A Sheriff in Tennessee

by Lori Handeland

  He headed into the ditch with Virgil on his heels.

  Belle and Cass glanced at each other. Belle raised her eyebrows. “Follow that dog?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  KLEIN DIDN’T BOTHER to tell the women to go back. He doubted Cass had ever listened to anyone in her life, and he was beginning to think Belle wasn’t much better. Besides, they weren’t doing anything dangerous. Knowing Clint, he was probably leading them on the trail of a rabbit—directly up the nearest tree.

  But the dog was behaving differently from usual. For one thing, when small game was involved, Clint stalked and then chased, like a clumsy dumb cat with a mouse. Right now he actually seemed to be following a trail the way a bloodhound should. He’d even gone through water and picked up the scent on the other side—a trait distinctive to his breed. But what scent did he have?

  Nose to the ground, butt wagging in the air, Clint, with his red fur was a sharp contrast to the bright-green, knee-high weeds and tangled yellow, white and purple wildflowers. Every once in a while he would stop and glance back to make sure they were behind. When he saw that they were, his tail would swish and he would prance, as if he couldn’t believe they were following him. Klein couldn’t believe it, either.

  Suddenly the dog sprinted ahead. His ears streamed back in the wind; his huge paws spit torn grass and flowers in every direction. Klein’s heart leaped. What if Clint was after something dangerous and deadly, instead of fuzzy and furry?

  Though copperheads were common in this part of Tennessee, the majority were probably still hibernating. The snakes preferred rocks over trees and grass, but Klein wasn’t going to bet Clint’s life that a belly-crawling fang face would follow the rules. He began to run.

  “He’s headed for those trees,” Virgil shouted, keeping pace with Klein easily. He was no doubt in better shape than Klein himself in a year-by-year comparison.

  Clint disappeared into a line of red oaks. Though he hadn’t known he could, Klein ran faster. What if the dog kept going past the trees and into the mountains?

  Klein had only been in Tennessee a month, but he knew bigger, meaner animals than Clint lived in those hills. Of course, any animal was meaner than Clint, but that wasn’t the point. If the dog got lost up there, they wouldn’t find him in one piece—if they found him at all. He shivered despite the heat of the sun on his head and the sweat running down his back.

  But when they burst from the sunlight into the shadow of the spring leaves, Clint patiently awaited them beneath a tree, his gaze turned not upward but down on a small cave-like hole at the base.

  The women caught up. From the sound of Cass’s labored breathing, she didn’t jog much. He glanced at them. She was bent over, hands on her knees, head drooping to her chest, but she didn’t appear to need CPR. Yet. Isabelle wasn’t even winded. He wasn’t surprised.

  “Squirrel or rabbit?” she asked.

  Her question surprised a short laugh from him, and she grinned.

  A snarl erupted from the dark hole beneath the tree, and Clint whimpered. Klein cursed and hurried over, pulling Clint out of the way. All he needed was for his dog to have holed a bobcat, though those animals usually prowled at night and didn’t come this close to where people lived if they could help it.

  “Look—” Virgil pointed to the ground.

  Blood spattered the surrounding area. Not a lot, but enough to deduce something had been hurt.

  The sound of a camera shutter whirring revealed that Cass had recovered. Isabelle started and glared at the other woman, but when she saw Cass was taking pictures of the tree, the blood and Clint, she relaxed, though not by much.

  Another vicious snarl came from beneath the tree, and Klein realized the sight of blood and Isabelle’s jumpiness had made him loosen his hold on Clint. The dog had leaned his long neck toward the hole, sniffing madly.

  He didn’t appear frightened by whatever slavered and growled in the dark. In fact, he dropped the blue sailor suit, sneezed, then began to bark and wiggle with more glee than Klein had ever seen from him.

  “I’ll be damned,” Virgil muttered, as T.B. emerged, blinking in the dappled sunlight.

  Klein was so shocked he let Clint go. The bloodhound took the opportunity to fall on the ground and roll belly up. T.B. didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead, he trotted over to the sailor suit and lifted his leg.

