The Sheriff Wins A Wife

Chapter Three

Jenn sat on the porch swing in the dark, enjoying the quiet night sounds. It was so comfortable in the house she’d grown up in, and so different to what she’d become accustomed to, living in the city.

Miranda and her second husband, now referred to by the sisters as Roger the Rat, had moved in a few years ago after their mother died. Miranda had, surprisingly, changed very little about the house. In fact, Jenn thought, the entire neighborhood had changed very little since she’d been away.

A light went on in the house across the street. She could see the rooster wallpaper in Mrs. Kincade’s kitchen. She smiled at the sight.

Her neighborhood in Dallas was so impersonal. She hardly knew the people who lived on either side of her and had never been in their homes. A week ago she hadn’t thought anything about the fact that her neighbors weren’t a part of her life. Now, with memories of a different lifestyle pressing in on her, she wasn’t so sure her neighborly distance was a good thing.

If she was already questioning her choices, then she’d obviously needed this time to unwind. She took a sip of her lemonade and watched headlights turn into the driveway.

Whatever peace she’d hoped to find tonight was gone. She knew it was Trace even before she saw the light rack on top of the sheriff’s car.

He’d always been a bulldog when it came to seeing things through to the end. It was one of the qualities about him she’d always admired, and one that had made the pain eight years ago even worse.

Wouldn’t a man as determined as Trace have come after her when she’d left without saying goodbye? Since she’d been the one to leave, it had been childish of her to feel hurt. But back then she’d expected him to come after her—if he’d truly loved her. He must have been relieved when she’d left. He was off the hook. No more playing at husband or father.

But that was eight long years ago. Now all she felt was an odd ambivalence. She didn’t want to dredge up the past. She’d buried it, and she intended it to stay that way. No one in Blossom knew of her less-than-two-week marriage to Trace. The secret had died with her mother.

Jenn had told Miranda about losing the baby, but couldn’t bring herself to mention the quick trip over the state line to get married. It had been a childish mistake she wanted to forget.

The night they’d married, Trace had dropped her off at her house, then made the long drive back to San Antonio to his summer job. They’d agreed she’d live with her mother and keep the marriage a secret until he’d earned enough to rent an apartment. Then he’d come home and find a job in Blossom.

But everything had changed when she’d lost the baby a few days later.

Her mother had found out what they’d done. They’d forged a note saying Jenn had her mother’s permission to wed, then snuck over the state line and gotten married in New Mexico. Jenn’s mother had insisted she get an annulment, and, in the emotional aftermath of the miscarriage, Jenn had agreed.

Now Trace’s car pulled up to the front of the house. He killed the lights, but didn’t get out. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was staring at her. She could feel his eyes. He knew she was in the shadows of the porch, just as she’d known it was him in the car. They’d always had that kind of connection. It seemed they still did, in spite of everything.

He opened the door and unfolded his tall frame from the driver’s seat. He walked slowly up to the porch.

She recognized his rolling gait. He had grown taller and filled out since high school, but she’d know his walk anywhere. To her annoyance, her heart speeded up.

He stopped at the steps without walking up.

“Hey, Trace,” she greeted him in a soft voice.

“Jenn.”

Just her name, that was all. From the way he said it she could tell he was angry.

He continued to stand there, staring at her. In the old days he would have taken the stairs two at a time, sat down beside her, pulled her into his lap and kissed her breathless.

The thought made her breasts tingle, and a stab of yearning went through her. She had to fight the urge to invite him to sit down beside her.

No one had ever made her feel like Trace had. But she didn’t want or need the feelings, and she hadn’t, not for a long time.

Finally he cleared his throat. “Is he mine? Is Zack my son?”

Jenn nearly fell off the swing in surprise. “No. Why would you think that?”

He ran his hand over his face. “He’s about the right age, isn’t he?”

The fact that he was right about Zack’s age didn’t stop the hurt welling up inside her. Did he really think she could do that to him? Have his child and not tell him?

“I lost our baby, Trace,” she said in a shaking voice.

She saw his shoulder lift in a tired shrug. “I hoped—I had to know. He looks like me.”

Her anger fizzled, leaving her feeling tender and bruised. Zack did look like Trace. Jenn had noticed that about the little boy immediately. She’d had to admit, even at the time of the adoption, it was one of the reasons Zack had quickly become so dear to her.

He let out a soft huff of breath. “Your mother told me about the baby, but she never liked me. I couldn’t trust—When I came back to Blossom you’d already gone. She told me she was taking care of the annulment, too, because you were underage.”

Only now, as an adult, did Jenn realize how much it must have hurt him, that she’d left without an explanation. “I’m sorry.”

She felt sadness wash over her for what they’d lost to their youthful mistakes and her mother’s schemes. She wanted Trace to hold her so she could feel the comfort of his strong arms and wide chest.

But she stayed where she was. Those days were long over.

She and Trace were so different now. She was a mother, living in a city she loved. He was a bachelor, and a small-town boy. He’d always lived in Blossom. He hated cities.

