A Sheriff in Tennessee (10 page)

“You especially don't have to worry about Virgil. Why, he's been partaking since he was—”

“I
don't
want to hear about it.” Klein was gritting his teeth. It didn't help his headache.

“Now, now. Relax. Big man like you, all that stress today, out in the sun and the heat—you shouldn't get yourself excited. Go and have supper. Virgil's got everything under control. You just keep on holding Isabelle's hand.”

He glanced down and saw that he was indeed still holding her hand—or rather, she was holding his. He'd forgotten all about it. How could that be? It wasn't as though holding hands was a natural state for Gabe Klein and Isabelle Ash. But it had felt right—or at least comfortable enough to forget about.

Klein snatched his hand out of hers. Now everyone would be blabbering that he and Isabelle Ash had been holding hands on Longstreet Avenue.
Hell.

Miss Dubray made a tsking sound. “You
keep
holding her hand and strolling with the dog. That's what you need. Go have supper at Murphy's. Honestly, Sheriff, you work far too hard.” She smiled, waved and disappeared inside.

“I'd like that.”

“What?”

Isabelle inserted her hand back into his and held on when he tried to pull away again. “Supper.”

“You would?”

“Don't sound so surprised. I eat on occasion.”

“From the looks of you, occasionally is the only time you eat.”

If she hadn't been holding his hand, he wouldn't have felt the sudden brittle tension in her fingers.
Klein hadn't gotten his detective's badge by being slow on the uptake. He'd insulted her somehow. Though in his experience with women—minor as that might be—telling one she was skinny was a compliment.

He began to walk down Longstreet Avenue, letting Isabelle hold his hand, walk his dog, while he tried to figure out where he'd screwed up. He couldn't, so he just apologized. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Not sure. But I upset you by saying you hardly eat, and I'm sorry.”

The glance she gave him was full of surprise. “You're very observant, Klein.”

“My job.”

“True.” She swung their joined hands. “Well, call me silly, but I find it amazing that people think it's all right to comment on a thin person's eating habits. As if it's any of their business what I eat, when or even if. Yet if I was overweight, such comments would be considered rude.”

Klein considered that. She was right. There was still something off about her defensiveness, but he could find no fault with her logic. “I see your point.”

“Good. Now, where is this place?”

“You realize that the two of us holding hands and having supper will be news in this town.”

“Isn't that what friends do?”

Klein couldn't recall holding hands and strolling with any of his other friends. Guys were funny that way. His friends who were women wanted to talk, or have him protect them from whatever it was that
they needed a man like Klein as a friend for. They did not want to be seen in public holding hands with him. Odd that Isabelle didn't seem to mind.

“Friends have supper,” he allowed. “But the hand holding—that's new to me.”

“Me, too, but I like it.” She tightened her fingers on his. “Don't you?”

Klein looked down into her hopeful, beautiful face. He should say no; he should take back his hand; he should drop her at home and not see her until tomorrow. But he just couldn't lie to eyes like those.

“Yes,” he said.

“Then, let's give 'em something to talk about.”

“You
want
people to gossip about you?”

“No, I want people to get used to seeing us together so they stop gossiping. The more they see me, the more they see you and me, the sooner they'll treat us like part of the furniture, and I can go about my business.”

Was she serious? Did Isabelle really think she could ever be seen as commonplace anywhere on earth, but especially somewhere like Pleasant Ridge? Well, she'd have to learn the hard way.

“All right, but we'll have to stop at the station before supper.”

“Work first, eat later?”

“Work first, everything later.”

“I figured you'd say that.”

“Then you're starting to get the hang of life as a small-town sheriff.”

P
ERHAPS HAND HOLDING
wasn't on the list of activities for friends. Belle wouldn't know. But since she was learning as she went, about a lot of things, she figured she could make up a few things, too. Besides, she
liked
holding Klein's hand. She wasn't going to give that up just because people might talk. People talked about her all the time. If she worried about it, she'd waste a whole lot of her life.

After leaving Peg Dubray and her crazy pooch behind, they stopped at the station, where Klein chewed out Virgil for his mint-julep habit.

“When you said you were taking a coffee break every afternoon at three, I thought you were having coffee. Not that you need coffee, mind you…”

Eyes on Clint, who was busy sniffing the garbage can, the deputy slipped his gun into a desk drawer. “You don't understand how things are done here, Chief.”

“I understand mint juleps in the afternoon. Who else knows about this?”

“Me and Miss Dubray. The pup, I guess. It's not like we sit out front of the museum and do it.”

“She said you've been going there every afternoon for thirty years.”

“Give or take.”

“You gonna stop?”

“No.”

Klein sighed. “Well, try to keep it under wraps, then.”

“I always have. Don't know why she had to tell you and the four-twenty-five about it, anyway.”

“Her name's Isabelle, not four-twenty-five.”

“Ach, I can't remember names no how.”

“If you can remember all those numbers, why not a name?”

“You can't remember the numbers.”

“I don't mind if he calls me four-twenty-five,” Belle put in. “It's kind of cute.”

“Cute?” both men said at the same time, each horrified.

“Yeah. Cute.”

