A Sheriff in Tennessee (3 page)

“Ms. Ash.”

The mayor took her hands again. He was really quite smooth at the maneuver. She'd bet her first month's salary that Malachai Smith had pledged a fraternity and spent some time squiring Southern sorority sisters to cotillions. With that face and body, she'd bet her second month's salary he'd of
ten charmed those same girls out of their panties in the back of his overly large luxury vehicle. Men like the mayor always drove big cars. She'd discovered it was a compensation for other, smaller things.

“Anything you need, you just call me.”

He handed her a card with one hand while still holding on to one of hers with the other. Too smooth by far.

“Anything, y' hear?”

I hear you loud and clear,
Belle thought,
and I won't be calling you. Ever.

She took the card and put it in the front pocket of her overalls, then patted the pocket with a smile and a wink. The mayor grinned and released her.

“Back to work,” he said, and exited with a wave.

Belle kept her smile fixed until the door closed behind him.

“You do that well.”

Her gaze flicked to Klein. He'd retreated to the chair behind his desk. He no longer smiled at her with approval; instead, his face was expressionless again. She was coming to understand that meant he disapproved. Since leaving home at seventeen, Belle had rarely been disapproved of. She hadn't missed the feeling it gave her.

“I do what well?” she asked, though she was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

“I'm sure you've had a lot of practice.”

She crossed the short distance to the desk, put her palms on his blotter and leaned forward. “Practice at what?” she said in a deceptively quiet voice.

“Getting your way by batting your eyelashes and flashing those teeth. Tell me, Isabelle, if that doesn't work, do you always lean over and give us foolish men a view down the front of your shirt?”

Pointedly he lowered his gaze. Belle followed his direction and discovered that her overalls and shirt were loose enough to flash half the town with a choice view of her unadorned, white cotton brassiere. Belle straightened as heat rose up her chest, spread across her neck and settled in her cheeks.

“I didn't mean—”

“I'm sure you do it unconsciously.”

“I do not!” Or did she? Belle wasn't so certain anymore. And she wasn't sure which was worse—consciously using her looks to get her way, or using them without even knowing she did it.

What she didn't like was being judged by a man who had no idea what she'd been through, or what she still had to go through before all was said and done.

Belle lashed out. “If a man's dumb enough to give me my way because I'm pretty, he deserves it.”

“Maybe the man isn't the one who's dumb.”

She stared at Klein. How could he know? Did everyone know? It wasn't as if her education, or lack of it, was a secret. But so far the tabloids hadn't shrieked that Isabelle Ash was a high school dropout.

“Y-you think I'm dumb?”

His eyes went shrewd, and Belle wanted to curse the neediness in her wavering voice. She lifted her
chin, stared him straight in the eye. What did she care what some small-town sheriff thought of her?

Except she did. Much, much more than she ought to, though she couldn't say why.

“On the contrary, I think you're a lot smarter than anyone, including you yourself, gives you credit for. Who told you that you weren't?”

Your face is gonna get you out of here and save us all. There are hundreds of smart girls, but how many look like you do? Use what the good Lord gave you, Belle, and forget about school—

“Isabelle—?”

She blinked as Klein's voice overrode that of her mama.

“Why don't you use your brain instead of your body? It'll last longer.”

He continued to judge when he had no idea what drove her. Even if she hadn't used all the money she'd made to help her family, even if she'd saved it and gone to college, a doctor couldn't earn near what she earned modeling. Pathetic but true. And the fact was, the fact had always been, she needed the money now, not ten years from now.

“Why don't you mind your own business,” she snapped.

He shrugged, unfazed. “Just trying to help.”

“Just trying to get me to quit and leave your precious town. But the contracts are signed. Both you and Pleasant Ridge are bought and paid for.”

Anger flashed, turning his eyes from sky blue to midnight storm, but she was too mad to stop now.

“We'd better try to get along, because for the next two weeks, you and I are going to be closer than honey on bread.”

“P
EACHY
,”
Klein muttered, as Isabelle Ash slammed the front door behind her.

