He hadn’t recalled any of this stuff in well over a decade, but now his head was flooded with memories of her: Rachael coming over to show him the blue ribbon she’d won in the second-grade spelling bee; Rachael, pigtails flying, running down the street to catch up with him as they walked home from school; Rachael, dressed as Cinderella, trick-or-treating on his front door step.
The treasure trove of memories tucked away in the far recesses of his mind amazed him. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. How could he forget anything about Rachael?
With a quiet sniff, she pushed from his arms. “Sorry I wussed out on you. I don’t know why I started crying.”
“You’ve been under a lot of stress and it’s damned scary to look out your window and see a face staring back in the middle of the night. And then I barged in here waving a gun around.”
She smiled bravely. “You’re just being kind. You don’t have to keep propping me up.”
“Listen,” he said, “I’m right across the street. If you need anything —”
“I appreciate the offer,” she interrupted, “but I can’t go around depending on you. I created this monster. I have to learn how to deal with it.”
“I’m afraid things are going to get worse before they get better. Tempers are running high.”
“It’s all my fault,” she said.
He hadn’t intended to make her feel responsible for what was happening. “You might have stirred up some controversy, but you do not deserve having your car vandalized or your privacy violated. I’m going to find out who’s doing this and hold them accountable.”
“Do you think it could be the same person who graffitied my car?”
“Maybe. But that was several weeks ago, so maybe not.”
“I have unwittingly made a lot of enemies.”
“Hopefully,” he said, “that’ll all be settled after the election is over.”
“A lot can happen between now and then.”
He nodded. “I’m worried about the debate. I wish you wouldn’t speak.”
“I have to.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his index finger. “I know.”
“Thank you for understanding.” She looked at him with such admiration it stole the air right out of his lungs. The urge to make love to her was so strong that if Selina hadn’t picked that moment to arive home, Brody might have done just that.
IN BRODY’S TWO years as sheriff of Valentine, a need for crowd control had never arisen. Until the bond election debate.
The political rally was scheduled for noon, but by ten-thirty Main Street was already jammed with people coming out for the free hot dogs, soft drinks, and ideology the politicians were giving away. One look at the throng of people headed toward Bristo Park, where the grandstand had been constructed, and the steady stream of cars rolling in off the highway, and Brody could smell trouble in the air.
That many out-of-towners could mean only one thing. Word about the town’s conflict had gotten out in a big way. And people wanted front-row seating for the fireworks.
He spied a white van wrapped with the logo of the Del Rio television station. The media were here. Not good. He pushed his Stetson down on his head and adjusted his firearm at his hip.
The crowd was moody. People carried signs and banners declaring which side of the fence they were on. romance is a load of hooey versus all you need is love. They toted camp chairs and Igloo coolers as if they were heading for a tailgate party.
He heard grumbling in the crowd, caught snatches of conversations as people walked by.
“— trying to ruin our community.”
“Giada’s right, we don’t have our priorities straight.”
“Why don’t she just go back to Italy where she came from? We don’t need no foreigners telling us how to run our town.”
“Unrealistic expectations about love wrecked my marriage.”
“I’m telling you, the real culprit is that Rachael Henderson. Just because she can’t hold on to a man she thinks everyone else has a problem with romance.”
At the mention of Rachael’s name, Brody’s gut tensed. He whipped his head around to see who was running her down and spotted the dour-faced woman who owned the local bridal shop. She was carrying a sign that read: keep valentine in love with love. vote wentworth for mayor.
Brody unclipped the two-way radio from his belt. “Zeke,” he said, depressing the button on the handset as he spoke into it. “Get the crowd-control barricades over to the park ASAP.”
“Um, Chief . . . ” Zeke came back. “Do we even have crowd-control barriers?”
Good question. He had no idea.
“Go down to Audie’s, get a dozen sawhorses and a couple of cans of Day-Glo orange spray paint. And hurry.”
“How am I supposed to pay for it?”
“Tell Audie to put it on my account.”
“You really think there’s going to be a riot?” Zeke sounded both apprehensive and excited.
“I hope not, but I intend to be prepared. Now go.”
“Will do.”
By ten minutes to noon the crowd had swelled so large the park could barely contain them. The sawhorses, now spray-painted bright orange, were arranged in a circle around the grandstand.
Zeke was positioned at the entrance to the parking lot to escort Giada in when she arrived. Brody had called in his two part-time deputies to help with crowd control, but he couldn’t help thinking they were seriously undermanned. If things turned unpleasant . . .
Think positive. This is Valentine, hometown of eternal love. How bad could it get?
A good fifty percent of the crowd booed as Zeke escorted Giada and Rachael up the steps of the grandstand, while the remaining fifty percent cheered, clapped, and glared at the other half.
Brody moved toward the grandstand and his eyes met Rachael’s. He inclined his head toward the crowd. She smiled and winked.
At him.
