The Sheriff’s Proposal

by Karen Rose Smith

  He gazed at her a few moments as if he was trying to see what she wasn’t saying. She wasn’t even sure herself about all the emotions that surfaced when she thought about those years, when she thought about her parents not wanting her. Even though she’d had her aunt and uncle, she’d still felt abandoned.

  Logan added cream to his coffee. He offered one to Meg, and she shook her head. “A purist,” he teased.

  “What’s the point of caffeine if you dilute it?”

  He grinned. “On my fourth cup, I find it more palatable. I have a pot sitting in my office all the time.” Leaning back in his chair, he broke off half of the doughnut and ate it. “So, at twelve you didn’t want to globe-trot, but for your adult life, you have.”

  “I didn’t go into this profession to travel. That just goes along with it sometimes.”

  He leaned forward again, his hand almost brushing hers as he rested it on the table. “Why did you choose to be an interpreter?”

  Instead of touching his large hand, as she wanted to do out of curiosity to see what would happen, she toyed with the paper around her muffin. “Because I wanted to help people understand each other. I had a talent for languages because of my upbringing. I was always amazed by the difference in the way people treat each other when they can understand each other. There’s less fear, less anxiety, less suspicion.”

  He pulled his hand back and wrapped his fingers around his mug. “How many languages can you speak?” His knee briefly touched hers under the table, but he moved his away.

  “Four fluently, not counting dialects.” She sipped again at her coffee.

  “You’re uncomfortable talking about yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t expect to have coffee with you and talk about me.”

  He smiled. “Why not?”

  “Because I thought you might want to talk about Travis.”

  He went silent and his jaw tensed. If she’d ever seen a man in pain, that man was Logan. She waited.

  His voice deeper, his words terse, he responded, “I think about him day and night. Believe me, I don’t want to talk about the thoughts that are running through my head. And you don’t want to know what they are.”

  They sat at a stalemate, Meg wondering if Logan kept all his feelings bottled up, not just those about Travis. She understood his need to keep a lid on his emotions. She did the same thing.

  Logan’s cell phone beeped, breaking the tension. “Excuse me, I have to take this call.”

  Meg watched Logan as he took the call. The calls for him must be a constant source of hope, but disappointment, too. His face remained neutral. As he began talking, he rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t getting news of his son—not good news anyway.

  After he ended the call, he said, “I have to cut this short. Cal needs me at the office.”

  She stood. “I need to get back, too.” All of a sudden, Meg knew that getting involved with Logan would be more complicated than being involved with a photojournalist who always considered his career more important than their relationship. She didn’t need involvement; she needed peace. As they walked to the door and she said goodbye, she knew the less she saw of Logan the more peaceful she’d feel.

  A few days later, Meg picked up the Willow Valley Courier. When she saw her own picture on page one, the same picture that had run in newspapers across the country five weeks ago, memories overwhelmed her. By the time she’d finished the article, the numbness had worn off and she was furious.

  Logan’s comments to the reporter about Manuel and Carmen were strictly factual. But he had included her in the mix. Inadvertently or not, he’d dragged her into their drama. He might be sheriff, but she had a right to her privacy just as Manuel and Carmen did. She sat and fumed for a few minutes, then suddenly decided to tell him how she felt.

  Meg drove to the sheriff’s department and turned off the ignition before she changed her mind. When she pulled open the door to the office and stepped inside, she saw Cal Martin, one of Logan’s deputies, sitting at the front desk.

  In a crisp tone, she said, “I’m here to see Sheriff MacDonald.”

  Cal looked her over. “And your name?”

  “Meg Dawson.”

  Cal’s gaze flashed with recognition. He pointed to the closed office in the back. “Just knock on his door.”

  She could feel Cal’s eyes on her back as she crossed the room. Seeing Logan sitting at a massive, scarred wooden desk, she rapped sharply on the glass-paneled door.

  He looked up and rose from his chair, opening the door in one quick motion. She’d stood face-to-face with him before, but today his shoulders seemed broader, his legs longer. She should have done this by phone.

  “What’s the matter, Meg?”

  No doubt her color was high. She hadn’t bothered to run a brush through her hair, and her old cutoffs and short, sleeveless knit top didn’t add to a sense of self-confidence. Boy, she really hadn’t thought this through.

  She slapped the paper on his desk and her purse on top of it. “That’s what’s wrong. Why did you mention me and Costa Rica?”

  Logan’s brows arched. “Everything I told the reporter is a matter of public record. Doc Jacobs delivered Manuel and Carmen’s baby boy in Lily and Ned’s barn. You acted as interpreter. The reporter was the one who remembered you’d made news before. I just confirmed it.”

  “Why did you have to mention me at all?”

  Her voice had risen with her question. Cal was looking at her and Logan.

  Logan firmly clasped her arm and tugged her away from the door so he could close it. “What’s going on, Meg?”

  Feeling embarrassed for making herself a spectacle, she stepped away from him. “Carmen and Manuel turned down the interview. I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to one. This…this—” she waved to the picture “—was unexpected. That’s all.”

