Her Cowboy Sheriff

by Leigh Riker

  She hit Send then sank back in her seat, head spinning.

  Annabelle was leaving Barren. She was going to Phoenix—to become a tour director.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “LET ME MAKE this simple.” Grey leaned over Finn’s desk the next morning, his eyes as hard as tempered steel. “Derek did not take that stuff from Earl’s store. Either Earl misplaced the shipment of chain saws—”

  Finn fiddled with the pen he’d been using to finish his report on the incident. “One of which was in the bed of Derek’s truck.”

  “Circumstantial evidence.” Grey straightened. “In plain sight. Why would he do that? Derek tells me he bought the saw and I believe him.”

  “He has no receipt, Grey. Every time I ask the question he gives me a different answer—he never got one, he tossed it out, he doesn’t remember where he put it—signs that he must be lying.”

  “Prove it.” Grey pulled off his hat, tossed it on the desk and ran a hand through his hair. “Why would he let anyone see that saw if it was stolen? Come on, Finn.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe because he doesn’t play by the rules?”

  “And of course you do.”

  “Yep.” To Finn, it seemed Derek never did anything right, and for sure he didn’t accept responsibility for what he did do. Finn had a niggling feeling after seeing Derek’s emotional reaction in his brother’s room at the house that maybe he wasn’t being fair, but he could also envision Sanchez’s face, superimposed on an image of Derek. Of course Grey disagreed.

  “I admit Derek has a few character flaws—”

  “You think?”

  “But he’s not a bad guy, only mixed-up. Shadow and I have talked this thing to death. I know he’s her baby brother and that might influence me, but even you have to agree there are still doubts about Jared’s death.”

  Finn threw down the pen. He hadn’t been here ten years ago, but he’d read the file. “Three people struggling for control of a loaded weapon—Jared, Derek and you—someone was bound to get hurt. Or, in Jared’s case, dead.”

  “I know Derek feels bad, too, about his possible part in that. He might have pulled the trigger, or Jared may in fact have shot himself, but the burglary at Earl’s hardware is different.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Derek explained. I can’t say I care for his friend Calvin Stern, but when he and Derek go partying neither one of them should be driving so you can’t blame Derek for staying overnight at the apartment upstairs. Why wouldn’t his prints be there? He used to live with Calvin Stern. He must have opened that door dozens of times. I doubt anybody’s wiped the place clean since Derek moved out.”

  “He has a history,” Finn insisted. “If a kid gets in trouble, which Derek did when he was younger, unless he’s stopped he’ll likely be in trouble as an adult.”

  Grey’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I see. You’re trying to save him from himself.”

  “No, I don’t know if he can be saved. That’s up to him, not me. All I know is, a witness from the café saw him skulking around the hardware store that night. His truck parked in the rear by the loading zone—”

  Grey swore. “Because that’s where he and Calvin always park.”

  “—and I’ve seen Derek in too many situations where he doesn’t belong.”

  Grey ticked them off on his fingers. “Your old apartment building. The cemetery—where, by the way, a bunch of preteen kids knocked over those headstones.”

  “I dealt with them,” Finn pointed out. “Several of those stones marked your relatives’ gravesites.”

  “So right away you decided Derek still has it in for me. You’re wrong there, too.”

  “What about his breaking into my house on moving day?”

  “Derek lived there his whole life until he moved in with Calvin then out to Wilson Cattle. He was only there to pick up his belongings.”

  “So you say. Call me jaded, but years ago my father and uncle dealt with people like Derek, and since then so have I. What are you trying to prove? Derek is who he is—”

  “At twenty-five? He’s not fixed in stone yet. I never knew you were such a cynic.”

  Finn shifted in his chair. “I know what I see.”

  “You see what you want to see. I told you. Derek’s doing a good job. He even keeps his share of the bunkhouse clean...and he put most of his pay in that savings account so he could trade in his old Chevy for that new truck.” Grey picked up his Stetson. “I understand about your wife and child. Their deaths were...horrendous. I’ve got a family of my own now, and I can’t imagine what you went through. What you’re still going through. You may be burned out, Finn. If so, you should quit law enforcement.”

