Single-Dad Sheriff

CHAPTER THREE

TUCKED IN A VALLEY off the beaten track, partway between Brevard and Asheville, Applegate was little like its bigger neighbors, the first a college town, the second a tourist destination. And although gentrification was slowly making inroads, one couldn’t spot the changes from the rustic interior of Abel Nash’s feed store. Samantha stood amid the stacked burlap sacks of grain and scarred wooden bins of seeds, waiting to speak to the owner and trying desperately not to sneeze on the fine dust that hung in the air. She couldn’t help but wonder why the sheriff stood sentry outside the store, looking for all the world as if he was waiting for someone in particular.

“Samantha, what can I do for you?” At last Abel turned his attention to her.

From her pocket she pulled a slip of paper on which she’d written the specifics of the new feed she wanted. “Could you give me this blend with my next delivery?”

He glanced at the list. “No problem. Anything else?”

“About your message…”

“That guy nosing around, yeah.” Abel scowled.

“Did he give a name?”

“No. He was slippery that way. Gut feeling, I didn’t trust him.”

“How so?”

“Said he was trying to find his long-lost niece. Showed me a picture of some society woman. Ashley something-or-other. Come to think of it, she had a passing resemblance to you—kind of like a gussied up cousin—but his niece? I sure as heck wouldn’t put the two of them on the same family shrub, let alone tree. He looked like a forties gangster.”

Samantha suppressed a smile. Not a newshound, at least. But Max. While it was true her father’s detective looked rough around the edges, the man had a heart of gold. Nevertheless, she didn’t want “Uncle Max” meddling in her new life. Not at this tender stage.

“What did you tell him?” she asked, fearing Abel Nash owed her, a newcomer, scant loyalty.

“I asked him if I looked like I ran in her circle. Then I told him if he didn’t need any seed or feed, I had paying customers to wait on.” He paused as if weighing his words. “You’ll find this has always been a live-and-let-live town. We’re not overfond of snoops.”

That was putting it mildly. In doing research on the area, as far back as the revolutionary war, Samantha had found that this region, with its peaks and valleys and inaccessible hollows, had been a haven for staunch individualists and rebels and people with something to hide. “I appreciate your respect for privacy,” she replied.

Abel had given nothing away, but surely Max had talked to others in town. Had they been as circumspect? She glanced at the sheriff on the sidewalk. Fortunately, Max, in keeping a low profile, always worked without benefit of law enforcement. He had other means. Unfortunately, he often proved more tenacious and more thorough than his uniformed counterparts. She’d almost rather take her chances with Garrett McQuire.

Almost.

Abel cleared his throat. “You’re a woman alone. If you don’t already have a gun, you might think of getting one.”

The idea appalled her, and her face must have registered that reaction.

“Most people do around here,” he said. “If for no other reason than to protect their livestock. Against snakes and coyotes. Intruders.”

“I never thought…”

“Consider it,” the storekeeper urged, not unkindly.

The responsibility of individual gun ownership. The necessity. A daunting concept. In the hotel business, security was handled by…well, security. A staff discreet and out of sight. And always at the ready. Until this moment she hadn’t really considered how others had taken care of her every need. And she’d considered herself an independent woman. Unsettled, she turned to go, only to discover she’d have to make her way past the sheriff still standing outside the door. An even more formidable prospect than purchasing a gun.

Why did he make her nervous even when she had nothing to hide? Nothing of substance. Not really.

She squared her shoulders and prepared to breeze by him with a cursory greeting. But stepping from the dim interior of the feed store into the bright June sunlight, she was temporarily blinded, and stopped to get her bearings.

“Can I have a word with you?” His deep voice, held firmly in check, nonetheless threatened her equilibrium. “I’d like to talk about Rory.”

“He…he finished work for today. We rode our bikes into town together. Said he was going off with friends to swim.”

“I know. He dropped by the office. Have you eaten lunch?”

She didn’t want lunch with this man, but her stomach—last fed hours ago at a crack-of-dawn breakfast—took that moment to cast its own vote with a loud growl.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Before she could protest, he cupped her elbow and guided her across the street. She was stunned to discover he was leading her not to Rachel’s Diner, but next door to the sheriff’s office.

“I hope you like chili,” he said as he propelled her through the front door. “McMillan made enough for an army.”

That reminded Samantha of the children’s taunt, “Who’s gonna make me? You and whose army?” and wondered how much she’d have to reveal of herself during this “lunch.”

