Always the One: (Meadowview Heroes # 2) (The Meadowview Series Book 6) (Meadowview Heat)

by Rochelle French

  “No, Bill,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. “Her brakes gave out. And she’s not trouble. She’s Coraleen.”

  She beamed at him then, her dimples deepening. “Hey, Remy.”

  Funny, how five years later, that soft voice still sent a burst of warmth to his chest.

  “Hey, kid,” was all he could say.

  Pain throbbed throughout Coraleen’s head, kids on pogo sticks jumping around inside her skull, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying Remy’s scent as it wafted over her. Her knees wobbled—oh, god, he not only looked the same, he still smelled the same. And her body still reacted the same way it had. Blast. She’d wanted to steer clear of Remy Toussaint, and now she’d nearly barreled into him with her car. She’d had far better luck avoiding him the last few years in lockup.

  The first time he’d visited her in prison, the sight of him and that scent of his and the way his voice went all gravely and soft at the same time had just about ripped her apart. She realized as he sat across the Formica table from her that she couldn’t deal with that again. So she’d been cruel and pushed him away. Or at least, she’d tried to push him away, but he kept coming back.

  The second and third times he’d driven all the way to Arizona to visit her, she’d rejected his visit pass. She’d sat on her dorm-style bed, knees pulled to her chest, wishing everything were different. Even as she’d managed to avoid him, she hadn’t managed to keep her memory from conjuring up his face in her mind. And his scent.

  And now she’d inhaled all that deliciousness first-hand. Warm. Spicy. Earthy. And a little like soap—that yummy kind Chessie Gibson used to make and have Delilah bring her in prison. A scent purely Remy Toussaint.

  “You okay?” he asked, his voice as soft as moss on the banks of the Maidu River.

  “Yeah, sure,” she lied. Remy belonged in the land of Might Have Been. There was no room for him in the land of Life Kinda Sucks But That’s the Way It Is. She wasn’t sure what hurt more—her head or her heart.

  “I’m just…um…um…” Light faded and her vision blurred.

  “Coraleen!” Remy’s urgent voice pierced the waves of sound hissing from the Impala’s radiator and the voices of the gathering crowd.

  She leaned on the hood of the Impala rather than leaning on Remy, even though he’d stuck his arm out for her to steady herself on. She couldn’t let herself get too close. Not now. She was the very thing Remy didn’t need in his life, and she most definitely didn’t need him.

  A sheriff and a former convict did not a perfect match make.

  But god, it would be tough to keep her libido in check so long as he was so close. Remy was still as gorgeous as he’d always been. And he still smelled as good. Was still acting all dashing and heroic, too, running through Delilah’s Diner to her rescue. She must have only blacked out for a second, because when she’d come to she could see him running through the diner, shoving tables and chairs out of the way. That was so freaking hot!

  But then he’d gone and called her “kid.” Five years spent in the slammer, even one as “country club-esque” as AZ/PC (shorthand for Arizona Women’s Penal Colony, not some messed up version of the really cool rock band) meant she was no kid. No way. Not with what she’d been through.

  She struggled to remain upright and glanced around. Some vaguely familiar teenaged boy in a long white apron with Delilah’s Diner emblazoned on the chest ran his hands over the still-sturdy hood of the car, smiling and mumbling the word “classic” to himself (referring either to the car or her entrance, she wasn’t quite sure). Delilah, with her familiar blond dreadlocks swaying as she strode with determined steps through the off-kilter doorway, held a welcoming smile on her face.

  But it was Remy who held her attention.

  “Ambulance is on its way. We need to get you over to County,” he said. He’d pulled back from her and dropped his hands, which were now clenched into fists by his sides.

  Her head ached something fierce, and she had passed out, albeit momentarily, when her forehead and the steering wheel had an unwelcomed meeting of the minds, but she needed to convince him not to take her to County. She couldn’t afford the ER. She had plans for her meager savings, and doctor’s bills weren’t included.

  “I’m fine, really. I don’t need an ambulance,” she argued.

  “It’s clear you hit your head. We need to get you checked out.”