  Yes, Grey had a family. Finn did not, and that was best for him, despite his coming on to Annabelle last night.

  Grey obviously couldn’t resist adding, “If you quit, you could turn that farm into a ranch full-time. In any event, you have no reason to tar and feather Shadow’s brother for something he did not do.”

  “And in your view the judge was right to let him out on bail yesterday—which you paid, just as you’ve given him a job, a place to live, another chance he probably doesn’t deserve. Which one of us is wrong?”

  His face a blank mask, Grey resettled his Stetson. “I don’t think that’s the question. Why don’t you ask yourself, Finn—what is this really about?”

  * * *

  “I UNDERSTAND HOW you feel about Derek,” Annabelle told Finn. In spite of what she’d said the other night—why start something we can’t finish—when Finn had called yesterday she hadn’t said no, and tonight they were wielding paint rollers over the living room walls of her parents’ house. She’d found the time after all. The first showing of the diner had gone okay, but so far there’d been no offer.

  As long as they stuck to sprucing up their respective homes, she hoped they’d be okay for the rest of the time she was here. And Annabelle could store up these images of Finn, his dark hair mussed, a streak of paint across one cheek, his hazel eyes intent on the half-finished task. “Grey did have some good points,” she said.

  She wiped a hand across her brow, leaving a smear of taupe paint to match the one on Finn’s cheek. As he wound up the story of his argument with Grey, she eyed the nearby closet door, remembering Emmie with the keys, the scene of her own childhood terror. “If I heard right, several of those stolen chain saws have turned up in Farrier. Some tool chests, too. That’s what Olivia said, and she got it from Shadow.”

  “Hearsay,” he said. “Derek must have sold them. Which I expected.”

  “How could he? He was in jail. And what about the dog food also missing from the hardware store? I’ve heard that was Joey Foxworth.” His mom sometimes worked for Annabelle at the diner.

  “It was, and the thefts were not related.”

  She took a sideways step, realizing she’d inched nearer to the closet. She should trade places with Finn. She’d felt fine while they painted the opposite wall, but this close her heart was pounding in alarm. “Would you put that little boy in a detention home for trying to feed his dog the only way he knew how?”

  “It’s against the law, Annabelle. No, I didn’t turn him over to detention, but I put his mother in touch with the local boys’ club. He needs a male figure in his life and—”

  “You paid for the dog food.”

  His face flushed. “Well, yeah. Again. He reminds me of myself at that age, making some wrong choices. His dad is gone, and I don’t want him to wind up like Derek.”

  “Let me guess,” Annabelle said, running her roller through the paint tray. “You’re going to sponsor him at the club. Doesn’t Derek remind you of yourself, too?”

  “No, he reminds me of Eduardo Sanchez—a vicious killer.”

  “Derek’s not a killer. Why not take a similar interest in him as in
Joey?”

  He forced a smile. “Derek’s too old for the boys’ club.”

  Annabelle sighed. “You know what I meant. I have to agree with Grey. You’ve been overly hard on Derek, and that’s having an effect on your friendship with Grey.”

  “We’ll work it out. Our friendship has nothing to do with my job.”

  “Really?”

  He pointed at the half-finished wall. “We going to get this painting done? Or will I have to wait longer to do my place?”

  She knew he was teasing, or trying to, but Annabelle pushed the roller up and down her section of the wall. “Shadow always says Grey is stubborn but that you take it to a whole new level, and she’s right.”

  “Two against one,” Finn muttered.

  Another swipe of the roller put her even closer to the closet door. “I’m not kidding. You should figure out why you’re so determined to nail Derek for the hardware robbery.”

  “Burglary,” Finn murmured. “Robbery is when a person is being stolen from.”

  As if he was reciting from the policemen’s playbook.

  “Oh.” Annabelle felt tempted to back off. She didn’t want to ruin one of her last times alone with Finn. “But if—heaven forbid—Derek is Emmie’s dad, I’ll have a hard decision to make myself.” Annabelle swiped the roller down the last swathe of wall on her side even closer to the closet doorframe. In spite of her best effort, her hand trembled and blobs of paint slopped onto the woodwork. Annabelle jerked back as if she’d been slapped.