Two weeks in the company of that woman? He wouldn't live that long. Or she wouldn't.

Beautiful girls rubbed him wrong. So why did this one call forth every protective instinct he had?

Isabelle could take care of herself. She'd shown that already. It was no skin off his nose if she chose to manipulate with her face, her body, that voice—as long as she didn't try it with him. He'd been manipulated that way before, and he would never let himself fall for such a lie again.

Once, he had loved a pretty woman, and he had believed she loved him. He'd learned then, and never forgotten since, that beauty of the flesh rarely went any deeper, and that beauty of the soul was far too difficult to find.

So why was he drawn to Isabelle? Why did he imagine he saw insecurity lurking in the depths of her cinnamon-brown eyes? Why did he hear vulnerability in that voice that shouted Yankee one moment, then whispered Mississippi the next?

Because he was a fool. Isabelle needed no one, nothing. She already had it all.

Klein had become a cop because helping people
was what he did best. His father had taken flight long before Klein knew what a father was; as a result, he still didn't know. His mother was a woman in need of a man—always. Pretty, flighty, not the brightest light, she could charm anyone with a wink and a smile, even her son.

At fifty-five, Luanne Chalmer Klein Delaney Seaver Johnson Duffy Krakopolis could still tempt the pants off any man, and often did. Thankfully she was mid-husband these days and had no use for her son. If number six went the way of numbers one through five, Klein would find his mother on the doorstep within a day of the next funeral, disappearance or divorce. And he'd be unable to refuse her.

Because as a child, the only time she'd loved him was between men. Klein had come to cherish when it was just the two of them, when she needed him and no one else.

As a teen he'd even done his best to get rid of the husbands and the men friends. He smiled as he remembered a few of his pranks. He was lucky they'd been decent guys, or that he'd grown mighty big by the time he was thirteen; otherwise, his life could have turned out completely different.

Older and wiser now, Klein knew his mother loved him as best she could and that it was silly to feel whole and important only when he was helping others. But knowing something intellectually and knowing it emotionally were two different things, and being able to change who you were at this late date was nigh onto impossible.

He'd been a caretaker practically from the day of
his birth, and he'd no doubt be one until the day he died. Duty, first to his mother and later to his country and those in need, had defined both his life and himself—

His deputy chose that moment to slam into the police station. Virgil did everything at top speed, rarely thinking about the consequences, only concerned with what was wrong and how quickly he could make it right again.

“Hello, Chief.”

Virgil refused to call him Sheriff, Klein, Gabe or anything but Chief. Klein had given up correcting him.

Why bang his head against that particular wall?

“How's the cow?” he inquired.

“Hamburger.”

“Thank you for that image. And the semi?”

“Dented.” Virgil crossed the room and poured himself a cup of coffee.

One thing the hyper old man didn't need was coffee. But tell him that.

“Lucky it wasn't a car or we'd have more than a cow fatality. You don't want to go head to head with a cow when you're in a car.”

“I know I wouldn't.”

“Now, a deer's another matter entirely.” Virgil sipped long and hard from his foam cup. “Deer and a car—car wins.” He frowned. “Mostly.”

Realizing that if he let this line of conversation continue, he'd get a lecture on roadkill that he really didn't need, Klein changed the subject. “Is there anything you forgot to tell me when you went out on that call?”

Virgil scrunched his face and thought. Then he crunched the coffee cup in one heavily veined hand. “4-25.”

He started for the jail, but Klein waved him back. “Never mind.”

The deputy's shoulders sagged. “Again, Chief? If you're just gonna release 'em all, why should I even fill out the paperwork?”

“What paperwork?”

The old man scowled harder. “No? I must have been too excited about—”

“The suicide cow.” Klein smirked.

“I don't think she tried to get hit.” Virgil's voice was deadpan. “Do you? Should I write it up as a suicide?”

All amusement fled. No one got his jokes in this town. Except—

Klein stood. He needed another walk. “No. Just write the report the way you'd planned to, and forget about the 4-25. I took care of it.”