Brody experienced a strange tickling sensation deep in the center of his chest and the air seemed suddenly thin. She was so damned kissable in the black silk dress she wore, thick with a pattern of red roses. With her hair tumbling down her shoulders, she looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of one of the fairy-tale stories his mother used to read to him and Deana when they were kids, stories about stalwart knights slaying dragons to rescue beautiful damsels in distress. Brody pictured himself as one of those brave knights. Scaling steep tower walls to claim a kiss. Driven by chivalry and a desire to be near such a compelling woman.
He was tempted to go up onstage and tell her to get out while the getting was good. He was worried for her safety. But another part of him was proud of her for taking a stand. She was fighting for what she believed in, even if it meant being a lightning rod for the town’s anger.
Resisting the urge to go onstage, he curled his hands into fists and surveyed the crowd. Not all of the faces were friendly and his concern escalated.
A few minutes after Giada and Rachael arrived, Kelvin appeared, looking like the Fourth of July in a navy blue suit with a red-and-white-striped shirt and red and white boutonnieres in his lapel. The guy knew how to put on a show; Brody would give him that.
Kelvin received the same fifty-fifty mixed greeting Giada and Rachael had collected.
The debate began with Judge Pruitt acting as moderator. As the incumbent, Kelvin went first, grandstanding as usual. He had Purdy Maculroy set up the small-scale mock-up of Valentine Land on the table beside the stage. He invited people up to have a look. Brody cringed as the crowd pushed forward, oohing and aahing.
“Valentine Land will change lives,” Kelvin waxed. “And in a big way. Today, young people leave Valentine because they don’t have any opportunities for a vibrant future. Valentine Land will bring jobs to our community and stop the exodus of our youth.”
“Yeah,” someone in the crowd shouted. “But they’ll be minimum-wage jobs.”
Kelvin ignored the salvo, instead bragging about his accomplishment
s as mayor. Since the town hadn’t changed much in fifty years, he took credit for the things his ancestors had done, especially emphasizing how the Wentworths had saved Valentine after the oil had dried up.
“Somehow, Kelvin, I don’t see you as much of a knight in shining armor,” another voice from the crowd catcalled. “We’re not your kids and you’re not our savior.”
Kelvin’s face darkened, but he let that comment slide as well. “I have with me Jackson Traynor from Amusement Corp. If you’ll just give him a listen, I think you’ll see why voting yes in the bond election will spell more money in your pockets.”
While some of the citizens of Valentine felt free to razz Kelvin, they were considerate when it came to visitors and they heard Jackson Traynor out when he took the microphone and painted a prosperous picture of how Amusement Corp could put their town on the map in a big way. The man was good at his job. By the time he was done, Brody was halfway convinced Valentine Land was a good thing.
“Now,” Judge Pruitt said after Jackson Traynor had finished his pitch, “it’s Giada’s turn for rebuttal.”
Giada tossed her sleek auburn hair as she stepped up to the microphone and sent Kelvin a dirty look. The mayor grinned at her. Giada glared at him fiercely. “Mayor Went-worth and Mr. Traynor would have you believe that Valentine Land is going to put money in your pockets. Yes, maybe the theme park would generate additional tourist dollars, but at what cost?” Giada fixed the crowd with a steady gaze. “As a wise person in the audience already pointed out, most of these will be minimum-wage jobs.”
“Any job is better than no job,” called out a man whom Brody recognized as an unemployed regular at Leroy’s.
“But a bond election is going to cost you money long before you ever see a return,” Giada pointed out. “And the person who’s really going to be getting rich is sitting right here.” She pointed at Kelvin. “I say Mayor Wentworth is wealthy enough.”
“Yeah!” shouted a small collective near the stage.
“Here’s something else to consider,” she continued. “Valentine Land is going to change the whole flavor of our community. The small-town atmosphere will be gone forever.”
“You can’t stand in the way of progress,” Enid Pope yelled.
“Don’t listen to my sister,” Astrid Pope chimed in. “Enid’s always gone for newfangled ways and look what happened to her when she got a computer. Fell for one of those Internet spam scams and lost twenty grand of our savings to some Nigerian scoundrel.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone about that,” Enid huffed at her sister.
“Yes, well, I told you to buy those cute little Rath sausages for the sauerkraut at the church potluck, but oh, no, you had to go buy those big old thick Polish kielbasas they inject with red dye. No one likes a giant red wiener in their sauerkraut.”
“Speak for yourself,” Enid retorted hotly. “Personally I love big red wieners. With or without sauerkraut.”
Brody edged through the crowd, determined to get to the two elderly sisters before they started pushing and shoving. It’s come to this. Two old-maid sisters going at it over sausages.
“Thank you, ladies, for your input,” Giada said, “but let’s get back on track. I believe if good-paying jobs are an issue for our town, there’s another, less-destructive industry we can woo to Valentine.”
“What’s that?” someone asked.
“The goat weed that grows wild around Valentine is used in a popular herbal remedy. I’ve already been in talks with companies that manufacture them. We could start farming goat weed and everyone who had a chunk of land could have a piece of the pie, not just Mayor Wentworth and his Amusement Corp cronies.”
That caused a ripple of conversation to run through the group.