  “I’m not hurt. Just embarrassed, I think.” She gnawed her lip and looked back at the Impala. That baby wasn’t going anywhere without an assist. Damn. Probably needed a new radiator, brakes, steering column…ugh. An old-fashioned cash register ka-ching ka-chinged in her mind. “I need to figure out what to do with the car.”

  He glanced at the Impala, then motioned with his chin to the wooden sidewalk. “Sit down, first. Don’t want you passing out. Worry about your car later.”

  “I’m not sitting, and I am most definitely worried. The car drinks oil like a Clamper drinks beer, so I kept adding oil, but guess I should have checked for brake fluid.” She knew she was babbling, but she’d planned to steer clear of Remy Toussaint, not engage in a full-on conversation.

  He glanced at the column of steam rising from the radiator and grimaced. “I don’t know how you ended up with such a beater of a car—I should have made sure you had a bus ticket home.” He turned back to her and raised a hand. Dropped it. Cleared his throat. “I knew you were being released yesterday. The warden said you were headed to Meadowview. I should have made sure you arrived here safe.”

  She shrugged, even though her pulse increased with pleasure at the realization he’d been checking up on her. But she needed to keep her distance from him, the way she’d planned. “I’m not your problem, Remy.”

  “You’re in my town, so of course you are,” he said, his voice low. “Now sit down.”

  “Sheriff,” the young deputy interrupted, waving the handcuffs. “If I’m not to arrest her, I should at least get her registration and proof of insurance.”

  Uh oh. She didn’t have an insurance card on her. After she bought the Impala, she’d contacted her grandfather’s former insurance broker, but still… “Albert Ramirez insured the Impala, but there wasn’t enough time to mail me the proof. I’m supposed to go by Ramirez Insurance this afternoon and pick up the official forms.”

  When Remy and the deputy exchanged glances, she gulped. What if the car wasn’t actually insured? She was here on a mission; getting into trouble with the law could compromise her plans. And she wasn’t about to let that happen. She glanced back at the deputy. Wait…he looked familiar…

  “Are you Ava Curtis’s little boy?” she blurted out. “Didn’t I used to babysit your baby sister?”

  He frowned and held the handcuffs out in front of him as if he were itching to slap them around her wrists.

  “Bill!” Delilah’s voice boomed out. “Put the cuffs away or I’m telling your mama. And someone welcome this girl home!” The woman had apparently had enough, because she barreled past the two uniformed men and flung her arms around Coraleen. “Welcome back to Meadowview, sweetheart. Welcome home.”

  Warmth flooded Coraleen’s chest and she choked back a sob, sinking into the woman’s warm and solid embrace even as her head throbbed. “Thank you for saying that. Not sure if much of Meadowview feels the same way.” She pulled back slightly and looked pointedly at the deputy. “Someone looks like he wants to put me in manacles.”

  “Handcuffs are nothing to joke about,” Bill muttered, frowning.

  Remy leaned in close to Bill and gave him a brief dressing-down (the appropriate use of handcuffs; the protocol of ensuring a traffic victim isn’t injured before threatening arrest; the proper way to welcome a local back to town), all while scanning the corner of Market and Main, probably checking for the ambulance Coraleen definitely didn’t want.

  Delilah repeated Remy’s actions from earlier—brushing Coraleen’s hair back and checking her temple.

  “I’m fine. Just so excited
to see you,” Coraleen said, even though her head still throbbed with the intensity one would expect at a dubstep concert. When Delilah backed up, Coraleen looked at the shattered window and crumbled wall and groaned. “Looks like the Impala made an impression on your diner. I am so sorry.”

  “Not the reverse, though,” Delilah noted, smiling. “Your car seems fine, except for the steaming radiator. Glad you were in something sturdy. Would have hated to see you really hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Coraleen nodded, then winced as the action sent waves of nausea through her.

  She had to fight to keep from showing she was injured, though. She probably just had a minor concussion—no biggie. Not worth owing a fat bill to the emergency room. “Good ol’ American cars. They don’t make them that way anymore. Sorry about the damage, though. I’ll pay you back for the repairs somehow. I promise.”