“You always do,” Virgil grumbled.

Klein ignored that. “Next time remember—arrest, charge, rights, paperwork. Okay?”

“I always remember. Just sometimes I remember things later than others.”

“And someday we're gonna get sued for that.”

“Everyone's sue-happy these days. There oughta be a law.”

“There is. It includes arrest, charge, rights and paperwork.”

Klein stepped outside. The day was fine—sunshine, not a trace of rain. The sky was so blue his eyes hurt to look at it. But if the sky had gone dark
with a storm, his eyes would hurt from the beauty of that, as well. Because when a storm rolled over the mountains, the trees and the grass became so intensely green as to be surreal, and when lightning split the midnight sky and thunder rocked the farmhouse he'd bought just outside town, Klein would stand on his wraparound porch and partake of the Tennessee hills.

He might not be handsome, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate beauty and long for it. Perhaps he longed for beauty more because of the lack of beauty in himself, or the lack of beauty he'd discovered in the world at large. Klein had a soft spot for pretty things—bright colors and lights, fabric and flowers. His favorite pastime—heck, his only pastime—was redecorating his house. Lucky he was so big and scary. No one dared call him a sissy—to his face.

He walked down Longstreet Avenue, which would be Main Street in most other small towns. He knew; he'd lived in enough of them. As a boy he'd been dragged from town to town on the whim of his mother's man of the month. Then Klein had always been the biggest kid, the ugliest kid, forever the new kid.

But he had high hopes for Pleasant Ridge. He could grow to love this place. He could belong here in a way he'd never belonged anywhere else.

Each day he walked the streets, making his rounds on foot rather than in his car. During his years in law enforcement he'd discovered the personal touch worked better, no matter where you went. If he could say,
Joey Farquardt, quit throwin'
stones at that garbage can or I'll tell your mama,
he got a far sight better response than if he had to say,
Hey you, kid, knock that off.

He was a cop because he wanted to help; he needed to be needed. When he'd first left the marines, he'd taken a job with the Atlanta PD, figuring there'd be a whole passel of people who needed help there. What he'd discovered was that there were too many of them and not enough of him. He'd wound up feeling like a failure, becoming more depressed with every passing day.

So when he'd heard of the opening on the detective force in Savannah, he'd moved there. Smaller town, fewer problems, he'd thought, but still a big enough place to need him.

Wrong again.

Savannah had big-town problems as a result of more tourists than Klein ever cared to see again, not to mention the movie crews in and out of the city and surrounding area, filming the movie of the moment. With that many strangers, trouble was rampant. Once again Klein had felt he was fighting a battle that could not be won.

He'd made friends there—Livy Frasier, her mother, Rosie, and her son, Max, as well as her business partner, Kim Luchetti. He missed them, but in truth, he'd been on the outskirts of their busy lives—a guy they saw sometimes, even if he was a guy they liked.

By the time Klein moved to Pleasant Ridge, Livy had married Max's father, the bestselling horror novelist Garrett Stark, and she had another baby on the way.

Klein hadn't liked Stark at first—the guy
had
run off and not returned for nine years—but once Stark had come back he'd turned out to be all right. Klein had made sure of that before he'd left. Garrett Stark loved his wife and son more than Klein had believed him capable—

Yip. Yip. Yip.

Something tugged on his pants leg. Klein looked down to find Miss Dubray's Chihuahua, Tid Bit, growling viciously as it fought the battle of the trouser cuff. Some men might boot the pipsqueak into the next county. The dog
was
a menace. But Klein didn't have the heart. Instead, he paused in front of the Pleasant Ridge Civil War Museum and waited, as he did every day.

“T.B.? T.B.?” Miss Dubray skidded from the front door, frantically searching the street for her baby.

At least the thing wasn't wearing a lace bonnet today. That always gave Klein the creeps.

“Oh, hello, Sheriff. I should have known it was you by the tone of T.B.'s voice.”

“Miss Dubray.” He nodded politely, standing still while she disengaged T.B. from his cuff.

