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

by Rochelle French

  Once she gave an official confession, Judge Reinhardt bought her story. Remy still didn’t, though. But when she provided the secret combinations of passwords to the account, a series of letters and numbers she never should have had, that seemed to be the one piece of evidence to support what Remy had felt had been a wild claim.

  Five days later, Coraleen left Meadowview in a prisoner transport van, clad in a grey jumpsuit, wrists and ankles shackled by chains. That moment was burned into his memory.

  Reinhardt had scowled, Lydell had laughed, but Remy had just wanted to throw up.

  “Let’s go,” was all he said.

  Being threatened with arrest her first day of freedom had been bad enough, but being threatened a second time? This was getting to be a bit much. Coraleen raised a hand up to shield her eyes from the flashlight’s glare but kept her other hand wrapped around the kitten.

  “Do you hear me? Put your hands where I can see them,” the officer shouted above the blazing alarms.

  That voice… She realized why he sounded so familiar. Oh, heck. “Bill, it’s Coraleen Pettigrew. You saw me this morning. Once again, I’m not doing anything wrong.”

  “Whatever it is you’re holding, drop it. Now.” Bill said emphatically, but his voice shook a little.

  Coraleen blew out a sharp breath. “It’s a kitten. You don’t want me to drop a kitten into a hot tub, do you?”

  “Uh…”

  “I didn’t think so. I’m not going to drop it. And you are not going to arrest me for hot tubbing when I’m allowed to be here. Now could you put down that flashlight?”

  The light wavered and the beam fell away from her eyes. Bill came up, one hand on his flashlight, the other on his gun belt.

  “Why are you constantly threatening to arrest me?” She frowned. “All I’m doing is holding a kitten.”

  “Report came in that Sheriff Toussaint’s security alarm went off, which means someone was trying to break into his house. And I’m figuring that’s you, since you’re trespassing and the alarm is still activated.”

  He glanced down the pile of broken bits of latticework at the base of the hot tub. “And apparently you’ve vandalized the sheriff’s property.”

  “Well, why don’t you call him and ask for the code to turn it off?” She snorted in disbelief. “I would, but I currently don’t have access to a phone. Jeez, Bill, I’m Remy’s guest. I accidentally set off the alarm because I locked myself out of the house and tripped it when I tried to get back in. Obviously I failed at the getting back in part. And I had to break the latticework to rescue the kitten. She was stuck. I’m not a trespasser. Or a vandal. So enough with the arrest talk. And I really hope I don’t see you pulling out those handcuffs again.”

  “You stole all that money from Lydell. You’re a common criminal and I’m not about to believe a word you say.”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, Bill,” she huffed out. “I’m still the same person who changed your sister’s diapers.”

  When Bill’s expression changed from guarded to pissed, she realized she’d maybe gone a bit too far. Uh oh.

  “Out of the hot tub. You’re coming with me to the station.”

  “Think about it,” she reasoned. “Why would I be sitting in Remy’s hot tub, with no clothes and wrapped in a towel, I might add, and holding a kitten, if I wasn’t his guest?”

  “A lot of women throw themselves at the sheriff. In my opinion, that’s just what you’re doing here. Probably tried to break into his house to surprise him. When that didn’t work, you took to sitting naked in a hot tub, trying to lure him with your wanton ways.”

  He sputtered to a stop, then mumbled under his breath, “Not sure how the kitten figures into things, though.”

  “Bill.” She used her firmest voice and ordered herself not to lecture him on sounding hellishly old-fashioned. “Wanton ways,” indeed. The kid had to be barely twenty. No one under sixty-five spoke like that. Heck, make that no one under eighty. “None of that makes sense. Call Remy and he’ll tell you. Then you can go back to patrolling back pastures for cow-tipping teenagers.”

  Instead of reaching for his walkie-talkie, Bill jerked his head in the direction of the driveway. “We can’t get ahold of him. Dispatch tried when his house alarm went off. No response. Now let’s go.”

  So much for her plans for a home-cooked meal to greet Remy home.

  “Fine,” she capitulated. “But he’s going to be mad when he finds out you brought me to the station. I have a concussion and I’m supposed to take it easy. Oh, and Hot Tub’s coming with me.”