  Logan’s gaze probed hers until she looked away. She took a few deep breaths, then pushed her hair behind her ear, staring at her picture in the paper, the picture of her and Ramón Pomada standing at the car on the airport runway after the kidnapper had run to the plane. She involuntarily clutched her shoulder, remembering the way it had hurt. She remembered…

  Logan was close again. “Meg,” he said gently, “what are you thinking?”

  “I, uh, I guess I shouldn’t have bothered you. I should have realized even old news is still news in Willow Valley.”

  Logan rested his hands on her shoulders. “Have you talked to anyone about what you went through?”

  She looked over his shoulder, trying to deny the emotions swelling inside her. “Just the debriefer.” Her breaths were coming quicker.

  “You weren’t allowed to give interviews, were you?”

  Her chest tightened, and the air in the room suddenly got thinner. “The governments involved thought it would be better if I didn’t. They just gave the facts.”

  “So why did the rehash of the story bother you now?”

  His gentle voice stirred her emotions into chaos, making her feel too vulnerable. “The picture,” she murmured as she felt tears prick at her eyes. Now she really felt foolish. She ducked her head and stared straight into Logan’s chest. She could see each breath he took, could feel the warmth of his hands on her shoulders…and wished she was anyplace else but here.

  He tipped her chin up. “It’s okay to let it out. If you haven’t yet, you’re going to have to soon or it will eat at you.”

  “But I…” She couldn’t stop the tears.

  He pulled her against his chest. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”

  Logan couldn’t help but wrap his arms around Meg. Her reaction seemed to have surprised her more than him. He suspected she wasn’t used to leaning on anyone. From what she’d said about her childhood, she’d learned at an early age to depend on herself. When he’d invited her to have coffee with him, he’d acted on impulse. He’d found himself thinking about her often, wanting to know more about her, weighing the pros and co
ns of seeing her again.

  Right now she was a woman who needed a shoulder…his shoulder. With his arms around her, her hands pressed against his chest, he wished she could just let go of her ordeal and its effects, but it wasn’t that easy. Nothing ever was. He could feel her quick breaths, feel the tension as she resisted his support.

  The scent of roses teased Logan, Meg’s curves against him felt too right and holding her aroused him. The warmth between them became heat. Her top was a thin barrier as his thumb slipped from the material to her bare skin. His desire grew stronger, and he closed his eyes. Bittersweet pleasure. His life was a mess. She’d go back to her job after Thanksgiving. Even if he wanted just a—

  Meg abruptly pulled away, avoided his gaze and reached for her purse. She took out a tissue, blew her nose, then faced him. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  She looked at the file cabinet behind him. “I’m not like this. I don’t cry. I don’t overreact.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t even know what to talk about.”

  “Maybe how terrifying it is to be held hostage?”

  She shook her head. “I just want to forget it.”

  “I’ve been in the middle of gang wars and drug deals. I understand, Meg, I really do.”

  She took a deep breath, and he wanted to pull her into his arms again. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “Dinner?” She looked surprised he’d asked.

  He’d surprised himself. “Yeah. I’ll cook something at my place. And if you want to talk about Costa Rica, you can.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “And if I don’t want to talk about it?”

  He could think of something else he’d much rather do than talk, starting with kissing and ending with… “If you don’t want to talk, you don’t have to talk.”

  She moved closer to the door, but it also brought her closer to him again. “Lily might need my help if Carmen and Manuel are still here.”

  He thought about stepping away from her, but didn’t. “I think she and Ned can handle one evening by themselves. Don’t you?”

  When Meg slowly nodded, her shiny hair barely brushed her shoulders. It was as natural and free as she was. He wanted to touch her hair, to touch her. Leaning forward, he felt led by a force greater than them both.

  She gazed into his eyes and he couldn’t help but slip his hand along her neck under her hair and lower his head.

  Meg waited for Logan’s kiss, thought about it, was eager for it. He’d felt so strong and sturdy and safe as she’d let him hold her. But now, as she gazed into his eyes, she knew he wasn’t safe. There was passion there, and yearning and needs only a woman could fulfill for a man. If he kissed her, they’d tap the need—in both of them.

  But Logan didn’t kiss her. Instead, he removed his hand from under her hair, the touch of his fingers as they slid along her neck leaving a burning heat she wouldn’t soon forget. When he raised his head and dropped his hand, she felt a loss of something she suspected would curl her toes.

  A slip of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. With a nod, he gestured to the outer office. Cal stared directly at the two of them through the glass pane.

  Logan’s tone was wry. “This isn’t the most private place in Willow Valley.”

  She backed away from Logan and picked up her purse on the desk. “Sometimes I wonder if any place is private in Willow Valley.”

  He studied her carefully for a moment. “We’ll have privacy tomorrow night.”

  Flustered, her emotions swirling, not only from what had almost happened with Logan but from the confusion the picture in the paper had stirred up, she moved toward the door. “All right. Can I bring anything?”

  He shook his head. “Just yourself.”

  If she was making a mistake, she’d find out tomorrow night.

  Chapter 3

  Standing at the door to Logan’s house Saturday evening, Meg took a deep breath. The air was getting cooler. September had arrived, and with it the promise of fall. She shifted the bottle of wine to her left arm and rang the doorbell.

