A Time To Keep

CHAPTER 2

Gwen stood in the entryway, staring up at a cobweb-covered light fixture overhead. Muslin slipcovers were draped over all of the tables and chairs and a layer of dust coated the parquet floors bordered in a rosewood-inlay pattern.

Gwendolyn Pickering had passed away in late February, and it was now early May. It was that apparent no one had come to clean or air out the house. She pretended she didn’t see the stained and peeling wallpaper. Walking across the living room, she saw a massive chandelier resting in a corner on a drop cloth, the sooty remains in the brick fireplace, and the threadbare carpeting on the staircase leading to the second floor. Despite the disrepair, she recognized the magnificence of the mansion, which dated back to the 1840s.

Bon Temps was home, and not the three-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a turn-of-the-century town house she’d occupied for the past decade.

Heading for the staircase, she flipped on the light switch on a wall panel and illuminated the landing and the hallway at the top of the staircase.

Her footsteps were slow and determined as she climbed the stairs to see what awaited her. Her late aunt’s attorney had mailed her an envelope filled with photographs of the exterior and interior of Bon Temps, floor plans, copies of the original architectural drawings, and a description of the furnishings with authentication of every inventoried item.

The five-thousand-square-foot house contained four bedrooms, five-and-a-half bathrooms, a kitchen, a pantry, a laundry room, a formal living and dining room, and a small ballroom for entertaining. The floor plans also included a second-story veranda that overlooked an orchard and formal garden.

It took several hours after a lengthy conversation with Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney for Gwen to digest the information that she now owned a house that if restored, would be granted historic landmark status. Mr. Sykes said she could either turn Bon Temps into a museum or live in it, so she’d opted to claim it as her home.

Gwen stopped as she reached the last stair when the chiming of the doorbell echoed melodiously throughout the house. Had someone seen the lights and come to investigate? She tried to remember if she’d locked the door behind her. Turning, she descended the staircase and walked to the door. She breathed a sigh of relief. Unconsciously, she’d locked it. Living in a big city had honed her survival skills—never leave a door unlocked.

The bell chimed again. Peering through the security peephole, Gwen saw the distorted face of the man whom she’d left less than five minutes before.

“Yes?” she asked through the solid wood door.

“Miss Taylor, it’s Shiloh. Please open the door.”

Her eyebrows inched up. He hadn’t identified himself as Sheriff Harper. She disengaged the lock. The man who’d rescued her from the ditch looked different without his hat. His close-cropped black hair hugged his head like a cap. The soft yellow light from the porch lamps flattered the angles of his dark brown face. He looked like someone she’d seen before.

She affected a smile. “Yes, Sheriff?”

Shiloh’s gold-flecked green eyes lingered on her lush mouth. “Please call me Shiloh.”

Her smile faded. “Why?”

“Because I’m off duty. Your place has been vacant for several months although my men do check at least twice a week to make certain squatters or vandals haven’t broken in. I just came back to make certain you were all right.”

Gwen knew it was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t take her gaze away from Shiloh’s face. Who did he look like? She mentally ran through the faces of people she’d met and interviewed over the years, but came up blank.

She blinked as if coming out of a trance and opened the door wider. “You’re off duty, yet you’re still on the job?”

He angled his head, smiling. “I’m always on the job, Miss Taylor.”

Shiloh liked listening to Gwendolyn Taylor’s voice. It was a welcome change from the slow drawl and distinctive inflection of the Cajun dialect of most people in the parish. Not only did she talk different, but she also looked different from the women in the region. Despite her casual attire, there was something about her that silently screamed big city, and he wondered how long it would take for her to abandon Bon Temps, tire of the slower lifestyle, and return to Massachusetts.

Gwen gave him a warm smile and offered her right hand. “I’d like you to call me Gwen.”

Shiloh took her smaller hand in his, enjoying its softness. It was with reluctance that he released it. He’d returned to Bon Temps to make certain it was safe for Gwendolyn Taylor to enter, and he’d also returned to see her again. He didn’t know what it was about the transplanted Bostonian, but something about her intrigued him. Not knowing whether there was a Mr. Taylor or a few little Taylors, but like a besotted teenager he’d come back for another glimpse of a woman whose voice drew him to her like a moth to a flame.