Once released, the miniature monster trotted back toward the museum, throwing a haughty glance over its shoulder and, Klein could swear, a smirk.

Considering his experiences with the Chihuahua, Klein wasn't sure what had prompted him to get a dog of his own—except a lifetime of loneliness. A dog's devotion had nothing to do with a master's charm, looks or bank account. Klein could use a little everlasting dog love in his life.

At home, Clint waited—calm, patient and huge—the perfect animal for a man like Gabe Klein. Perhaps he should bring Clint into town to meet T.B. Klein grinned at the image. He didn't think T.B. would be smirking anymore.

“My, my, what a nice smile.” Miss Dubray observed. “I hardly ever see you smile.”

He'd heard that often enough. He found little in this world to smile about. Law enforcement was funny that way.

“Did you hear, Sheriff? I'm designing a new display for the artifacts from Shiloh. You'll have to stop in next week and see what I've done.”

Miss Dubray had a nice smile of her own, and she used it often. Even though her hair was still jet black, her skin lined but smooth and her figure pretty nice, too, she was seventy if she was a day. She'd never married—maybe she'd never wanted to—and she had more energy than her blasted dog. Which was lucky, since she owned and ran the museum all by herself.

Not that there was very much to do in the Civil War Museum, except dust and take money for tickets—the latter only if someone happened off the interstate for a night and slept at the Pleasant Ridge Hotel-Motel, which itself most likely dated from the War of Northern Aggression. But Miss Dubray had a fascination with the war that she felt never should have been lost.

Not only had her great-granddaddy left her this building on Longstreet Avenue, but he'd left her the artifacts he'd brought home from the war. Miss
Dubray made a small but adequate living with her museum, and she was doing what she loved.

That most of her artifacts were junk or worse held no weight with her. Kids liked to see the forearm bone of a Yankee, and the news-at-five from Chattanooga had once come and done a spot on the bloody sash of Nathan Bedford Forrest. Miss Dubray had not been amused when the news made mention of General Forrest's postwar activities. Just because they'd blabbed everything in
Forrest Gump
didn't make it acceptable to discuss the KKK in public. Down here, such embarrassments simply weren't verbalized.

Miss Dubray still stared at him expectantly. “I'll be sure and stop by next week,” Klein promised.
Maybe I can find some chain-mail pants by then.

Klein moved on down Longstreet Avenue. As a result of his conversation with the mayor, he peered at the business district and cataloged the empty storefronts. There
were
far too many. He'd never noticed before, but the main drag of Pleasant Ridge was looking a bit shabby. To him, the place had seemed quaint, homey. Now he knew better.

The schools did need work. Heck, they had one computer per building. These days, that was as bad as having one book per classroom. The floors needed fixing and there was asbestos in the ceiling tile. He didn't even want to think about the safety hazard in the outdated playground equipment at the elementary school or the prehistoric science lab at the high school. Perhaps a little progress wouldn't hurt. Nor would a lot of money.

Klein sighed. If he blew this deal and the town died, he'd have no one but himself to blame.

At the end of Longstreet Avenue he paused. A few hundred yards outside of town the avenue became Highway B and extended all the way to Knoxville. But near Pleasant Ridge, Highway B was a paved-over dirt road that skirted the mountains and curved past a lot of farms, his included. Klein could see the white roof of his house over the next incline, and coming down another slope, just past his place, ran a solitary figure.

He frowned. Who was out there alone, and why was this person running?

Klein lifted his walkie-talkie and let Virgil know where he was going. Then he set his feet on Highway B.

 

B
ELLE RAN
until her heart rate rose to one hundred fifty beats per minute, then she ran some more. The first ten minutes were always the hardest, anyway.

After her argument with the sheriff, she'd returned to her apartment. Restless, she'd gone over and over her conversation with the man, trying to pinpoint what he'd said that had made her crazy. That comment about her being dumb?
Probably.
She couldn't recall any cracks about her weight, her talent or anything else personal. Just her mind.