The Sheriff's Runaway Bride. Arlene JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
deliberately. Of course, yesterday’s ivory satin confection could not truly be compared with today’s white denim skirt and sleeveless knit top emblazoned on one shoulder with a red star trailing a sparkly blue trail. Still, it reminded him of his first sight of her, a dream in satin flying across the corner of the greensward. He particularly remembered the way the hip-length veil had floated behind her as she’d run toward him.
He marveled at the length of her vibrant hair. Caught back with a wide, red, knit band at the crown of her head, the crinkly ends hung all the way to her narrow waist. His fingers itched to touch that hair, to test its texture and weight. It looked like a soft, misty, light-golden-brown cloud.
Realizing that he was not paying attention to the service, Zach shifted his gaze to the hymnal in his hand, following along as the others sang. Because his singing sounded like a bullfrog in full throat, he never joined in, but he’d found that not singing actually heightened his appreciation of the music and allowed him to concentrate more on the words. When he could keep himself from staring at a pretty girl displaying almost heroic bravery.
He managed to confine his gaze to a path between his Bible and the pulpit as the pastor delivered the sermon. Quite a sermon it turned out to be, too, referencing both the twelfth chapter of Mark, where Jesus was asked about paying taxes, and the Gospel of John, Chapter two, which described Jesus driving the money changers from the temple. The pastor managed to tie both together into a coherent argument for patriotic duty superseded only by righteous zeal.
Having met the man just twice, once a few years earlier at his mom’s funeral and again recently at his grandfather’s, Zach knew Reverend West only slightly. The pastor had some interesting ideas and seemed a vibrant presence in the little church, which had become, in many ways, the hub of the town. Brooke had told him that the reverend, rather than the mayor, had even spearheaded the community-wide picnic on the green. Otherwise, she’d said, the Independence Day tradition would have died. Some city head Pauley had turned out to be if the pastor of the church had been required to step in and plan a community event.
At the end of the service, Zach made it to the door well ahead of Kylie and her family simply because he’d been sitting closer to the back of the sanctuary. Reverend West, a tall, bulky man in his forties with the build of a football player, warm brown eyes and thick, caramel-colored hair, gave Zach’s hand a hearty shake and welcomed him to town in his capacity as the deputy sheriff.
“It’s good there was no lapse in assignment,” he said. “Clayton’s no worse than any other small town, I suppose, but I think many are comforted to know that we didn’t have to wait months for a replacement deputy.”
“Guess it’s God’s timing, as my mother would say,” Zach replied with a smile.
“Yes, Marion would say that,” the pastor, whose first name was John, agreed.
Zach stepped to one side, and they chatted a few moments more between other handshakes and greetings until Zach moved farther away.
“Glad to have seen you here today,” the pastor told him, turning to give a frail, elderly woman his attention.
She looked rather like old Mrs. Rader, only even smaller and more wizened. She seemed distressed. The pastor bent low to listen to what she had to say. Zach hovered at a polite distance, his senses alerted to trouble, while Brooke and Gabe visited and laughed with friends at the bottom of the steps.
Zach first realized that Kylie had slipped past the traffic jam in the doorway when she appeared at his elbow and muttered what sounded like, “It’s her granddaughter.”
Copying Reverend West, Zach bent his head to her in an attempt to provide some privacy. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mrs. Rader.”
“Ah. I thought that was her.”
“She’s concerned about her granddaughter. Seems Sherilyn didn’t come home last night.”
“I see.” He glanced at the elderly woman. “Maybe I should introduce myself.”
Kylie shrugged. “If you’re going to search for Sherilyn, start at Vincent’s.”
“Vincent’s?”
“She was in the car with him yesterday.” Turning to gaze out over the parking lot, Kylie nodded. “Right over there.”
“She’s the one you caught him with,” Zach surmised quietly.
“Yep.” Kylie moved toward the steps, and he ambled up beside her.
“Miss Jones.”
“Hm?” Kylie asked.
“About what I said last night … I didn’t mean that as an insult. I spoke without thinking.”
She glanced at him, nodded and dropped her chin. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you aren’t … Weren’t …”
“In my right mind,” she supplied helpfully, stepping down.
“It’s just that I spent my entire childhood around Vincent,” he said, keeping up with her, “and I’ve seen some things beneath his charming exterior that …” He broke off, realizing with some puzzlement that he had said more than he normally would have. Feeling oddly exposed, he pulled his sunshades from his coat pocket and slid them on.
She sent a look up at him from beneath the thick sweep of her lashes. “You were right,” she said quietly. “I was foolish and desperate.”
Uncertain what to say to that, he simply stared at her until she stepped down onto the ground and walked toward his sister’s party. Zach followed, automatically reconnoitering the area, noting who got into which car and who stood and gabbed with whom. Brooke and Gabe now chatted with a thin redhead and a little girl, maybe nine or ten years of age, wearing pink eyeglasses. As Kylie approached, the woman and child turned to greet her. The woman looked older than he’d first assumed her to be and seemed conspicuously frail. The child resembled a blond, blue-eyed doll.
“Do you know the Perrys?” Kylie asked. Zach shook his head as Brooke made the introductions.
“This is Darlene and her daughter, Macy.”
“Hello.”
“My brother, Zach.”
“Oh, you’re the new deputy sheriff,” Darlene said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
The girl shaded her eyes with a hand and looked up at him shyly. “You’re tall.”
“Mmm-hmm, and you’re pretty.”
She gave him a tiny smile and then ducked her head bashfully. Suddenly recognition hit him square in the chest. He looked at his sister then at Gabe and Kylie, but obviously none of them saw it. They wouldn’t, of course. How could they know that Macy Perry, with that long blond hair, bright blue eyes and single dimple in her left cheek, looked exactly like Brooke at the same age? Or did his mind play tricks on him? Maybe being at home again had colored his perceptions, but his cop sense told him otherwise.
Talk turned to the Independence Day picnic. Kylie said something about having to serve food, but Zach listened with just half an ear while trying not to stare at Macy Perry. It wasn’t unusual for two unrelated people to look alike, of course, but in a town filled with Claytons, such resemblance did not seem random. Who, he wondered, glancing around at the thinning crowd, was Macy Perry’s father?
Shoving the flimsy, disposable aluminum pan back into Kylie’s hands, Jerome shook his head. “That’s perfectly good meat. Serve it.”
“It’s all fat!” Kylie protested.
Unlike Gerald, his happy-go-lucky, roly-poly brother, Jerome was tall, rail thin and as cheap as chewing gum. Both were excellent cooks. Neither, however, could make beef fat palatable.
Erin Fields, the owner of the Cowboy Café and their