He nodded, smiling. “Then Gwen it is. Do you mind if I check around?”

She stepped aside. “Not at all.”

Shiloh moved into the entryway, his sharp gaze cataloguing everything. Even to someone who lived his entire life in the South the heat inside the house was oppressive.

He walked into the living room, stopping short, and a soft body plowed into his back. Turning quickly, he reached out to steady Gwen as she swayed and struggled to keep her balance.

“Just where are you going?” he asked, glaring down at her stunned expression.

Gwen felt the unyielding strength in the fingers around her upper arms, inhaled the lingering scent of a provocative men’s cologne, and shivered from the press of Shiloh’s body against hers.

“I’m following you.” She didn’t recognize her own voice because it had come out in a breathless whisper.

Shiloh eased his grip on her arms, but didn’t release her. A frown marred his smooth forehead. “No, you’re not.”

She bristled visibly. How dare he tell her what she could do in her own home? “And why not?”

“Because I’m the one with the big gun,” he drawled. He hadn’t bothered to hide his arrogance.

Gwen tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smile. “Oh, really, Mr. Lawman, sir.”

Shiloh’s hands fell away once he realized what he’d said. There was no doubt she’d misconstrued his statement as a sexual taunt. Resting long, slender fingers on his waist, he smiled. “Would you like me to show it to you?” He got the reaction he sought when Gwen gasped and her eyes widened. “I personally prefer the Glock to the standard police-issue .38 revolver.”

Gwen’s gaze shifted from his Cheshire cat grin to the deadly looking firearm strapped to his waist. “I don’t need to see it, Shiloh. What do you want me to do?”

“Stay here.”

Recovering quickly, her eyes narrowed. “This is the second time you’ve told me to stay as if I were a dog.”

It was Shiloh’s turn to give a questioning look. One eyebrow lifted higher than the other and that was when Gwen knew who he reminded her of.

“Do you know that you look like The Rock?”

“The Rock?”

“Dwayne Johnson. The wrestler-turned-actor,” she explained. “His complexion is lighter than yours, and your eyes aren’t dark like his, but the two of you could pass for brothers.”

Shiloh had lost count of the number of times people mentioned his resemblance to the wrestler, yet always claimed he’d never heard of the man.

“I suppose it’s true about everyone having a double,” he said glibly. “How about you, Gwen? Do you have someone who looks like you?”

“Yes, in fact I do. My first cousin Lauren and I look enough alike to be sisters. The only difference is that I’m about an inch taller and rounder than she is in certain places despite the fact that she’s had three babies.”

“Have many children do you have?” Shiloh asked, as his penetrating gaze moved slowly over her body.

“None.”

“So, it’s just going to be you and Mr. Taylor living here?”

She shook her head. “There is no Mr. Taylor, aside from my father and Uncle Roy. Will my marital status also go into your police report?”

Shiloh went completely still. Miss Gwendolyn Taylor was anything but shy, timid or submissive. “No, it won’t.”

Crossing her arms under her breasts, she took a step and looked directly into a pair of the most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen on a man. The gold was the perfect match for the undertones in his smooth-shaven jaw, the green dramatic and hypnotic.

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“I always like to maintain a modicum of anonymity.”

“That’s not going to be an easy feat down here.”

“Why not?” Gwen asked.

“We’re in the bayou. That means everyone gets to know everyone else. The fact that you live out here may make it a little easier for you, but I wouldn’t count on complete anonymity.”

Shiloh wanted to tell Gwen that only Gwendolyn Pickering was able to keep her private life private. Those she’d invited to Bon Temps swore an oath never to reveal what went on behind the door once they crossed the threshold.

“What about yourself, Sheriff Harper? Does everyone know your business?”

“I’m a public servant and that means my life is an open book,” he admitted.

“You don’t have a private life?”

He hesitated, then said, “Right now I don’t.”