  Remy turned his attention back to Coraleen. “How about you and Delilah catch up in a little bit, Coraleen? I’m serious about you sitting down until the paramedics arrive.”

  The walkie-talkie on his shoulder chirruped and squawked, and a woman’s voice came over the line, stating that the only available ambulance was still en route to County Hospital with a woman on the verge of giving birth and was at least ten minutes out.

  Her knees suddenly wobbled and a black haze washed over her eyesight. Nausea had her pitching forward.

  “Coraleen?” Remy said her name with urgency and reached out to grab her. His grip tightened around her bicep as he held her up.

  “Sorry, Remy,” she mumbled. “I don’t feel so good.”

  Then she bent at the waist and promptly puked all over the wooden sidewalk.

  Oh, god, how humiliating. From her crouched position, she glanced up. A crowd had grown—including Mr. Camden from Camden’s Grocery who held a broom in one hand and a dustbin in the other (he didn’t think he could clean up the glass from Delilah’s entire front window with one dustpan, now, did he?), Mrs. Gregson with an arm full of hardbacks and an e-reader balanced on top (five years had changed things—the librarian used to swear she’d use an e-reader only on her deathbed), and a couple of teenagers (um, they weren’t taking pictures of her on their smart phones, were they?).

  Most seemed happy to see her.

  But one face stood out as definitely unhappy to see a former con retching in public.

  Judge Allan Reinhardt the Third. Retired.

  The very man who’d thrown the book at her five years before, when she’d begged the courts for mercy.

  She gave him a broad but shaky smile, which he did not return.

  The man wore the same expression as he had the last time she’d seen him—like a pincer bug had hold of his ass. That had been over five years ago, in his courtroom. He’d sat in his black polyester robe behind a gigantic desk and folded his hands together and placed them on the desk, giving her that same exact tight expression as he told her she’d be spending the next five years in a federal penitentiary for women, out of state.

  Then he’d thanked her not-so-kindly for her signed confession and how she’d saved Deloro County the cost of a trial.

  She straightened, trying to shove her spine back into place. Raising her chin in some semblance of dignity, she glanced at Delilah and gave her an apologetic smile. “God, I’m so sorry. For crashing into your diner and throwing up on the sidewalk. If you can get me a broom and a bucket of water, I’ll clean up the—”

  “You’re not cleaning up anything,” Remy interrupted. “You’re going to lay down until the paramedics arrive. You could have a concussion or internal bleeding. Stop being so stubborn about this.”

  God, he was cute when he was intense. “I’m fine,” she said, wishing desperately for mouthwash.

  Delilah came up quickly and took her other arm. “Honey, you’re hurt. Listen to the man.”

  “We need to get her to the hospital,” Remy said.

  “No!” she said, the sharpness of her voice sending another wave of nausea rippling through her stomach.

  Remy’s warm and strong hand wrapped around her bicep and he moved close behind her, his thigh touching the back of her leg. Providing support, she realized. How sweet. How protective. How Remy.

  “I’m okay, really. It’s just a bump—”

  “You’re not okay, and I’m driving you. Now. It’ll be faster than waiting for that blasted ambulance. No room for discussion here.” Remy’s voice was tight.

  Judge Reinhardt caught her attention when he came up to Remy. He bent in close to Remy’s ear and whispered, as if what he had to say was too important for the other townsfolk to hear.

  But Coraleen could hear. Every word, actually.

  And she was damned sure Reinhardt wanted her to hear what he had to say. Her face burned at his words.

  “Steer clear of that girl, Sheriff,” the judge whispered in a hoarse voice, all the while glaring at Coraleen. “She’s bad news.”

  Remy sighed, but didn’t relinquish his hold on Coraleen. Good thing, because she was pretty damned certain her knees were on a rebellious streak and were going to dump her the minute he took away his support.

  “She’s hurt, your honor,” Remy responded. “It’s my duty to protect, and I always do my duty.” He bent down, and suddenly she realized in just a second from now, she’d be in the arms of Remy Toussaint.

  Oh, yum.