Garrett was determined to get some answers from Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—and he was going to do it on his own turf. He needed to balance her right to privacy with his need to know whom his son interacted with. The lunch invitation was meant to make the procedure—one that required finesse, something he wasn’t sure he possessed—less threatening. He might be sheriff, but he’d been raised Southern. You didn’t scare off a newcomer just because you didn’t know what her daddy, granddaddy and great-granddaddy did for a living. Didn’t know yet.

“Up this way.” He motioned to a staircase that led to the barracks above the ground-floor offices.

Cool caution seemed to form a shield around her as she climbed the stairs ahead of him. Clearly, she was on guard, and he wondered why. She paused, uncertain, at the top of the stairs.

Without introductions, he propelled her toward the kitchenette, past several deputies eating at the long central trestle table. They eyed Samantha with interest. It was unusual for him to bring an outsider up here. Business dealings he always conducted below and by the book. Any personal life he kept separate from his work. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.

Silently, he put together two trays of dishes, silverware, napkins, then indicated the chili, salad, bread, sweet tea. Holding herself regally, she responded with a nod that, yes, she’d try some of each. He hadn’t felt so uncomfortable since his first middle school dance. The silence of the deputies behind them was deafening.

Handing her a tray, he headed for the stairs once more. She seemed mildly surprised they wouldn’t be eating at the communal table—as if he’d ever let that happen.

“We can eat and talk in my office,” he said in a low voice, but not low enough. He saw the corner of Deputy Sooner’s mouth quirk in the beginning of a grin.

Safely downstairs in his office, he lowered his tray to the top of a stack of papers covering his blotter, then cleared a place opposite for hers. Pulling Rory’s backpack from the only other chair in the room, he indicated she should sit. She did, gingerly, looking down at an empty trap Ziggy Newsome had returned after relocating a raccoon that had taken up residence in the Newsome attic.

With his foot Garrett pushed the trap into the corner. “Sorry about the housekeeping.”

“You said you wanted to talk about your son.” She was unflappable, this one.

“I don’t know how much he’s told you about his situation,” he said, trying for equally cool.

“He said he spends summers and vacations with you and the rest of the year with his mother in Charlotte. Beyond that we only talk about animals and running my business. In those areas he seems very mature for his age.”

“Do you know much about kids?”

“No.”

“All the more reason we should talk.”

Slowly spreading a napkin on her lap, she raised one eyebrow and gave him an if-you-say-so look, but didn’t answer otherwise. He was a crossword fanatic. In the paper that morning one of the answers had been hauteur. At this moment the clue could have been “Samantha Weston.”

“I guess because Rory splits his time between my ex and me,” he said, “we’re twice as vigilant. As parents.”

“That—” she took a delicate nibble of her salad “—and the fact you’re sheriff and would naturally want to know who’s moving into your territory and what they’re planning on doing. Say, me.”

“You’ve read me accurately there. And just about ninety-nine percent of the rest of the town. You had to know your business would stir up curiosity. It’s unusual.”

“And here Abel just got through telling me this is a live-and-let-live town.” She shot him a command-the-room smile. “Are llama treks a suspicious activity, sheriff? I filed a prospectus when I applied for my permit. It’s public information.”

“I read it.”

“Oh?” She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Did you read Rachel’s when she bought the diner? Or Abel’s when he inherited the feed store?”

He found himself unaccountably taken back by her direct gaze and her cross-examination. “You… need to understand I’m talking to you as a father. I’d check out any situation I let my son into. Be it a sleepover with friends or a part-time job at Mickey D’s—”

“So you want to know what kind of employer I am? Have you talked to Red Harris? I think he’s observed me long and hard enough to provide a pretty good character reference. Or maybe Abel. He could tell you I pay my bills on time.” Her tone was pseudo-light with a defensiveness that swam just below the surface. Her body language said he wasn’t intimidating her. “Have you interviewed them?”

“No.” Who the hell was conducting this interview? He bristled at her ability to turn the tables. “But now you bring up the matter of background checks, why’s there no record for Samantha Weston? Not even a driver’s license.”

“So you did snoop on me.” She seemed almost relieved. “FYI, there’s no license under my name because I don’t drive. Your lunch is getting cold.”

He looked at the untouched meal in front of him. So much for finesse and the excuse of getting to know his son’s employer.

“I think Rory and I are going to get along fine.” She seemed to have no trouble eating and talking. With an unhurried elegance that would fit right in at a formal luncheon at the Grove Park Inn, she’d finished half her meal. “If you’d like, you could come with him to work one day. To observe.”

“You really don’t know much about twelve-year-olds, do you? He’d be mortified.”