Most likely, even if they’d stayed together, their relationship wouldn’t have worked. She didn’t question why she’d held fast to that belief.

Trace’s voice drew her out of her musings.

“I called your mother’s house, but she wouldn’t talk to me. Then I heard you’d gone off to school. When I found out you’d left for college I went to find you.”

“You came to SMU?” She hadn’t known he’d tried to contact her after she’d left. It didn’t change the present, but knowing he’d come after her untied one of the little knots of sadness she’d held on to for years.

“Yeah. But when I came to my senses and realized you’d left me, I gave up and came home. I got good and drunk, and then the next day I joined the marines.”

“Miranda told me you enlisted.”

After a long silence he said, “Nothing went the way we expected, did it?”

His voice held a quiet sadness that tore at Jenn’s heart. She resisted the pull. She built a life that fit her needs. She had everything under control. She loved her job, and her son was in a good school. They were a family. They belonged in Dallas, not here in Blossom or with Trace.

“We were so young. I don’t think it would have worked,” she said softly

Even in the dark she saw the tension in his body. “Why don’t you say what you really mean, Jenn?”

She flinched at the anger and resentment in his voice.

“An unplanned baby, an unplanned wedding. What happened between us wasn’t planned at all. For you, everything worked out for the best.”

His words stunned her. “Do you think I wanted what happened?”

“No. But I think you wished none of it had ever happened at all.”

She wanted to disagree with him, but he’d hit on a secret guilt she’d carried for eight years.

After a long silence he said sadly, “Well, we’ll never know if it would have worked, will we? Good night, Jenn.”

He turned and walked back to his car.

For eight years she’d been telling herself things had turned out for the best. But now she wondered, if that was the case, why did she wish deep down, that things had turned out differently?

The next morning, as Zack watched cartoons in the living room, Jenn listened as her sister pointed out the things she wanted removed from the room that was going to be the baby’s nursery.

This had been Roger’s den, and Miranda was trying to remove every trace of her husband. Jenn didn’t blame her. He’d run off with an eighteen-year-old hairdresser, and neither Jenn nor Miranda were in a particularly forgiving state of mind.

“What do you want me to do with the stuff he left behind?” Jenn asked as she surveyed the fishing equipment, piles of magazines and baseball shoes, gloves and bats.

“Put it at the curb. Tomorrow is garbage day.”

“I don’t know, Miranda. Do you really want to throw it away?”

Miranda rubbed her belly and laughed, but the sound held little humor. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“Okay.” Jenn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from telling Miranda that the contents of their trash pile would be talked about all over Blossom. Jenn hated it when she heard her mother’s words coming out of her own mouth. “You go put your feet up. I’ll dig in here,” she said instead. She was worried for her sister. Miranda tired easily, and last night Jenn had heard her crying. From the dark circles under Miranda’s eyes, Jenn was sure her sister was sleeping badly, when she slept at all.

Now Miranda didn’t even argue. She turned and left the room.

Jenn spent the next hour piling things by the door. From the back of the closet she dragged out an old dress box from a Dallas store that had gone out of business years ago. It was sealed with tape, coated with dust and marked with their mother’s name.

Curious, she wiped the box with a rag, then carried it upstairs to Miranda’s bedroom. Her sister looked up from the book she was reading.

“There’s a box with Mom’s name on it. I thought we went through everything after she died.” Jenn put the box on the bed.

Miranda pushed herself up against the headboard. “Roger found that in the rafters in the garage about a year ago and brought it into the house. I kept meaning to go through it, but never got around to it.”

“Are you up to it now?”

“Sure.”

Jenn went back downstairs to the office and began to scrub the walls of the closet.

A few minutes later Miranda appeared at the office door holding a large manila envelope. “Jenn, you need to see this.”

Jenn dropped her sponge into the bucket and wiped her wet hands on her jeans. She took the envelope from her sister and slid out the papers. The date on the cover sheet was eight years old. It was a checklist of information that would be needed to complete an annulment. And the original, completed forms filled out with Trace’s and her names. Jenn’s knees felt weak and she sat down on the desk chair. As she stared at the form, the realization of what she held in her hand sank in.

The final papers for her annulment had never been filed.

Miranda lifted the papers from Jenn’s numb fingers, then picked up the envelope and studied the postmark. “This must have come the week Mom was diagnosed. I remember, because we went to the doctor on Kelly’s birthday.”

Jenn nodded. She’d never forget that phone call. “You called me at school to tell me about Mom. I was studying for midterm exams.”

She covered her mouth with both hands and mumbled through her fingers. “Oh, my gosh. Do you know what this means?”

Miranda skimmed the papers again and gave Jenn an evil little smile. “I suspect you and Trace McCabe are still legally married. So what are you going to do?”

Jenn reached for the phone. “First of all, I’m going to make sure I’m not legally married,” she said in a voice full of bravado.

Then, she thought with a sinking feeling, if her instincts were right, she was going to have to tell her husband the truth.

Chapter Four

Jenn sat in her car outside Trace’s house. It was old, but the wood siding and trim sported a fresh coat of paint, and the walk was bordered with neatly tended flower beds. The sheriff’s car was parked in the driveway.