The journalist in Gwen wanted to know more about the sheriff, but she hadn’t moved more than fifteen hundred miles to get involved, even if it was on a superficial level, with a man. Besides, she didn’t know whether Shiloh was married, engaged or involved with a woman.

“I’ll wait here for you to complete your search,” she said, deftly dropping the topic and letting Shiloh know she wanted him gone.

Shiloh averted his gaze from the softly curved luscious mouth. “I’ll try to be quick about it.” He switched on a flashlight and headed for the staircase.

His footsteps were muffled by the pile of the well-worn carpet lining the winding staircase. He hadn’t lied to Gwen about his private life. He hadn’t had one in three years, not since his divorce, and not since he’d left the district attorney’s office to serve out his father’s term as sheriff after Virgil Harper was gunned down during a botched bank robbery.

Flipping on a light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs, he saw firsthand the fading beauty of Bon Temps concealed under dust and cobwebs. The last two years of Gwendolyn Pickering’s life had been shrouded in mystery. She’d stopped receiving visitors and rarely ventured off the property.

Shiloh entered and exited bedrooms attached by adjoining sitting rooms and baths. He checked the locks on the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling French doors in the bedrooms overlooking the rear.

It appeared as if no one, other than whoever had covered the furniture with dustcovers, had returned to the house since Gwendolyn Pickering passed away. One thing he knew was that the house was not fit for human habitation—at least not until it was aired out.

He returned to the first floor by a back stairway and found himself outside an expansive state-of-the-art, eat-in kitchen. A pantry and laundry room were set up in an alcove behind the kitchen. His booted feet left distinctive footprints on the tiled floor.

Turning the faucet on in one of the stainless steel twin sinks, Shiloh waited for the water to run clear. There were two things Gwen did not have to concern herself with: water and electricity. Both were in working order.

Returning to the front of the house, he found Gwen where he’d left her, in the living room. She stood next to the massive crystal chandelier resting on a drop cloth in a corner.

“You can’t stay here tonight,” he announced in a voice layered with an authoritative undertone.

Gwen turned, an expression of indecision freezing her delicate features. “What?”

Shiloh closed the distance between them. “The house is safe, but you can’t stay,” he repeated. “The air quality is unhealthy. This place has been closed up for months and should be dusted and aired out before you sleep here.”

She groaned audibly. “It’s that bad?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s that bad.”

Gwen worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Is there a hotel or motel around here that I can check into?”

“The nearest motel is right off the interstate. But on the other hand, Jessup’s boardinghouse is just up the road.”

There was no need for her to agonize over where she would spend the night. After driving more than twelve hours Gwen loathed getting behind the wheel of her car again. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’ll stay at the boardinghouse. How do I get there?”

“I’ll show you.” Shiloh extended his hand. “Give me your key and I’ll lock up.”

Delving her hand into the pocket of her slacks, Gwen handed him the key, then turned on her heels and walked out of the house, feeling the heat of Shiloh’s gaze on her retreating back.

She got into her car and waited for Shiloh Harper to turn off the lights and lock up Bon Temps. And for the second time that night she found herself following his vehicle.

* * *

Gwen’s eyelids drooped as she waited for the proprietor of Jessup’s boardinghouse to swipe her credit card. She was past being tired; she was exhausted and hungry. She’d left Chattanooga, Tennessee earlier that morning, stopping only to refuel her car.

Forcing herself to stand upright, she gave Shiloh a half smile. He’d brought in her luggage and offered to wait until she had gotten a room in the family-owned establishment. “How can I thank you for all you’ve done for me?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Shiloh angled his head. “You can buy a ticket to an upcoming fund-raising dinner-dance to benefit the bayou’s needy families.”

“How much are they?”

“Fifty.”

“Put me down for two.”

Shiloh lowered his arms. Gwen admitted to not being married, but she hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend. Women who looked like Gwendolyn Taylor usually did not spend their weekends watching rented videos or reading novels that promised a happily-ever-after ending because it was missing in her life. He knew very little about the current owner of Bon Temps, but what he saw he definitely liked.

Willie Jessup placed a key and her card on the solid oak counter. “You’re in room two-one-four. It’s at the top of the stairs.” He nodded to Shiloh. “I’ll take her bags up,” he said in French.