“Ah, yes. So much easier to investigate me.”

“Come on now. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”

“But you did run a background check on me. Beyond the license.”

He got the feeling this woman could hold her own. Anywhere. “Yes.”

“And would you tell me what you found out?” she asked politely, as if they were discussing the weather for an upcoming polo match.

Screw finesse. “That everything from your phone bills to ownership of Whistling Meadows traces back to a corporation. Ashley Dreams, Inc.”

“Yes,” she replied without offering further explanation. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Well, I guess I can’t blame a man for doing his job.” Her tone said otherwise.

“Just out of curiosity, what’s your connection to Ashley Dreams?”

“Is this a sheriff question or a father question?” He noticed her brown eyes were flecked with gold. And they got darker the more serious she became.

“Neither. Just a question.”

“You want to know if I’m the CEO or the hired help. Is that what you’re getting at?”

One thing was certain, this woman was no one’s hired help.

“Let’s put it this way,” she continued. “On paper Whistling Meadows is owned by Ashley Dreams, Incorporated, but no one really owns that slice of pasture land and mountain. You should know that, sheriff. Your son says you grew up here. Its geologic history alone reaches so far back no human can really claim it. The llamas sense that if the people can’t. The animals just live on the surface. Day to day. Content to be here amid the splendor. I suspect they chuckle at the idea that someone—corporation or individual—thinks he or she owns them or the land. But they humor us. Me, I’m just part of the scenery. Trying to live on Whistling Meadows without leaving too intrusive a footprint.”

“A philosopher,” he said, noting rather cynically she hadn’t come close to answering his question.

“Now that’s the nicest thing I’ve been called in a long time.” She rose. “On that positive note, I need to get back to the farm. Thanks for lunch.”

She smiled, then left his office, leaving him with a cold meal, the hint of some sophisticated fragrance she’d been wearing and the firm conviction that, philosopher or not, Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—was one self-contained woman.

Outside, Samantha shook herself as if chilled. She was so mad she could bite someone. And wouldn’t her mother be shocked at even the thought of such behavior. Well, this wasn’t the Orchid Court at the Singapore Ashley. It wasn’t even the breakfast room back home in Virginia. This was Main Street, Applegate, North Carolina, and the sheriff seemed to think he could be rude—rude and nosy—and get away with it.

So much for Abel’s assessment that the town didn’t abide snoops. Outside snoops, perhaps. The homegrown ones seemed to come with a badge.

Trying to let off steam, she pedaled her bike furiously back to the farm.

So what was she to do about the sheriff? What she always did with rude people. Ignore them. But what about Rory? With him working for her, she upped her chances of running into his father. She could fire the boy. And his “vigilant” guardian would probably seek legal redress. Wouldn’t he think he’d discovered the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow when he realized how much she was worth?

No, she’d have to fly under the radar. With both the sheriff and Max on her trail…damn, she’d forgotten about Max. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t have forgotten about her. That she hadn’t seen him in town meant only one thing—he’d found out what he wanted and was headed back to her father to report. Then her daddy would take his time. He hadn’t built his hotel empire by being rash. The grand opening of the Singapore Ashley would occupy him for a week or two. Maybe. If she was lucky. He wouldn’t mention anything to her mother, not until the very moment he’d say, “Throw a few things in a bag for a little getaway.” Then the two would sweep south. And Samantha’s new life would be turned topsy-turvy by the whirlwind that always accompanied her parents. She could just picture Mother in the farmhouse. She’d do an extreme makeover in no time. And Father? She couldn’t quite imagine him and Red and martinis on the bunkhouse porch.

Despite her request for time, her parents would arrive. Like a tsunami. There was absolutely nothing Samantha could do to stop them. She only hoped the press wouldn’t follow.

Wouldn’t that give the sheriff something to investigate?

As she turned her bicycle into the lane running up to Whistling Meadows, she realized she’d worked up quite a sweat under the June sun. How unladylike. Well, Mother would have to get used to her daughter’s adaptation to the rigors of country living. And Samantha would simply have to not think about tomorrow. Stay in the moment, she chided herself. Right now, neither the press nor your parents are here. Right now, there is no reason for you to see the sheriff. Right now…there appeared to be a body on her front porch.

Yes, a man. Sprawled. Unmoving.

She looked toward the bunkhouse. Red’s truck was gone. Instinctively, she moved to page hotel security, then gave herself a reality check. Her next move was to call 9-1-1 and pray the sheriff didn’t think she’d added murder to her sketchy résumé.

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