  “I told you he ran away because of that thing,” Virgil observed.

  “How did he get it off?” Cass asked.

  “How did he get out here?” Isabelle wondered.

  “Whose blood is all over the ground?” Klein added.

  “Not his.”

  Klein shifted his attention from the dog to the deputy. “How do you know?”

  Virgil waited for T.B. to finish his comment on sailor suits for Chihuahuas, then picked him up and turned the animal this way and that. From the look on the little dog’s face, he had similar plans for Virgil that he’d had for the suit.

  Satisfied, the deputy set T.B. back on the ground. “Not a mark on him. He got the better of something out here.”

  T.B. trotted over to Clint, who still groveled. One sharp bark and the big dog flipped upright. T.B. tossed his head into the air, turned his back on Clint, lay down and closed his eyes. Clint crawled on his belly until his nose touched T.B.’s tail.

  “I wonder what that something was.” Cass moved closer to the Chihuahua and raised her camera. “And if it chased him in there.” She took several shots of T.B. “Or if he kicked it out when he went in.”

  “Knowin’ him, not only did he kick somethin’ out, but he drove it far, far away.” Virgil stuffed the ruined sailor suit into an evidence bag he pulled from his uniform pocket. Klein was continually amazed at the amount of paraphernalia Virgil managed to secrete in his uniform.

  “We’d better get T.B. back to town before Miss Dubray becomes despondent,” Klein said.

  “She’ll be so grateful.” Virgil’s smile was distant. “We’ll be able to get him back long before it’s time for my mint julep break.”

  Isabelle choked. Klein had a hard time not doing the same. For a moment they stared at each other and shared the joke. A seventy-year-old lothario with the face of Barney Fife and a geriatric sex goddess. Talk about appearances being deceptive.

  Cass’s camera fired, breaking their moment of camaraderie, but when he shot a glance her way, she was watching the dogs.

  Virgil didn’t notice—the humor or the camera—his mind no doubt occupied with all the forms that gratitude could take.

  THE REST OF THE MORNING passed without incident. Cass disappeared as soon as they returned to town, mumbling about deadlines and animal interest stories. Virgil returned T.B. to Miss Dubray, then called in a 10-8X.

  “What is that?” Klein grumbled, and yanked out his code book.

  Seconds later he cursed, though there was no real heat in the words. He thumbed his walkie-talkie. “Virgil, 10-8X is in service with female. I don’t think you’re funny.”

  “Funny? No, I didn’t mean—”

  The old man sounded distracted. Belle could imagine by what. She could tell Klein was imagining, too, and it was making him crazy.

  “Wait, Chief. Make that—”

  A giggle interrupted him, and his walkie-talkie cut out. Klein put his head down on the desk. Belle resisted the urge to walk over and rub the back of his neck. He was so tired.

  He’d spent yesterday morning aiding people who were hurt, the afternoon and early evening calming her, the darkest hours out searching for someone’s pet when any other man would have put off the task until morning. Belle had been tempted by his physical merits; now she was captured by the inner wonder of Gabriel Klein.

  The walkie-talkie came to life. “Make that 10-7B. Out of service, personal.”

  “Too much information,” Klein mumbled.

  The hero of the day lay sprawled at his master’s feet, sound asleep. Even when Belle stood and m
oved to sit on the desk next to Klein, Clint didn’t even open one eye.

  “I think he’s down for the count,” she observed.

  Klein lifted his head and glanced at the dog. “Bein’ a hound dog is hard.”

  “Must be.”

  “Especially when you aren’t one.”

  “That looks like a hound dog to me.”

  “On the outside. Inside beats the heart of a true French poodle.”

  Uneasy, Belle slid a glance at Clint, but he snored on, oblivious. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  Klein gave her a slow smile that did funny things to Belle’s insides. She’d never seen him smile like that before—lazy, sexy, inviting—as if he’d just asked her to go home with him for a little mint julep.