Catching Trace at home was better than meeting him at his office. After all, she wanted privacy when she dropped her bomb, didn’t she?

She got out of her car and nervously smoothed the skirt of her yellow sundress. Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell and listened to it chime inside the house. When there was no response, she rang again. All she got was an unnerving silence. Butterflies churned in her stomach.

Had he seen her arrive and decided not to answer the door? The thought bothered her. Even though she’d begun her visit to Blossom wanting to avoid him, she irrationally didn’t want him treating her the same way. Especially now that they’d crossed paths and exchanged words.

She had raised her hand to knock, to give it one last try, when she heard the unmistakable cough and sputter of a gas lawn mower starting up.

She listened for a moment. The noise was coming from the back of the house. She blew out a little sigh of relief. He wasn’t ignoring her. He must be mowing his yard.

She stepped down off the front porch and walked across the lawn to the driveway, headed toward the uneven growl of the mower. As she cleared the side of the house and got a full view of the backyard, she stopped dead.

Trace had his back to her, pushing an ancient mower through tall grass. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts that sat low on his hips, and sneakers without socks. The muscles of his arms and shoulders stood out as he wrestled the mower. Glistening, sweaty muscles that had not been on his lean frame eight years ago.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

The body she remembered had belonged to a lanky twenty-year-old boy on the brink of manhood. The body that held her attention now was fully matured, filled out and beautifully sculpted.

As he turned the mower to make another pass, he didn’t look up and she stayed in the shadows, watching.

He had grown quite a lot of hair on his chest. It was curly like the hair on his head. She swallowed again and felt the tips of her fingers tingle as she remembered how she’d loved to touch him.

Dangerous, forbidden feelings surfaced like hot water bubbling out of a thermal spring. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him or forget no other man had ever made her feel the way Trace had.

She’d told herself over the years that she’d exaggerated her memories of him. It was only normal. After all, Trace had been her first love and she’d been an inexperienced teenager with overactive hormones. Of course he’d seemed exciting, passionate, wonderful.

So why did she suddenly think he might still all of those things, and possibly more?

She looked down, fiddling with the tie at the waist of her dress as she tried to compose herself.

She didn’t need those kinds of thrills. She didn’t want them. A relationship with that much passion was too complicated, too messy and took up far too much time.

She had her life right where she wanted it. And it didn’t—couldn’t—include Trace.

The sound of the idling mower caught her attention. Trace had spotted her.

He stood in the middle of his yard like a bronzed statue. His large hands clutched the handle of the unmoving mower, and he was staring at her.

She couldn’t read the expression on his face. He seemed distant. It shouldn’t bother her, but it did.

Jenn pasted on a smile and stepped into the sunshine, hoping he would think she had just arrived. “Hey, Trace.”

He leaned over the mower and shut it off. The sun glistened in his hair, and bits of grass clung to his sweaty skin. He straightened, and the silence that stretched between them seemed very loud.

She took a hesitant step forward, then said in a rush, “I need to talk to you, but you’re busy. I can come back.” Chicken, she scolded herself.

He shook his head, then wiped his arm across his forehead. “Now is fine. I could use a break.”

He left the mower in the middle of the yard and picked up a hose, dousing himself with water and then shaking like a dog.

He’d always been so at home with himself, a quality Jenn, who usually felt self-conscious, admired.

As Trace picked up a T-shirt hanging from the back porch railing and dried himself off, she tried her best not to stare. What was she doing, alone with a half-naked man? She could almost hear her mother’s often-voiced refrain: what will the neighbors think?

Jenn glanced around and realized Trace had no neighbors within sight. She could grab him right here, outside, and there would be no one to see.

Now she had managed to shock herself.

“Jenn? Something wrong?” Trace pulled the rumpled shirt over his head.

“No! Everything’s fine.” She shook her head. At least he had removed the visual temptation.

“Well, not exactly fine,” she said. Where did she begin?

Politely, still keeping his distance, he motioned toward the back door. “Come on in. Let’s get out of the sun. I’ve got cold sodas in the fridge.” He climbed the back steps and toed off his grass-caked shoes.

He held the door for her and she stepped past him into a tiny utility room. He smelled like sunshine and grass and sweaty man. A tempting combination.

Trace ushered her into a tidy kitchen with clean white counters and white appliances. A row of windows looked out on the backyard and a round wooden table sat on the terra-cotta tile floor. The only thing that looked out of place was the holstered gun sitting in the middle of the table.

“Soda?” He was still watching her with that unreadable expression on his face.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t plan to be here that long, but manners had her saying, “Thank you. Diet if you have it.”

He looked her up and down, and her temperature rose several degrees. He shook his head as he reached in and pulled out two red cans. “No diet.”

Did he mean he didn’t have diet, or she didn’t need it?

He popped the lid on one of the cans and handed it to her, then propped his lean hips against the counter next to the stove and opened his own can.

She was staring down at his bare feet, wondering where to start, when his voice brought her back.