Her Small-Town Sheriff

Fortunately, they had Novocain for a root canal. But for handling grief? No such thing.

When all of the questions had been answered, Rebecca said, “All right. I’ve gone over the basic structure of the course and covered the schedule in depth. Now, if you’ll remember, I mentioned working with a discussion partner outside of class.”

Everyone in the class murmured their assent along with Phoebe.

“Okay, there are twelve of us, and since Randy and Joanna are married and want to be partners, we’ll need to count off by fives to make five groups of two.” She pointed right. “Start here and count off, and then we’ll partner up, get to know each other for a few minutes, and adjourn.”

Everyone dutifully said their number, and Phoebe uttered “five” when it was her turn. The counting hit the back of the room, and the last person to speak—a guy with a vaguely familiar deep voice—said “five” after a pause. The counting ended.

Phoebe drew her eyebrows together. She hadn’t noticed any men in the very back of the room when the class had started…

Gathering up her things, she stood and turned around to see who she’d be working with. Only to be met with the dark, piercing, none-too-happy yet surprised gaze of Sheriff Carson Winters.

She blinked as her heart tripped over itself. Freezing in midmotion as she slung her purse over her shoulder, she almost whacked the woman standing next to her.

Oh, no. What was he doing at a grief-counseling class? His wife had left him and Heidi, yes. Did death of a marriage count? Probably so…

A new depth of empathy grabbed ahold of her and twisted. Automatically, a prayer rose inside of her. Lord, please help the Winterses through this, and give them the strength they’ll need to heal. And help me, too, please. I think I’m going to need it.

Because as a woman out to keep her life on an even track, spending any one-on-one time with the compelling Carson Winters was the very last thing she wanted to do.

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