  Belle’s eyes widened, and a giggle bubbled in her throat.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth the laughter would burst out—or worse, the truth. She wanted him. Even more now than she had before.

  The lust wasn’t going away. In fact, it was getting stronger the longer she was with him. The more she knew about Klein, the more she liked him. The more she saw of his body, the more she wanted to run her hands all over it. She must be wearier than he was, and that was saying quite a bit.

  When they’d returned to the station, there’d been a message that Jubel was remanded to county court since the accident had taken place on the highway. Klein had muttered, “That gets him out of my jail,” then asked her to man the phones while he took a shower.

  He’d returned dressed in a fresh uniform, which he must have kept at work for just such an emergency. He’d also shaved the two-day-old shadow, revealing a face pale and exhausted.

  Yet he hadn’t gone home. He’d sat down at his desk, and he’d been sitting there ever since, slugging coffee and working his way through the pan of Lucinda’s brownies. Just the thought of the amount of caffeine and sugar in his system made Isabelle’s pulse skitter and her stomach gurgle in sympathy.

  “Hungry?” He rubbed his neck absently.

  “Not really.”

  “Have you eaten today?”

  She experienced the annoyance that usually came on the heels of such a question. “What are you, a cop?”

  He laughed. “That’s me, the food police.” He broke off with a hiss of pain.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just my neck. Old football injury.”

  Belle wasn’t sure if he was serious. She didn’t particularly care. She could no longer keep herself from touching him.

  She slid from the desk and moved around his chair. At the first touch of her fingers, he jerked away. But she wouldn’t let him go. Hands on his shoulders, she eased him back in the chair.

  “Relax,” she murmured. “You’re way too tense.”

  “What are you, a massage therapist?”

  “I could pretend to be, if you’d like.”

  She ran her thumbs down the tight cords of his neck, smoothed her palms across the width of his shoulders, skimmed her fingers over the muscles of his arms. His skin fluttered beneath her hands. He was warm and strong and good. She wanted to keep touching him forever. She wanted to touch him and more.

  But he held himself stiff and still, as if he wanted to run but was too polite to do so. He was no doubt mortified she was touching him like this, but he was too much of a nice guy to push her away. That would be like him. He put on a tough front, yet she’d seen over the past few days just how gentle he could be.

  She should stop. She was being foolish. He’d shown her time and time again that he wanted nothing more from her than friendship. In truth, he hadn’t wanted that; she’d forced it on him. She didn’t know how to make friends, didn’t know how to have one or how to be one. But she was pretty certain friends didn’t feel about other friends the way she felt about Gabriel Klein.

  So instead of touching him the way she desired, she merely imagined rubbing her cheek along his short, dark hair. The movement would press her breasts against the solid wall of his back. She’d unbutton his shirt, slip her hands inside, memorize the muscles of his chest in the way she was learning the contours of his back right now, under the guise of massage therapy. Then she’d press her lips to where her hands had roamed. Would he taste as good as he smelled—clean, fresh and hot?

  Belle glanced down, watched her hands trace his shoulders. Her fingers slipped beneath his collar, slid along the sides of his neck, smoothed over the rolling spike of his collarbone. He hadn’t completely buttoned the new shirt after his shower, and she could see the bright-white cotton of a T-shirt. But what kind of T-shirt? If she sneaked her hands beneath the uniform, would she be able to feel his arms bare against her palms, or would she have to run her fingertips beneath the crisp cotton sleeves to know his warmth?

  The phone rang, shrill and loud. He jumped and so did she. They both laughed.

  Belle leaned down, reaching for the phone, one hand still on his shoulder. He reached for it, too, and the phone stopped ringing.

  “Hmm,” he murmured, and turned his head.

  Their noses bumped. His blue eyes opened wider. His breath brushed her mouth.

  “I wonder who that was,” she whispered, and then she was kissing him.