  “Steady,” Finn said. “Take your time. You need to feather that in.” Then, “What happened? You hurt yourself?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded sharp. “Would you like something from the kitchen? Coffee, tea, water? A beer?”

  “Don’t run off. I’m good.” Finn set his roller in the paint tray then did the same with Annabelle’s. “I can see you’re not.”

  Her shoulders hunched in self-protection. “I don’t...this will sound silly...like this closet. The door is locked now and I never go in there. I don’t use it for storage because...” She couldn’t go on. I’d have to open it again.

  In her mind she was back inside, curled up in a ball, trying to make herself as small as she could, trying not to make a sound. Filling her head with images of far-off places. Telling herself she’d be all right, that someday she would go there.

  She glanced at Emmie’s toy boat, which belonged in her room but had been left on the floor. “That was long ago, but I’ve always thought one reason my parents never liked Sierra was because she didn’t care if they put her in the closet.”

  “But you did care. So they shut you in. Didn’t they?”

  She said, “They knew I was afraid of the dark. In fact, my father used to tease me that the gremlins, the ogres, the monsters were waiting for me.”

  “I wouldn’t call playing on a child’s fears teasing. How old were you?”

  “Small,” she said, “Emmie’s age at first.” Finn winced and she risked a glance at the closet. “Makes no sense to still be afraid of something that can’t hurt me now.”

  “You believed it could then, and your parents used that to keep you in line whenever you disobeyed, which I can’t even imagine.”

  Annabelle looked away. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

  “I think you should.”

  Her voice shook. “It’s too painful.”

  “Try, Annabelle.”

  She swallowed but her mouth was dry. “I used to beg him not to, but the only person who would help was Sierra when she came to visit. She’d creep to the closet, open the door my father had warned me not to, bring me something to eat, a drink, a doll to comfort me.” She tried to move, but Finn grasped her shoulders, lightly holding her in place as if to give her strength.

  “Annabelle, we all have...secrets.”

  She wondered what his might be but couldn’t ask. “It doesn’t matter now. My parents stopped using the closet when I was about twelve. Sierra never got caught or they would have found a way to punish her, too. She may not have been the best person, but I’ll always owe her for that.”

  “And you felt you owed her enough to take in Emmie. To put your own plans aside.” He added, “I can’t blame you for wanting, no, needing, to get out of Barren, away from the diner and this house. You were more a servant to them than a daughter, Annabelle.”

  “I don’t mean to sound like a victim.”

  “No, you’re a strong woman and I admire you more than I can say. In spite of that mistreatment—emotional abuse—you grew into a fine, loving person.” He half smiled. “Even Emmie knows that.”

  “Not that she doesn’t test me every day.”

  “That’s what being a parent involves,” he said with that touch of sadness she always saw in his eyes.

  “I’m not Emmie’s parent.”

  “No?” he said. “I think you’re as much her mother—maybe more now—than Sierra was. You don’t leave her alone in some strange hotel room. You find ways to make sure she’s cared for—you’re even looking for her father. You’ve taken responsibility for her.” His gaze fell on the closet. “You have a key that opens this door?”

  “In my junk drawer in the kitchen, but—”

  Finn went there and, after she heard a brief scuffling sound, came back with it. “Let’s take a look,” he said. “Together.”

  Standing behind her at the door, he put the key in her hand then covered it with his bigger, stronger one. She felt the heat of his body, not quite touching hers, but...there. “I...can’t,” she whispered. “Finn...”

  “Do it. Open it. Let’s see what’s inside.”

  Panic rushed through her with the blood in her veins, but his arms stayed around her, his voice low in her ear. For a second she feared she might faint. Her pulse thundered. Her palms went slick with sweat. And all the while Finn stayed at her back, his hand around hers, guiding her as she fumbled to fit the key into the lock. When she couldn’t go any further, he reached around her to pull the door open. Wide.

