Addicted to Love (27 page)

She thought of Brody. Of how much she wanted to romanticize their relationship. Of how badly she yearned to fall madly in love with him. Already she imagined herself moving into his house, wearing his ring, having his babies. Making the same old mistakes. Leaving her heart open for more pain and disappointment. She had to nip these feelings in the bud.

Thoughts whirling, she met Giada’s eyes. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’ll join your campaign.”

F
OR DAYS
R
ACHAEL’S
article in
Texas Monthly
and speculation over the upcoming political debate between Giada and Kelvin buzzed through the Valentine grapevine like wildfire through a timber drought. The restless edginess over romance that had started the day Rachael desecrated the billboard escalated as the town took sides. Divisions split friendships and families and love relationships.

Brody’s wariness grew. With everyone stirred up, something unpleasant was bound to happen. The vandal hadn’t struck again — not since graffitiing Rachael’s car, but Brody hadn’t stopped investigating. He had the field narrowed to a handful of suspects — most of them mischievous high school boys — but he had no proof. All he could do was wait for the vandal or vandals to strike again.

And Rachael was a prime target.

He kept a close eye on her house, watching her comings and goings across the street with a pair of high-powered field binoculars. He told himself it was protective surveillance, but more than once his gaze had lingered inappropriately on the sensuous curves of her fine body and his mind would wander to that day in his backyard.

As he watched her, Brody was sorry that his family had moved away when he was twelve. That he hadn’t lived next door to Rachael during her teenage years. That he hadn’t been there to watch her blossom from gangly kid into gorgeous young woman. Why did he feel as if he’d missed out on so much?

The Friday before the political debate, Brody performed his new bedtime ritual. He took the binoculars from the drawer in his bedside table, pushed back the curtains, and trained his sights on Rachael’s driveway. It was just after ten, and while the VW Bug sat parked in the driveway, Selina’s Cadillac wasn’t there.

Rachael was alone.

The realization raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he imagined her all alone in that house, maybe stepping out of the shower naked, toweling herself dry. . . .

That’s when he spied a figure dressed in black ducking through the shrubbery surrounding the house.

“Sonofabitch,” he said, flinging the binoculars on the bed and reaching for his pants.

Minutes later he was across the street, pulse thumping, gun drawn. A neighborhood dog barked. Crickets chirped. He could hear the gentle whirring of his Power Knee as he crouched and scanned the darkness.

He spied movement at the back of the house. Was it a tree in the breeze or something far more sinister?

And then Rachael screamed.

Chapter Thirteen

B
rody’s appearance at her back door was almost as startling as the face she’d seen — distorted by a stocking — peeking in her kitchen window.

She caught her breath at the sight of the sheriff. An angry frown furrowed his brow and he held a gun clutched in both hands. “What is it? What’s happened?”

Stunned, she waved at the window and managed to squeak out, “Peeping Tom.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Lock the door behind me.”

He disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving Rachael feeling shaky and unsettled. She locked the door, then sank down at the kitchen table, the glass of milk she’d come downstairs for completely forgotten.

She’d managed to drag in a couple of deep calming breaths by the time Brody tapped on the back glass. She got up to let him in. He closed and locked the kitchen door behind him and laid his gun down on the counter.

“Whoever it was got away. But there’s footprints in the dirt underneath your window. I’ll make an imprint. See if I can discover what kind of shoes the Peeping Tom was wearing. Was it a man?”

“I think so.” His eyes met hers and Rachael realized she was trembling.

“Peaches,” he said, calling her by the sweet little nickname. “Are you all right?”

Helplessly, inexplicably, she burst into tears.

“Aw, hell, Peaches.” He reached for her, pulling her into his arms.

It felt so good here in the circle of his embrace. So safe.

“Don’t cry.” His voice was raw and scratchy and he smelled of minty toothpaste and cotton pajamas. He was wearing his pajamas.

“You were in bed,” she said.

“On my way there.”

“How did you get over here so quickly? I barely had time to scream and there you were.”