Virgil made a gagging noise. “Fine, I'll call her Isabelle.”

Klein winked at her, and Belle resisted the urge to preen under his unspoken praise. If she wasn't careful she'd be following him around like Clint—she glanced at the hound dog—or lying at Klein's feet, staring at his face, waiting for one small pat on the head or mention of her name.

“Cass came by.” Belle lifted her gaze to Virgil, who was smirking. “Something about her lawyer.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Klein muttered.

Virgil's smirk became a smile. “Yeah, that's what I said. What did you do to her this time?”

“Ripped her film out of her camera.” Klein shrugged. “Someone had to.”

“Wish it could have been me,” Virgil grumbled. “That girl is a P-E-S-T.”

“Next time. Is everything else set here?”

“Been set since an hour after I got back.”

“Paperwork?”

“Done.”

“Lawyer?”

“Called.”

“Arraignment?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Family.”

“Here and gone.”

“Glad I missed it.”

“Uh-huh. It wasn't pretty. Mama cryin'. Brothers cursin'. Daddy threatenin'.”

“The usual, then.”

“Pretty much.”

“This time it's serious. Someone died.”

“I was there, Chief. I saw. Jubel's locked up tight, and he ain't goin' anywhere.” He glanced at Belle. “Saw you, too.” He gave a sharp nod. “You done good.”

Before she could thank him, a shout came from the jail cell and he scurried out of the room.

“High praise from Virgil, you know. He's never told me I done good.”

“That's too bad. Because I'm sure you done good every single day.”

Klein grunted. He appeared to be as adept at handling praise as she was. “Let's eat.”

They headed for the door—all three of them. “Stay,” Klein ordered.

Clint collapsed on the floor with a sigh of despair.

“Aw, can't he come?”

“No.” Clint rolled over, grumbling. Klein yanked open the door and ushered Belle out.

Within minutes they were seated in a prime window booth at Murphy's. Seemed that everyone there had heard about Belle's heroics, too.

Serafina Murphy doubled as waitress and cashier, while her husband, Murph—Belle never caught his first name—did the cooking. The contrast between the big, bluff, redheaded Irishman and the petite, energetic, dark-eyed woman made Belle smile. As did the incongruity of a Murphy with an Italian accent.

“Ah,
sceriffo,
it is so good of you to bring her here. Sit. I will bring the specialty we have made just for you.”

Before anyone could comment, Lucinda Jones bustled through the door, caught sight of Belle and made a beeline for their table.

“There you are.” She beamed. “These are for you.” She plopped a glass baking dish of brownies in front of Belle. “You just bring the pan back when you're done.”

Done? The thought of taking an entire pan of brownies to her lonely apartment made a cold sweat start on the back of Belle's neck. She glanced at Klein, to discover him frowning at her. She probably looked as shaky as she felt.

Her gaze drawn back to the gift, her mouth watered at the prospect of thirteen-by-nine inches of chocolate just for her. With powdered sugar on top, no less. She was in deep trouble.

“It's not Monday,” she protested.

“After what you did today, every day can be Monday for you.”

“All I did was help the doctor. I didn't cure cancer or anything.”

“Now, now. You're too modest. I heard tell you stitched up someone's head.”

“No, I—”

“That's not right,” said a man in the booth behind Klein. “She sewed someone's finger back on before the doc even got there.”

“She brought a guy back to life with that CPA stuff.”

“She pulled a kid from a burning car.”

The litany continued. Belle sat there with her mouth open, not sure what to say. Not a single one of the offerings was true. She glanced at Klein helplessly, to find him staring at her with an “I told you so” twist to his lips.

The folks of Pleasant Ridge continued to argue about what she'd done that day. As they did so, they inched closer and closer, until there was a small crowd around their table.

Well, she'd just have to set everyone straight. As her mama always said, nip it in the bud—and more often than not her mama was right.

“Listen.” Belle raised her hands, and the crowd quieted. “This is what happened.” Then she proceeded to explain what she'd done to help in the aftermath of the accident.

In childhood, she'd played out fantasies in the quiet of her room; back then, she'd learned how to twist the truth, how to wait and wait and wait a little more, then hit her imaginary audience with a
spark of humor when they least expected it. Today she used all she'd learned to make them forget the tragedy, at least for a little while.

“Out of my way.” Serafina approached, steaming plates held high. “Lady with food.”

She plopped two heaping helpings of lasagna in front of Klein and Belle, then placed a basket of garlic bread swimming in butter in the middle of the table. She slid toward Belle the huge pan of brownies that Belle had surreptitiously inched over to Klein's side. Belle's stomach rolled.

“On the house.” Serafina beamed at her.

Belle tried to smile, but she couldn't quite do it. She glanced at Klein. He was no longer smiling, either. Instead, he stared at her speculatively.
Damn.
The man was far too smart and far too observant. If she wasn't careful he'd know everything without her telling him anything.

“Th-thank you,” she managed to say.

“Say
grazie
by eating it. You will blow away in the next strong wind if we are not careful.” Serafina patted Belle's shoulder and turned.
“Andare!”
She made a shooing motion until everyone moved away from their table.

