A Lawman in Her Stocking. Kathie DeNoskyЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Corny…Mrs. Worthington, whisked Mildred away about ten minutes ago, along with the rest of the class.” He chuckled and shook his head when he thought of the flurry of flowered polyester as the women crowded into Corny’s pink Cadillac and Helen Washburn’s old Buick. “They mentioned something about an emergency meeting of the B.S. Club.”
Brenna arched a perfectly shaped brow. “B.S. Club?”
“Uh…Beautification Society.”
Way to go, Chandler. He’d just slipped up and told her the men’s secret name for the town’s only women’s organization. A name that the men knew better than to mention in front of any of the club’s members.
He cleared his throat. “They…uh, get together once or twice a month and share the latest gossip.”
“I get the distinct impression that secrets aren’t kept for very long around here,” she said.
“Everyone knowing your business is one of the hazards of living in a small town,” he said, relieved that she’d let his less than flattering reference to the organization pass. He placed a hand on her back to usher her across the quiet street and felt a jolt travel up his arm and spread across his chest.
“Just a minute, Sheriff,” she said, stiffening beneath his touch. “Why can’t we talk right here?”
A slight tremor coursed through her, and he knew it had nothing to do with the chill of the autumn evening.
Good. At least he wasn’t the only one affected by the contact.
“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I asked you to stand out here in the night air.” He did his best to suppress a knowing grin as he added, “You’re already shivering.”
He almost laughed out loud when he had to trot to keep up with her as she marched across the street to Luke’s.
Brenna had only been in Luke’s Bar and Grill twice in the two weeks she’d been in Tranquillity, but both times she felt as if she’d taken a step back in time. Wanted posters from the late 1800s decorated the walls, along with cow skulls, branding irons and various pieces of old, leather harness. Shiny, brass spittoons were placed on the floor at either end of the bar and the room’s muted light filtered down from suspended wagon wheels with antique lanterns converted to accommodate electricity.
Sheriff Chandler must have noticed her curiosity as he led the way to an empty table on the far side of the room. “Luke’s granddaddy opened the saloon around the turn of the century and Luke is pretty sentimental about the place.” He held a chair for her. “How do you take your coffee?”
“With cream.”
She watched his long-legged stride carry him to the bar. Sheriff Chandler was as good-looking from the back as he was from the front, she decided. He had the widest shoulders, longest legs and the tightest butt—
Stunned by the direction her thoughts had taken, Brenna quickly looked away. Had she lost her mind? She had absolutely no interest in Dylan Chandler. No way. None.
“Here you go,” he said, returning with their coffee. He placed two mugs on the table, then seated himself in the chair opposite her.
Taking a sip of the steamy liquid, Brenna listened to a country ballad playing on the jukebox as she waited for him to tell her what was on his mind. She wanted to get this over and put some distance between them. Something about the man made her insides quiver and her nerves tingle. And she was mere seconds away from going in search of the nearest candy machine for a chocolate fix.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, she cleared her throat and asked, “What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”
He smiled at her over the top of his cup, making her heart skip a beat. “You got the wrong impression this afternoon and I’d like to set things straight.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “I wasn’t making light of the situation. But this is a small town, with small-town ways. When someone moves in, most everyone tries to do the neighborly thing and welcome the newcomer with open arms.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit most folks are a little more subtle than Pete, but believe me, he has the best intentions. After you left the office, I talked to him and it was just as I thought—he was only trying to make you feel a part of the community.”
Brenna set her cup down and tried to ignore the tingling sensation skimming up her spine from the sound of his smooth baritone. “Before today, I’d never laid eyes on the man. How was I to know about his neighborly tradition?”
“I’m sure it was unnerving,” he said, nodding. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
“If that’s not it, then what’s the purpose of this?”
“I think you have the right to know why I was so defensive about Pete.”
“Okay, I’m listening, Sheriff. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Will you stop that?” For reasons he’d rather not dwell on, Dylan wanted to hear her velvet voice say his name. “Call me Dylan.”
“Okay…Dylan. Why are you so protective of Pete?”
He slowly placed his cup on the table as he tried to collect his thoughts. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, insisting that she use his name. The sound had sent his blood pressure up a couple of dozen points and made his mouth go dry.
“If you’ll remember, I told you I’ve known Pete all my life,” he said, finally forcing words past the cotton in his throat. “In fact, he lives with me.”
Dylan paused. This was the part he dreaded. But it would be better coming from him than from someone else. And she’d find out soon enough anyway.
Clearing his throat, he met her expectant gaze head-on. “Pete Winstead is my uncle.”
Her expressive blue eyes widened. “No wonder you were so adamant about him being harmless. Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”
Relieved she wasn’t throwing something at him for withholding that bit of information, Dylan grinned. “To tell the truth, I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing. I’ve warned him for years that something like this might happen.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think Pete will be a lot less enthusiastic about his greetings from now on. He was pretty upset that he’d frightened you and made me promise to talk to you the first chance I got.”
“I can understand your frustration,” she said, nodding. “I live with a pretty eccentric relative of my own. I hope Pete’s not too upset.”
Her lips turned up and Dylan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Brenna Montgomery could drop a three hundred pound lumberjack with that smile of hers.
“Don’t worry about Pete.” Dylan cringed at the rust in his voice. Clearing his throat, he went on, “He’ll get over it. Nothing gets him down for long.”
“He sounds like my grandmother.” Grinning, she shook her head. “On second thought, I don’t think anyone’s like Granny.”
In spite of the warning bells clanging in his brain, Dylan grinned right back. “She’s not your typical, rocking chair senior citizen?”
“No,” Brenna said, laughing.
Dylan felt his gut do a cartwheel and sweat pop out on his upper lip. When Brenna Montgomery let herself, she could be downright devastating. She had the most delightful laugh. And her lips were just meant for kissing.
He frowned. What was wrong with him? She was too unpredictable, too anxious to upset the status quo. She’d not only complained about his uncle Pete’s forty year tradition, she’d goaded him into taking her damned class and missing the Tuesday night poker game—a ritual he hadn’t missed in the last ten years. Until tonight.
No doubt about it. The lady was trouble. And he’d do well to remember that. He suddenly looked