  He frowned.

  “The kitten,” she clarified. Then sighed. Yuppers, it was gonna be a long night.

  Ten minutes later, Coraleen strode into the sheriff’s station in downtown Meadowview, thankful the gas street lamps that lined most the main streets in the town didn’t shine on the entrance. Because wow, she so did not look great. Wrapped in a towel with dried mud all over her upper torso, grass stains on her knees, and a mucked-up kitten in her hands, she was hardly the epitome of glamour.

  “Sit over there,” Bill said, gesturing to a cluttered desk in the corner of the stationhouse. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Apparently Bill didn’t understand the concept of sarcasm.

  She glanced around. Red brick walls with crumbling grout lined the large room that was crowded with several mismatched desks and chairs. A door in the back opened to a small cell with a single bed, metal sink, and potty. Framed photos and newspaper articles lined the walls, all photos of various Deloro County sheriffs, deputies, and civilians, going back years.

  “Don’t I get a phone call?” she asked somewhat churlishly, plopping her butt down in the chair next to the desk. The chair let out a violent complaint, squeaking and moaning under her weight (wimpy chair—it’s not like she weighed a whole bunch, after all. Avoiding canned corn and rehydrated mashed potatoes did that to a girl.).

  There was one of those awkward Chair, Meet Bare Butt moments until she was able to situate the towel under her properly. She stroked the kitten and tucked it further between the hair hanging down her back and her neck.

  “You’re not under arrest. I’m just holding you until Remy can get back and sort all this out,” Bill said, opening a drawer and rummaging around inside.

  Bill’s walkie-talkie suddenly went off and a woman’s voice (Coraleen could swear that was Gail Ender’s voice—didn’t Gail used to drive her school bus?) came across, letting Bill know the sheriff was on his way into the station and reminding him he needed to finish his reports. The message apparently made Bill forget about his blanket quest, as the man hopped over to a desk and sat down at a computer and started furiously typing. Sheesh.

  “Is Remy aware that instead of waiting cheerfully at his house, his injured houseguest and her kitten have been transported in the back of a patrol car and are now awaiting him in his place of business, wearing only a towel?”

  Bill ignored her.

  “Is this because I told you to put your dirty dishes away before I let you play video games when you were little?” she asked. “I get it, I was watching your sister, not you, but you’d trashed the place. Your mother was a force to be reckoned with. I did not want to get on that woman’s wrong side.”

  More ignoring happened.

  She shifted tactics, letting her voice go soft and plaintive. “Do you think the station might at least have some clothes I can wear? This is so inappropriate that I’m stuck here in a towel when I’m innocent.” No response. She frowned. “Did you just up and forget you trying to find me a blanket?”

  Bill’s cheeks flushed. Oh, yeah, the man had gone and forgotten about the blanket and now she’d embarrassed him. Ugh.

  “You were almost this good at ignoring me when I babysat your sister. Jeez.” She blew out a breath. “I was just trying to be an excellent babysitter.”

  “You were really bossy.”

&nb
sp; Finally—a response. Although not exactly the one she wanted. Maybe she’d better behave. The kid obviously hadn’t had the most fantastic childhood if he’d grown up with that big of a stick up his butt. She hadn’t exaggerated; Mrs. Curtis had been rather scary. And the woman never tipped.

  She switched Hot Tub from one arm to the other and swiveled around in the office chair, looking at the photographs on the walls as Bill hunkered down at the desk, tippety-tapping on a computer keyboard, his face wrinkled in concentration. He’d better not be writing a report on her, she mentally huffed.

  She took in one photograph and gasped. The framed newspaper article was one she’d kept her own copy of for years, at first tucked into the mirror on her vanity at her grandpop’s home, then later, taped to the cinderblock wall above her bed in AZ/PC.

  In the photo, Remy stood next to her, looking down at her fifteen-year-old self, a strong hand on her thin shoulder. The reporter’s lens had caught her beaming up at him, her eyes shining, smile vivid, one hand gripping Visada’s halter, the other stroking his cheek. Her horse’s ears were pricked forward and he looked to the camera with bright and eager eyes, no evidence of the pain he’d endured six weeks before when he’d broken his canon bone stumbling into a gopher hole out in the wilderness.