“I saw someone creeping around your house.”

“You were watching my house?”

“I was.”

“Watching over me?”

“You’ve stirred up a lot of trouble in town. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Brody squeezed her tight. More tightly than he should. She felt so familiar in his arms. As if she’d always belonged there. It was a dangerous feeling but he could not shake it. Her body was so soft and warm and supple pressed against his. The scents of roses and lavender emanated from her smooth, creamy skin. Tears clung to her eyelashes and he had an irresistible urge to kiss them away.

This was what he’d been so afraid of, from the very moment he’d fetched her down off the billboard. That she would somehow worm her way into his heart. And now he was holding her as if both their lives depended on this hug and his heart was pounding so hard he feared it might explode.

At some point Brody realized he was rocking her like a child and smoothing her hair with his palm. And he had another flash of memory from their childhood. She’d gotten skates for Christmas one year and she’d fallen in her driveway and skinned her knee. He’d been out shooting hoops and had seen her fall. He’d gone over and scooped her up, holding her then much as he was holding her now. Seeking to comfort her. Make everything okay in her world.

He hadn’t recalled any of this stuff in well over a decade, but now his head was flooded with memories of her: Rachael coming over to show him the blue ribbon she’d won in the second-grade spelling bee; Rachael, pigtails flying, running down the street to catch up with him as they walked home from school; Rachael, dressed as Cinderella, trick-or-treating on his front door step.

The treasure trove of memories tucked away in the far recesses of his mind amazed him. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. How could he forget anything about Rachael?

With a quiet sniff, she pushed from his arms. “Sorry I wussed out on you. I don’t know why I started crying.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress and it’s damned scary to look out your window and see a face staring back in the middle of the night. And then I barged in here waving a gun around.”

She smiled bravely. “You’re just being kind. You don’t have to keep propping me up.”

“Listen,” he said, “I’m right across the street. If you need anything —”

“I appreciate the offer,” she interrupted, “but I can’t go around depending on you. I created this monster. I have to learn how to deal with it.”

“I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better. Tempers are running high.”

“It’s all my fault,” she said.

He hadn’t intended to make her feel responsible for what was happening. “You might have stirred up some controversy, but you do not deserve having your car vandalized or your privacy violated. I’m going to find out who’s doing this and hold them accountable.”

“Do you think it could be the same person who graffitied my car?”

“Maybe. But that was several weeks ago, so maybe not.”

“I have unwittingly made a lot of enemies.”

“Hopefully,” he said, “that’ll all be settled after the election is over.”

“A lot can happen between now and then.”

He nodded. “I’m worried about the debate. I wish you wouldn’t speak.”

“I have to.”

He stroked her cheek with the back of his index finger. “I know.”

“Thank you for understanding.” She looked at him with such admiration it stole the air right out of his lungs. The urge to make love to her was so strong that if Selina hadn’t picked that moment to arive home, Brody might have done just that.

I
N
B
RODY’S TWO
years as sheriff of Valentine, a need for crowd control had never arisen. Until the bond election debate.

The political rally was scheduled for noon, but by ten-thirty Main Street was already jammed with people coming out for the free hot dogs, soft drinks, and ideology the politicians were giving away. One look at the throng of people headed toward Bristo Park, where the grandstand had been constructed, and the steady stream of cars rolling in off the highway, and Brody could smell trouble in the air.

That many out-of-towners could mean only one thing. Word about the town’s conflict had gotten out in a big way. And people wanted front-row seating for the fireworks.

He spied a white van wrapped with the logo of the Del Rio television station. The media were here. Not good. He pushed his Stetson down on his head and adjusted his firearm at his hip.

The crowd was moody. People carried signs and banners declaring which side of the fence they were on. romance is a load of hooey versus all you need is love. They toted camp chairs and Igloo coolers as if they were heading for a tailgate party.

He heard grumbling in the crowd, caught snatches of conversations as people walked by.

“— trying to ruin our community.”

“Giada’s right, we don’t have our priorities straight.”