“It’s all right, Willie. I’ll do it,” he replied in the same language. “Keep an eye on her, because she’s not from around here,” Shiloh said quietly.

“No problem,” Willie replied.

Gwen’s fatigue vanished quickly. She’d taken an accelerated course in French before her European vacation and had come away with only a rudimentary fluency in the language. During the two weeks she’d spent in France she was able to order food, ask street directions and negotiate with shopkeepers. The French were impressed because she’d at least tried to communicate with them in their language.

Shiloh picked up her bags and headed for the staircase, Gwen following. She was intrigued by the man named for a horrific Civil War battle; a man who as sheriff of St. Martin Parish had gone beyond the call of duty to make certain she was safe; a man who understood and spoke French fluently. The reporter in her wanted answers—a lot of answers, but they would have to wait until after she’d gotten some sleep.

Soft light coming from two table lamps revealed a room that was spacious and clean. A mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting, a matching highboy and rocker beckoned her to come and spend the night.

Shiloh placed her three bags on the floor next to a small, adjoining bathroom before he walked over to the French doors overlooking a balcony enclosed with decorative wrought-iron grillwork. He checked the lock, then flipped a wall switch and the blades of a ceiling fan stirred the air.

Turning around, he stared at Gwen who lay across the bed, eyes closed. Moving closer, he saw the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. She’d fallen asleep. Bending over, he removed her sandals. A knowing smile softened his firm mouth. He was right about her shoes costing more than some folks earned in a week. Gwen Taylor’s size seven sandals were Jimmy Choos.

He couldn’t pull his gaze away from her face and he noticed things that weren’t apparent at first glance: the length of her lashes resting on a pair of high cheekbones, the narrowness of the bridge of her short nose, the incredibly smooth color of her sable-brown face, and the lush softness of her mouth.

An unbidden thought popped into and out of his head quickly. Spinning on his heels he walked out of the room, closing the door softly. He checked the knob to make certain it was locked, then made his way down the staircase to the lobby.

“Bon soir,” he said to Willie as he strolled across the lobby and out of the boardinghouse.

“A tout a l’heure, Shiloh,” Willie called out at the same time the telephone rang.

Shiloh climbed behind the wheel of the black unmarked SUV and turned on the engine. The clock on the dashboard read 9:55. It wasn’t often he worked overtime, but he didn’t consider helping Gwendolyn Taylor work. It was one parish resident helping out another.

He drove away from Jessup’s thinking about the woman asleep on the bed in a second-floor bedroom. She intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to get to know her better. And like her namesake who’d occupied Bon Temps for half a century, he was certain this Gwendolyn would also get her share of male admirers.

What she didn’t know was that she’d acquired her first one: Shiloh Harper.

* * *

Shiloh lay in the oversized hammock, his head resting on a down-filled pillow, his bare feet crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over an equally bared chest, listening to the nocturnal sounds of the bayou: the low growl of an alligator, the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, and the occasional splash of a muskrat, opossum and other wildlife. The sounds had become a serenade, easing his frustration. And like those he’d tried and sent to prison he now counted the days, weeks, months, and it was now less than a year when he would eventually return to the D.A.’s office.

Four years of college, three in law school and countless hours studying to pass the Louisiana bar hadn’t prepared him to become a sheriff. He loved preparing a case for trial, going to trial, and delivering opening and closing arguments. His mother called him a frustrated actor because there were times when his presentation was likened to a Hollywood A-list actor’s performance.

Now, however, he wasn’t a district attorney but Sheriff Shiloh Harper, and serving out his father’s term had delayed his goal of becoming a judge by his fortieth birthday.

Shifting slightly in the hammock, he closed his eyes as the blades of one of the ceiling fans on the veranda moved the sultry air, caressing his scantily clad body. He was beginning to feel the effects of the two beers he’d drunk in lieu of eating his mother’s jambalaya. After thirty-seven years of marriage his widowed mother still had not adjusted to cooking for one person. Any time he left the house where he’d grown up, it was with several containers of Moriah Harper’s exquisitely prepared food.