  She’d been there before, all wrapped up in Remy Toussaint’s strong arms, breathing in his warm, male scent, feeling the beat of his heart against her cheek. Twice, actually. The first time she’d been just a kid. A kid who immediately developed a crush on the young deputy who’d come to her rescue. The second time she’d been all woman, wishing so much she could accept his invitation for a date and wishing even more she could accept the kiss that he’d almost planted on her lips.

  “Remy, remember your father. I’m warning you…” The judge’s voice came out as a growl.

  Remy turned, with Coraleen grasping his neck and holding on tight. And hoping hard she didn’t have barf breath.

  “What, exactly, are you warning me about, Judge?” His eyes hardened, glittered in the bright morning sun.

  “Now’s not the time to play the knight in shining armor,” Reinhardt warned.

  Coraleen resisted the desire to say something snarky. How dare Reinhardt try to order Remy around? Instead, she replied with as much attitude as she could muster (she’d been told before she had enough attitude for the entirety of Deloro County). “Don’t worry, Judge. Remy’s just doing his civic duty. There’s no such thing as a knight in shining armor, anyway.”

  But as Remy easily lifted her into his arms and held her tight, Coraleen wished on all the shooting stars she’d ever seen that she was wrong.

  Somewhere along the way, the bright and shiny morning had found a way to twist itself into an unseasonably hot wash of sun. Northern California foothills weren’t supposed to be so steamy this time of year, with summer not even poking its head around the corner. Rays of sunshine bounced off store windows and warmed the cobblestones at the corner of Market and Main. Sweat dripped down Remy’s forehead, stinging his eyes. He resisted the urge to swipe the back of his hand against his brow and instead dug around in his pocket for a handkerchief. Sweat mopped up, he leaned back and surveyed the scene. Wow. Not good.

  “Hell, Coraleen,” he murmured under his breath as he kicked a tire on the Impala, still nose-deep in Delilah’s Diner. The girl could have been injured far worse than she appeared. He’d driven her to the ER, and after insisting she sit in a wheelchair when they got to the hospital (although she’d insisted on attempting a wheelie), he’d managed to get her inside, only to receive a text from Bill that said the only tow truck in town was tied up hauling a water tanker over the ridge and that the Impala was causing a bit of a traffic problem.

  Remy had made sure Coraleen was in the capable hands of Doctor Whiting before heading back to the diner to check on her car. The hospital was only five minutes away and he’d rather have
stayed in the waiting room—hell, he’d far rather have stayed in the exam room while the doc checked Coraleen over—but he’d finally forced himself outside. He figured having some distance between them would help him get his head on straight. There was something about that girl that made his brain go six ways to Sunday.

  His schedule for the day had already been full—an early morning discussion with Reinhardt over coffee, a meeting with his friend Mac Johns to discuss a photo op for his campaign material (his cousin Susan had convinced him to do a little campaigning and wanted to get posters of his face printed up at Ned’s Signage & Copy, although in a county with a population of under five thousand, most people knew what he looked like already so he wasn’t convinced of the need to plaster his head around the community).

  Plus, he wanted to check up on Jacob Bullard.

  He’d noticed Ike Bullard’s kid, along with Madison Cabot, a girl who’d had a few brushes with the law a year back, on the street after Coraleen’s rather dramatic entrance back into town. He wanted to find out why they weren’t in school. Jacob had never been on Remy’s radar before, and he wanted to make sure the kid stayed out of trouble.

  The kid had it tough—life could turn on a dime for a boy like that. His father Ike had some issues with alcohol, issues that had intensified after his wife died a year ago. Jacob had gone into Child Services right after the funeral when his dad had passed out in the middle of the day on Market Street, drunk as a skunk. Ike cleaned himself up after that and managed to get Jacob back, but still would occasionally hit the bottle. It would be worth it to take the time to find the kid. Check in with him. Make sure everything was okay at home, maybe see about getting his dad into rehab.

  Something struck him—Jacob Bullard reminded him of Coraleen, all those years ago. Strong but vulnerable. As if a small little shove in the wrong direction could send them off course.

  Coraleen had gone the wrong way. He had to make sure Jacob didn’t.

  Staring at the forlorn Chevy, he relived that moment when he’d looked out the diner window to see Coraleen’s car, out of control.