  “What do you see?” he asked, his head bent close, his cheek brushing hers.

  Annabelle peered into the darkness. After her parents died, she’d hired a cleaning service, and they’d cleared out the closet while she stayed in a different room. Now she saw...nothing. Not a piece of doll’s clothing on the floor, not a crumb of some snack from Sierra, not a single object in the musty-smelling closet. An empty space. “It’s so...small,” she murmured.

  “And you were right. There’s nothing to hurt you now.” Finn stepped closer, easing Annabelle toward the open door. Together, he’d said, and they were. Taking a deep breath she stepped inside, Finn right behind her. “There, you see? It’s only a closet. You don’t need to be afraid.” For a long moment they both looked around at the narrow little room before he turned her to him, his gaze holding hers, his arms around her again. Her pulse began to steady as Finn lowered his head and his mouth met hers in a few teasing, testing kisses, featherlight until he deepened the contact. Unable to resist, she melted into his embrace. “I’m here,” he said, and Annabelle had never felt so safe, or cherished, in her thirty-one years.

  * * *

  WHAT IS THIS really about?

  Finn was still pondering Grey’s question—and Annabelle’s sad reaction to the closet where she’d been punished, probably for doing nothing at all—when he went to talk to Derek the next day. He’d had no chance before Derek got out of jail.

  The barn at Wilson Cattle was nearly empty except for a few horses that had stayed in their stalls rather than be turned out to enjoy the sunny afternoon. Dusty Malone didn’t seem to be around, and neither was Grey. The first snow that had fallen was gone, but Finn hunched his shoulders against the chill in the air that remained. He found Derek in the tack room, his head bent over a fancy bridle studded with silver conchos, his gaze intent.
“Moran?”

  Derek’s head jerked up. Absorbed in what he was doing, he must not have heard Finn come in. “Well, Sheriff, nice seeing you from the other side of those cell bars.”

  Uninvited, Finn took a seat on a tack trunk across from Derek. Finn had run this by Annabelle first and they’d agreed the timing now seemed right. “I’m here about Sierra Hartwell. According to a reliable source, you once had a relationship with her. True?”

  “Sierra?” He shook his head then returned to his task. “Piece of work, that one. She ’bout ruined me for other women.” He smiled. “Took me at least a week to get over her. Some kind of record.”

  Finn didn’t think that said much about their relationship. He couldn’t picture Derek being brokenhearted.

  “Man, I wouldn’t come anywhere near Sierra Hartwell again.” Curiosity sparked in Derek’s eyes. “Even if she suddenly came to life again. Whatever you were told, I didn’t do it.”

  “How about fathering her child four years ago?”

  Derek’s eyes flashed then met Grey’s gaze. “Me? A daddy? I don’t care what anyone told you, Sierra and I went out a couple of times, had a few beers, that was all. I wouldn’t call that a relationship. In my wayward youth, I might have wanted more, but Sierra treated me as if I was still a kid. Guess I was good enough to drink with, dance with—until she threw me over for some older guy.” Derek spat on the rag he held, wiped it across one of the silver conchos then fell silent. In his law enforcement career Finn had learned when to keep quiet and let the suspect do the talking. He waited Derek out. “She had a baby—you need to see that guy. Not me.” After another moment, he said, “Wait a minute. You mean the kid who’s staying with Annabelle Foster?”

  “Yes, and Annabelle would like to find Emmie’s father.”

  Derek laughed. “Man, you gotta love small towns.” He rose from the tack trunk, the bridle’s hardware jingling in his hands. He ambled over to the wall; other bridles hung there, some plain, some elaborately worked in silver. “Show bridles,” Derek explained as if they were having a casual chat. “Most of ’em belong to Olivia. Grey gave me this job to shine them up. Seems she’s planning to return to competition after her baby’s born. I don’t pay attention to kids,” Derek was quick to add, “but I sure know someone who should.” His gaze bright, as if he liked someone else being on the spot for once, he named a man whose identity set Finn back on his heels. Someone right here in town. “I can’t wait till this hits the fan,” Derek said.