Belle couldn't stop herself from staring at the mound of food and imagining it plastered to her hips. The bread she might as well just tape to her butt and be done with it.

“Eat what you can,” Klein murmured. “I'll help with the rest.”

He held the bread basket out to her, wiggled it a little. The butter at the bottom sloshed from side to side. The incredible smell, warm bread and garlic,
hit her in the face. Hunger snarled deep inside, and she went dizzy with desire for something other than Klein's chest.

“One piece won't kill you,” he said.

Little did he know.

“Around here,” Klein continued, “gratitude is shown with food.”

Belle let her gaze wander over their loaded table, then lifted one brow. “Is that so?”

“Sympathy, too. You ought to see the spread that's put on for a funeral.”

“I think I'll pass.”

“And sometimes food is a replacement for other things.”

Belle's eyes met his. What did he know, or think he knew?

“For instance?” She kept her face as deadpan as Klein did on occasion. Maybe she had learned something after all.

“Confidence? Friendship?” He shook the basket again. “Success? Even love.”

“Interesting theory.”

“Isn't it?”

Intent on proving wrong whatever it was he thought he knew about her, Belle took a piece of bread and stuffed half into her mouth. She forgot all about proving anything as the taste exploded on her tongue—too wonderful to be believed. How long had it been since she'd eaten bread drenched in real butter?

Obviously longer than she'd thought. Her head spun. Enjoying herself too much to notice anything
else, she jumped in her seat when a man asked, “What's this?”

Klein's aggravated sigh told her who had joined them even before she turned her head to discover the mayor—dressed as if he'd just played three sets of tennis but hadn't sweated a drop—beside their table.

Without invitation, he slid into Belle's side of the booth, bumping her hip with his. Too bad Klein hadn't sat next to her—so Smith couldn't. But she imagined that if she ever wanted to sit next to Klein again
she'd
have to manage the seating arrangements, rather than the other way around.

She swallowed the bread, and her mouth watered for more. Deliberately, she kept her gaze off the basket and turned her attention to cutting the lasagna into miniature pieces.

“This is supper,” Klein growled in answer to the mayor's question. “I'm sure you've heard of it.”

Smith ignored him, staring at the table incredulously before addressing Belle. “You eat like this?”

“Not every day.” An understatement if ever there was one.

“I would think not.”

The face he made at the table full of delicious food was insulting to say the least. How could he possibly be this annoying and still get elected? She'd known him only a day and already she wanted to avoid him for the rest of her life.

Belle slid a glance toward Serafina, who hovered behind the counter, pretending not to watch. The
mayor's grimace had the tiny woman biting her lip. Belle grabbed her fork and dug into the lasagna.

“Mmm,” she murmured several bites later. “You have no idea what you're missing.”

Serafina's smile was a reward far greater than any accolade. Belle would worry tomorrow about the ramifications of the meal.

“I'm missing about eight thousand calories and too many grams of fat to count. Have you ever seen what cholesterol looks like in your blood?”

The lasagna churned in Belle's stomach. Maybe she'd worry right now.

“Shut up, Chai.”

Klein's voice was mild, but Chai shut up. Oh, how Belle wished she could do that! She flashed Klein a grateful glance, which he answered with a flick of his finger toward the lasagna and a tilt of his head toward Serafina, who still watched expectantly.

Belle took another bite. Despite the heavy feeling in her stomach, the food tasted warm, inviting, comforting. She was reminded of a time when Mama could make everything better with a kiss and cookie.

“Shouldn't you be off duty by now, Mayor?” Klein asked.

“No rest for the weary.”

His knee bumped against Belle's beneath the table. She froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, but his leg moved away as if the touch had been accidental, so she ate some more, which was a lot more fun than analyzing that knee bump.

Klein's sigh sounded more like a growl, and he gave up being polite. “What do you want?”

The mayor was undisturbed by the rudeness. No doubt he'd been confronted with it before. “I heard about the accident. About all you did to help.”

He beamed at Belle. His hand patted her knee, then stayed there. She jumped.

Klein frowned. “Something the matter?” he asked.

Belle shook her head, shifted over, and the mayor's hand slid away, but not before he'd felt a whole lot more than her knee. Belle started eating again, so she wouldn't say something she'd regret.

How many men in how many places had thought they could touch her any way that they wanted to, just because of what she did for a living? Too many to count. You'd think she'd be used to it by now, but she wasn't. You'd think she'd have figured out a way to handle the insult, but she hadn't.

“Chai, spill what you came in here for, or get out. Isabelle has had a rough day.”

“Isabelle, huh?” His friendly, down-home, good-old-boy voice took on the cultured coolness of a country club icon. “I heard you two were holding hands on Longstreet Avenue.”

“My, my—” Klein drawled.

Belle stopped eating and met his gaze, which said “I told you so” again much louder than words.

“Folks have been busy.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” the mayor demanded.

Klein's eyes narrowed, and Belle jumped in before he could. This was, after all, her fault. “I was
thinking I needed my hand held after the day I had today. Holding hands isn't a federal offense. Or is it against the law in Pleasant Ridge?”