  A few moments later, Logan opened the door to the brick bi-level. She’d never seen him dressed in anything but his uniform before. He wore a simple white polo shirt, black shorts and Docksides without socks. His thighs were muscled, his legs long, his arms bronzed by the sun. Black hair curled at the V where his two buttons were unfastened. He was sexy and virile, and she was suddenly very nervous.

  She handed him the bottle of wine. “I couldn’t come empty-handed.” His green eyes swept over her, from the gold barrette in her hair, over her emerald culotte dress to her white sandals. When his gaze lingered a moment on her lips, she felt shivers slide up her spine.

  Taking the bottle from her, he smiled. “This will be just right. I’ve barbecued chicken on the grill. I thought we could eat on the deck.” Logan motioned her inside. “Come on in.”

  She followed him up a few stairs to the living room. “Do you have a family room downstairs?”

  “I use it for storage. I’m a little short on family right now.”

  The pain on his face hurt her. He looked as if he were far away somewhere, and she suspected he was thinking about his son. “I’m sorry, Logan. That was thoughtless of me.”

  When he met her gaze, the pain was still there but controlled now. “You couldn’t be thoughtless if you tried.”

  “You just met me.”

  “Maybe so. But in my business, I have to read people in an instant sometimes. My life has depended on it.”

  “Willow Valley must seem tame compared to what you came from.”

  “It’s different. But that’s what I wanted when I moved my family here.”

  Despite how Logan had reacted at the bakery when she’d mentioned Travis, she wouldn’t let his son be a taboo subject between them. “Aunt Lily told me Travis wasn’t happy here.”

  “He wasn’t. He had his mind set before we came.” Logan’s curt tone told her he still preferred not to discuss his son.

  Meg examined the living room. A gray sofa, streaked with abstract shapes of navy, sat across from an ebony entertainment center. A gray easy chair complemented the sofa. A ladder-backed rocker, two end tables with gray ceramic lights and a coffee table completed the room. But the place still didn’t look lived-in.

  She crossed to the entertainment center and picked up a framed picture on one of the shelves. A teenage boy stood by the trunk of a maple tree, staring absently across the yard. “Travis?”

  Logan nodded.

  “He’s a handsome young man.” He looked a lot like his father.

  Logan crossed the room and stood beside her. “He’s an unhappy young man.”

  Meg thought about her own upbringing. “Raising children is complicated.”

  The silence between them lasted a few moments. Finally Logan said, “You’re determined to make me talk about him, aren’t you?”

  “You need to talk about him, about more than his disappearance.”

  When Logan raised his hand, she knew he was going to touch her. His fingers on her cheek gave her a thrill of pleasure she’d never known.

  His voice was husky when he asked, “How did you get so smart?”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with being smart. The heart and the head don’t always speak the same language.”

  He smiled. “I guess the trick is getting them to understand each other.”

  She nodded and, when his fingers slipped away, she wished he was touching her again. She took the picture with her to the sofa. “Tell me about him.”

  Logan sat beside her, his knee barely brushing hers. “He’s sixteen, thinks he’s the smartest kid in the world and is more rebellious and stubborn than any teenager I’ve ever known.”

  “He’s a junior?”

  “Yes. At least he would be if he came home.”

  “What does he like to do?”

  Logan looked at a
loss for a moment. “Besides getting in trouble, I don’t really know. We haven’t had an amicable conversation in a long time.”

  Logan’s expression was full of regret for all that had been. “The last time we talked, he called me his jailor. If he wasn’t home by curfew, I’d go out and find him. I think he hated me.”

  “Logan.”

  “That’s the truth, Meg. And now I can’t sleep at night wishing I’d handled everything differently. If I could just find Travis, I’d tell him I don’t care if he wears three earrings or torn jeans or shaves his head. I’ll even make his curfew an hour later. I just want him home.”

  Meg reached out and covered Logan’s hand. “Doc said the whole town is praying. Is there anything else anyone can do?”

  He sandwiched her hand between his and gently rubbed his thumb over the tops of her fingers. “No, there’s nothing anyone can do except pray.”

  She stared into his eyes, feeling his pain, feeling his need, drawn to him in an elemental way. Finally Logan cleared his throat and released her hand. “I have the chicken wrapped in foil on the grill. We’d better get to it, or it’ll be too dry to eat.”

  Supper. That’s why she was here.

  Logan had already set the picnic table. A light breeze stirred the paper napkins under the silverware. Steps led from the deck down to a long yard separated by a spirea hedge from the next-door neighbor’s property.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “There’s a salad in the refrigerator.”

  Besides the salad, Logan’s refrigerator was practically empty. Two bottles of beer, two cans of soda, a hunk of Swiss cheese, the remainder of a head of lettuce and a package of carrots sat on the top shelf. Other than that, his cupboard was bare.

  Meg carried the teak salad bowl outside. Logan had just placed the chicken on a platter and unwrapped the foil from two baked potatoes. As she slid onto the bench, he straddled the one on the other side and gave her a quick grin. “I forgot to buy butter at the store. But I have salt and pepper. I don’t cook often.”