  A photo op for the local paper, promoting the good works done by the sheriff’s department.

  And wow, had Remy done good.

  He’d gone and rescued not only her, but her horse.

  Most times a horse with a broken leg, five miles deep in the forest, would have been put down. But she’d begged and pleaded with Remy when he’d come across her, and he’d done what she’d thought was impossible: he’d rescued Visada. Called in the department’s helicopter and rigged up Visada, then had him air-carted out to the local veterinarian, Carson Rideout. Carson performed surgery, screwing the broken bone back together. Her grandpop must have paid out the nose, but Coraleen had her horse back.

  Until she’d had to go away.

  “Look, Hot Tub, that’s Visada,” she murmured, holding the kitten up to the photo. Hot Tub flicked an ear, irritated at the undignified way of being held, and Coraleen laughed. “Better get used to him. The two of you are going to be the best of friends as soon as I find him. I promise.”

  The squeal of a door opening behind her caught her attention. She glanced over her shoulder, and even though she was expecting to see him, Remy’s lean and tall form caught her off-guard and made her tummy go flippety-flop.

  She pulled Hot Tub to her face and breathed in the soft scent of kitten as she watched Remy lead a reluctant and slightly freaked out teenaged boy into the sheriff’s station and motion for him to take a seat behind one of the desks.

  Then Remy looked up and caught sight of her.

  And froze.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he exploded. A frown as dark as a thunderhead covered his face.

  “Um…”

  “You’re supposed to be resting in my guest bedroom. Not—” His brows came together as he raked his gaze up and down her form. “What the hell are you wearing? Why in the hell are you muddy? And where the hell did you get a cat?”

  “You’re not supposed to say ‘hell,’ Remy,” she replied primly. “And it’s a kitten.”

  The thunderhead grew—darkness descending. Oops. Maybe she’d pushed him too far. Clearly she had an issue with getting on people’s nerves.

  But after five years of “yes, ma’am, no ma’am,” five years of following the soul-stifling rules, five years of submissive and obsequious (and yes, there was a difference) behavior, she was flat-out done with playing the role of model citizen.

  Remy crossed the room, his strides long and determined, yanking off his service jacket as he neared her.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Bill stuttered. “Your house alarm got triggered. We tried to reach you but your radio doesn’t seem to be working. I headed over there and caught this woman trespassing on your property. She’d also vandalized your place. She claims she’s your guest, but I didn’t believe her, so I brought her in.”

  “Why is she wearing only a towel?” Remy’s voice was dark, his mood darker.

  He stood in front of her and she could see his chest rise and fall, fast and hard. He wrapped his jacket around her shoulders, then backed up and placed his hands on his hips.

  “Uh…” Bill said, pulling Coraleen’s attention off Remy.

  Pretty clear this wasn’t the reaction Bill had been been banking on. And pretty clear this wasn’t going so well for him, Coraleen figured. She’d tried to warn him.

  Before Bill could do his whole Blame Coraleen for Everything bit, she quickly explained about the bubble bath, hearing the kitten cry out, going outside to find it stuck, and how she broke down the latticework on her rescue mission, only to realize she’d locked herself out.

  “I did tell him I was your houseguest,” she explained, “but as Bill’s said, he clearly didn’t believe me. Seems maybe he has some trust issues with me because of the whole been-to-prison thing.”

  Her chest squeezed. Bill’s response to her, the same responses she’d gotten from Judge Reinhardt and from Doc Witting, were the reasons she could never stay in Meadowview. She’d loved it here once, and had been loved in return, but no more.

  “And the mud?” Remy’s forehead had eased its deep canyon but his voice still held restrained frustration. “Why are you covered in sludge?”

  “I had to make a hole in your decorative fencing and wiggle through to save the kitten. You might want to invest a bit in hot tub plumbing. You’ve got a leak in your pipes and it’s nasty down there.”

  Remy pointed to the kid, who’d sneaked out of the chair and was heading to the door. “Sit,” he barked out, then turned back to his deputy. “Bill? Is all this true?”