“And,” Giada added, pacing back and forth onstage, “my third objection to Valentine Land is just as important as low-paying jobs and changing the complexion of the place we love so much. Rachael Henderson has been instrumental in calling our attention to it. I’m going to let Rachael speak to you about it.”
Giada handed the microphone to Rachael. Brody watched her square her shoulders and take center stage.
“As most of you know,” Rachael said, “I started Roman-ceaholics Anonymous to counter the unrealistic romantic expectations living in this town engenders. Valentine Land will only serve to perpetuate these dangerous values and misguided beliefs.”
“Oh, can it, Rachael. You’re just pissy because you got left at the altar,” a man at the back of the crowd shouted.
“Yeah,” said a woman near the front. “It’s just sour grapes on your part because you can’t hold on to a man.”
Rachael’s face paled and she clenched her jaw.
Anger, unexpected and hot, blasted through Brody. He had an overwhelming urge to track down the hecklers and either punch them or arrest them. Or maybe both.
Whoa. What the hell was wrong with him?
Rachael.
That was what.
Rachael of the wheat-blonde hair and exotic green eyes that caused his heart to skip beats. Rachael of the fruit-flavored lips that made a man ache to sin. Rachael of the tight, compact body that stirred his flesh.
She wasn’t letting the detractors affect her. She was still talking about how Valentine had impacted her life in a negative way. How she’d made repeated mistakes in love because of the screwy values the town had instilled in her. She talked about how she’d spent her life chasing rainbows and unicorns and the myth of happily-ever-after that promised all would be well if she just found that one right guy, that perfect mate.
As he listened, Brody found his muscles tensing, his mind growing restless. He hated that she’d been hurt, but what he hated even more was that she’d lost her faith in love.
Why should that bother you? You don’t have faith in love.
The thought struck him from out of the blue. While he might not have faith, some small part of him secretly had hoped that he was wrong, that you could find and hold on to great love without it destroying you.
The realization was a total surprise. How long had he been holding on to hope?
And then he realized something else.
He wanted to believe. In her. In love. In happily-ever-after. How ridiculous was that?
Brody was so distracted by his thoughts that it took him a split second longer than it should have to recognize something was going on in the crowd. A ripple in the sea of bodies. A hum that told him the mood was changing. He didn’t know if the change was for Rachael or against her. He just sensed something was about to happen.
Instinctively, his hand went to the gun at his hip. He did not draw it, but his gaze was beaded on the thick of the crowd. Tensed and on alert, he waited.
Just as Rachael was talking about being left at the altar by Trace Hoolihan, a man from the opposite side of the grandstand rushed the stage. He was dressed all in black and held something clutched tightly in his hand.
Was it a weapon? Not a gun. It was too big for that.
However, Brody wasn’t taking any chances. Not when it came to Rachael’s safety. He was on the move, headed for the podium, his pistol drawn.
The crowd gasped, parted.
“Rachael, get down!” he shouted. “Duck!”
But his warning came too late.
“DUCK!”
Rachael turned toward the sound of Brody’s voice just in time to see a pie sail through the air.
It caught her full in the face.
The shock of it left her gasping — and tasting rich, chocolaty French Silk.
Her vision was gone, obscured by pudding and Cool Whip and graham cracker crust, but she heard the crowd erupt in a chaos of concerned exclamations, stunned murmurs, and nervous laughter. She reached up with the fingers of both hands, scooped globs of pie filling from her eyes and blinked, but still she could not see. She tried to take a deep breath, but pie went up her nose.
Sputtering, she shook her head. Panic gripped her. She couldn�
��t breathe. And then she felt strong, calming arms go around her.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Brody.
Immediately, the panic subsided.
He lifted her up, carrying her in his arms, walking down the steps of the grandstand. Barking out orders. Telling Mayor Wentworth to get back up to the microphone and end the rally. Directing Zeke to disperse the crowd. Instructing one of his other deputies to find out who’d thrown the pie.
Rachael wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.
My hero.
No, no, that was dangerous thinking. She didn’t need a hero. She was perfectly capable of saving herself.
But as she looked up at him, past the blur of French Silk clinging to her eyelashes, she couldn’t deny the crazy emotions squeezing her heart. Safe, protected, cared for. But that wasn’t all. She also felt nervous, giddy, surprised, curious, and underneath it all, a not-so-small dollop of fear.
She was scared, and not because someone had smacked her in the face with a pie. She was terrified, yet secretly thrilled. Where was he taking her? What was going to happen next?
Still cradling her in his arms, he marched across the town square toward the sheriff’s office. And darn her, she didn’t resist. Didn’t tell him to put her down. Didn’t even try to wriggle out of his embrace. Rachael felt rather than saw the crowd jumping aside to let him pass.
Without putting her down, Brody pushed through the door into his office. He didn’t let her go until he’d deposited her in the rolling swivel chair.
“Sit,” he commanded, and she didn’t dare move.
He stepped into the bathroom that adjoined his office and came back with a stack of paper towels. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Injured?”
She shook her head and a blob of pie filling fell from her chin. It hit the floor with a soft plop. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt like crying, but she had no idea why.
Addicted to Love Page 22