  Beyond gentleness, starved for the taste of his mouth, she feasted. Warm, sweet and wet, she would drown in him gladly. Consumed by desire, she cradled his face, holding him close, hoping he would not run away.

  He swiveled his chair, and suddenly she stood between his legs, supported by his hands at her waist, their heat scalding through her blouse. Where it had come untucked from her pants, flesh on flesh made her moan. She wanted to grab his hands, rub his callused palms along her stomach, her ribs, higher. Beg him to stroke her, tease her, take her.

  She put her tongue in his mouth and tasted him, then shuddered when he tasted her. Her hands moved without her consent, touching his arms, kneading his shoulders, learning the texture of his skin.

  And the phone rang again.

  He stiffened, tearing his lips from hers. He yanked his hands away as if she were on fire. The expression on his face made her heart stutter. He was horrified.

  She backed away, lifting one hand to her mouth, touching where he had touched, trying to feel again the magic. But it was gone.

  Pity in his eyes, sadness cast over his face. “Isabelle, I—”

  She didn’t want to hear him say, I don’t feel that way about you. She couldn’t bear to have him tell her, I can’t see you anymore. So she ran.

  The phone continued to ring. As she escaped onto Longstreet Avenue she heard him curse, then he answered it.

  EVEN AS HIS BODY SHOUTED for him to chase her down and drag her back into his arms, duty made him grab the phone. But nothing could make him happy about it.

  “What?” he barked.

  “Klein?”

  Still frowning at the door through which Isabelle had disappeared, he scowled when he recognized the voice. “Chai.”

  “How are things, Sheriff?”

  Klein looked at the phone, then put it back to his ear. “Not bad. How are things on your end?”

  “Cut the crap, Klein. How is Isabelle? Did you run into any poachers today?”

  For a minute, Klein thought the mayor actually meant poachers out in the woods. Then he remembered their conversation at Murphy’s. A sudden image came to him of lips on lips, tongue sliding along tongue, hands spanning a soft but firm waist.

  Any poachers? God, he felt like one. And not because he thought Chai had any claim to her, but because he was supposed to be her friend and he’d taken advantage. No wonder she had run from him with a hunted expression in her eyes. Guilt loomed heavy, thick, smothering.

  “Hey! Klein? You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did any man get near her today?

  “Me. And Virgil.”

  “Good. Good. Keep it that way.”

  Klein should be insult
ed that Chai didn’t think he was any threat. But he’d been insulted so many times before that he didn’t bother to waste the energy caring right now.

  “She took off jogging,” Chai said. “I suppose she’ll be safe enough. Although it would be better if you went with her.”

  “I never run for fun.”

  The mayor kept yapping as if Klein hadn’t even opened his mouth. “I’d go. But I’ve got to get back to the office for a meeting. And to be honest, she’d run me into the ground. Don’t you think she over-does it sometimes?”

  Something Chai had said hit Klein funny. “Wait a second. Where are you now?”

  “On Longstreet Avenue.”

  Cell phone, Klein thought.

  “Why are you on Longstreet Avenue?”

  “Watching Isabelle, of course. You aren’t.”

  Anger pulsed at the base of Klein’s throat. He could just see Isabelle headed out for a jog, hoping for some peace and quiet, unaware that she was being ogled by someone she should be able to trust, after she’d been mauled by a friend.

  Again he wanted to get up and go after her, make sure she was safe from everyone and everything. Except, he was one of the things she needed to be protected from. Maybe he’d just hunt down the mayor and shake him until he rattled.

  Klein recognized the danger in what he wanted. He was getting too close to her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “Mr. Mayor, you’re skating perilously near stalking.”

  “Me?” Chai laughed. “But I’m the mayor.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the pope. Stay away from her.”

  “I’m the mayor,” he repeated. “I have to go near her sometime.”

  “Only if you have a damn good reason. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to find yourself behind bars on a stalking charge.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “Could. And if that isn’t enough, think about Daddy’s reaction to the news that you’re planning a Senate run behind his back.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Would. Go back to your office, Chai. Stay there.”