  Bill gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing overtime. “I was just following rules. House alarm triggered, destruction of property…figured I should bring the suspect in and hold her until you could get back and clear this all up.”

  Remy sighed, long and loud. A little like Visada used to when waiting for his grain, Coraleen recalled. He ran a hand through his hair, spiking the light brown streaks up in a crazy pattern. “She’s not a suspect. She’s Coraleen. Still, though, good job.”

  Surprise had Coraleen sitting upright. She wasn’t out to get Bill his rump handed to him on a platter, but praising the boy? Wasn’t that a bit much?

  “Good job?” she squawked. “I was minding my own houseguest-y business until Bill came a long and made me ride in the back of a squad car. In nothing but a towel. Without undies!”

  Red flashed over Bill’s neck and face, the teenaged boy chuckled, and even Remy’s tanned face turned a shade of pink.

  He cleared his throat. “Coraleen, Deputy Curtis did nothing wrong. He thought you were breaking the law. Rules are rules.”

  She huffed, catching the attention of the teenager who’d glued his butt to the chair when Remy’d growled at him. Remy turned away and motioned for Bill to follow him to the back of the room.

  Coraleen muttered to the boy, “Someone’s got a deep groove in their vinyl. Total broken record. That’s the second time he’s said that ‘rules are rules’ line to me today.”

  “I totally get it,” the kid responded, twisting his mouth into a teen version of a grown-up expression of commiseration. “Dude said the same thing to me earlier. Demanded I come with him here—wouldn’t let me sleep in the cemetery, even though I had nowhere else to go. Said he had to follow the rules.”

  Coraleen glanced at him curiously. “Sleep in the cemetery? So people really do such a thing?”

  “Not when a sheriff comes by,” the kid said, then stuck his hand out. “I’m Jacob Bullard. And you’re the chick who just got out of the clink. Cool, dude.”

  At first she was embarrassed, but the kid’s smile was genuine and warm and there was just the right amount of twinkling going on in his eyes for her to not go in that zone.

  “
‘Cool’ is not a word I’d use when referring to the clink, but it’s nice to meet you, Jacob. I’m Coraleen Pettigrew.” She tilted her head down and stared at the boy over the bridge of her nose, wrinkling her brow in her best imitation of Mrs. Gregson’s Death By Librarian glare and intoned, “Do not, and I repeat, do not follow in my footsteps.”

  He grinned, then shrugged. “No worries. I’m a vegan. I wouldn’t do well in prison.”

  She laughed.

  “You used to live in Meadowview, right?”

  Pointing to the framed article of her, Remy and Visada, she said, “Yep. There I am. I was about fifteen then.”

  Jacob stood and wended his way through the cluttered stationhouse (apparently Remy had no sense of order either at his home or at his place of work) and stood in front of the photo. “Your horse?” he asked.

  “His name’s Visada. It means ‘always’ in Lithuanian.”

  “Nice looking chestnut.”

  She nodded, impressed that the kid knew something about horses. “He’s red all over—well, except for a big white scar in the shape of a heart on his right hind leg where he broke it.”

  “Broke his leg? And he survived?” Jacob seemed astonished.

  “He’s a retired racehorse, and—”

  “Seriously? I’m totally into racing. Memorized all the winners of the Triple Crown. And the Belmont Stakes, Preakness Stakes, and Kentucky Derby winners. A few of the big Santa Anita winners, too. And all their stats and jockeys.”

  She was impressed. Those were a lot of statistics—took a sharp mind to keep all that information sorted. She was fairly down on horse racing, but she wasn’t about to cut down the boy’s excitement. “I was going to say, even though Visada raced, he didn’t break his leg on the track—he fractured his canon bone when I was riding him in the back country.”

  “How’d you get him?”

  “A man named Allan Reinhardt—”

  “I know Judge Reinhardt. I work out at the judge’s horse ranch, mucking stalls, grooming.”

  She started, and forced herself not to pull a face. The kid didn’t need to know her backstory with Reinhardt. How he’d sneered at her the day she stood in his chambers, acknowledging her guilt and accepting her punishment.