traveling, she did. Her apartment was sunny, comfortable and close to anything she needed. “I’m enjoying my time with Lily and Ned. D.C. and foreign embassies seem a world away.”
Logan delved into world affairs with Meg as they ate. He was a stimulating conversationalist, quick to catch her train of thought, a good listener. Her stomach would jump whenever he smiled. His deep voice, lower when he disagreed with her, carried a timbre of authority, yet he listened when she explained her views. They both veered away from personal subjects. That moment in the living room had been too fraught with emotion, too tempting, too dangerous, to explore further, at least right now.
The sun slipped behind the clouds, streaking them and the sky with orange, pink and purple. The passage of time seemed inconsequential as shadows vanished into dusk and fireflies blinked under the maples in the yard.
Suddenly Logan stopped in midsentence. “We forgot the wine. Some host I turned out to be. I set it on the counter, so it’s not even chilled.”
“Perfect with ice cubes,” she teased.
“You are kidding.”
“Nope.”
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
She called after him, “Just half a glass.”
Climbing from the bench, she straightened her belt and wandered to the railing, folding her arms on the weathered wood.
It wasn’t long before Meg felt Logan at the back door, watching her. But she didn’t