“Why don’t she just go back to Italy where she came from? We don’t need no foreigners telling us how to run our town.”

“Unrealistic expectations about love wrecked my marriage.”

“I’m telling you, the real culprit is that Rachael Henderson. Just because she can’t hold on to a man she thinks everyone else has a problem with romance.”

At the mention of Rachael’s name, Brody’s gut tensed. He whipped his head around to see who was running her down and spotted the dour-faced woman who owned the local bridal shop. She was carrying a sign that read: keep valentine in love with love. vote wentworth for mayor.

Brody unclipped the two-way radio from his belt. “Zeke,” he said, depressing the button on the handset as he spoke into it. “Get the crowd-control barricades over to the park ASAP.”

“Um, Chief . . . ” Zeke came back. “Do we even
have
crowd-control barriers?”

Good question. He had no idea.

“Go down to Audie’s, get a dozen sawhorses and a couple of cans of Day-Glo orange spray paint. And hurry.”

“How am I supposed to pay for it?”

“Tell Audie to put it on my account.”

“You really think there’s going to be a riot?” Zeke sounded both apprehensive and excited.

“I hope not, but I intend to be prepared. Now go.”

“Will do.”

By ten minutes to noon the crowd had swelled so large the park could barely contain them. The sawhorses, now spray-painted bright orange, were arranged in a circle around the grandstand.

Zeke was positioned at the entrance to the parking lot to escort Giada in when she arrived. Brody had called in his two part-time deputies to help with crowd control, but he couldn’t help thinking they were seriously undermanned. If things turned unpleasant . . .

Think positive. This is Valentine, hometown of eternal love. How bad could it get?

A good fifty percent of the crowd booed as Zeke escorted Giada and Rachael up the steps of the grandstand, while the remaining fifty percent cheered, clapped, and glared at the other half.

Brody moved toward the grandstand and his eyes met Rachael’s. He inclined his head toward the crowd. She smiled and winked.

At him.

Brody experienced a strange tickling sensation deep in the center of his chest and the air seemed suddenly thin. She was so damned kissable in the black silk dress she wore, thick with a pattern of red roses. With her hair tumbling down her shoulders, she looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of one of the fairy-tale stories his mother used to read to him and Deana when they were kids, stories about stalwart knights slaying dragons to rescue beautiful damsels in distress. Brody pictured himself as one of those brave knights. Scaling steep tower walls to claim a kiss. Driven by chivalry and a desire to be near such a compelling woman.

He was tempted to go up onstage and tell her to get out while the getting was good. He was worried for her safety. But another part of him was proud of her for taking a stand. She was fighting for what she believed in, even if it meant being a lightning rod for the town’s anger.

Resisting the urge to go onstage, he curled his hands into fists and surveyed the crowd. Not all of the faces were friendly and his concern escalated.

A few minutes after Giada and Rachael arrived, Kelvin appeared, looking like the Fourth of July in a navy blue suit with a red-and-white-striped shirt and red and white boutonnieres in his lapel. The guy knew how to put on a show; Brody would give him that.

Kelvin received the same fifty-fifty mixed greeting Giada and Rachael had collected.

The debate began with Judge Pruitt acting as moderator. As the incumbent, Kelvin went first, grandstanding as usual. He had Purdy Maculroy set up the small-scale mock-up of Valentine Land on the table beside the stage. He invited people up to have a look. Brody cringed as the crowd pushed forward, oohing and aahing.

“Valentine Land will change lives,” Kelvin waxed. “And in a big way. Today, young people leave Valentine because they don’t have any opportunities for a vibrant future. Valentine Land will bring jobs to our community and stop the exodus of our youth.”

“Yeah,” someone in the crowd shouted. “But they’ll be minimum-wage jobs.”

Kelvin ignored the salvo, instead bragging about his accomplishments as mayor. Since the town hadn’t changed much in fifty years, he took credit for the things his ancestors had done, especially emphasizing how the Wentworths had saved Valentine after the oil had dried up.