A Kiss in the Sunlight

by Marie Patrick

  Ryleigh pressed her forehead against the window and smiled as they reached their destination. She watched as Sheriff MacDermott hunkered down on one knee to tie the girl’s shoelace then adjust the collar of her flower-print dress. When he was done, he gave her a kiss on the forehead. As the other children said goodbye to him and rushed to the school yard, claiming swings that hung from the branches of several huge trees or their position on the teeter-totter, the little girl nodded a few times then threw her arms around the sheriff’s neck and hugged him before scampering off to join her friends.

  He rose to his full height and just stood there, his hands on his hips, almost as if he was reluctant to leave. He waited a few more minutes, long enough to watch the little girl climb onto a swing and push herself into motion.

  Did Teague MacDermott have children? If so, where was their mother? Had she been one of the victims of the Logans shoot-out so long ago? The information wasn’t in any of the newspaper articles Ryleigh knew by heart and neither had Roy or Krissa mentioned anything. Perhaps she was wrong. There was only one way to find out.

  She scooped up her notebook and jammed it into the leather pouch, then slipped the strap over her shoulder. She took one last sip of coffee, plopped her hat on her head, and ran through the nearly empty dining room, bumping into a chair or two in her haste, hoping for a word with Sheriff MacDermott. Since her bold declaration that she wanted to do a story on him and the Logan shoot-out, and his immediate refusal, she’d been looking for a way to apologize to him.

  She still wanted his story. That hadn’t changed, though she did know there had to be a better way to approach him. She just hadn’t found it yet. Obviously, being blunt wouldn’t work, but she’d never been very good at the flirtations between a man and a woman.

  “Good morning, Sheriff.” She fell into step beside him and grinned. The bell of her forest-green skirt flared as she kept pace with him. There were some advantages to being taller than most women. She could keep up with the long-legged stride of any man. She greeted the dog as well. “Good morning, Shotgun.” He tilted his head, perhaps remembering her voice, but more importantly, that she’d stepped on his tail. He whined, then leaped off the raised sidewalk and trotted alongside them in the street. Apparently, the four-legged beast didn’t want a repeat performance of her foot on his tail.

  “Good morning, Miss Steele.” Teague touched the brim of his hat with the tip of two fingers but didn’t stop or even slow down.

  “Ryleigh, remember?”

  He gave a slight nod but didn’t glance in her direction. Instead, his gaze seemed to be on everything except her. Was he on the alert for anything out of the ordinary, making sure his town was safe?

  “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I wanted . . . ” The words died on her tongue. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Sheriff MacDermott, I―”

  He cut her off. “You said walk.” He still faced forward, his eyes, shadowed by the brim of his hat, darting here and there, his expression, at least from her vantage point, unreadable. “You didn’t say anything about talking.”

  “But I . . . ” She didn’t finish. She couldn’t. He wasn’t rude or curt, but no one had ever spoken to her that way. It shocked her into clamping her mouth shut until he glanced in her direction, and she saw the twinkle in his eye.

  He was teasing her! A blush heated her cheeks. She hadn’t expected that, especially after yesterday, nor did she expect the warmth that trickled through her or the sudden fluttering of her heart. Strange, her growing heart condition only happened when he was around.

  “I am sorry, Sheriff, for yesterday. We got off on the wrong foot.”

  “We did?”

  She glanced at him, then returned her attention to the wooden planks of the sidewalk beneath her feet. The last thing she needed right now would be to trip over a loose board, or more likely, her own two feet. “Well, I did. I shouldn’t have been so—”

  He didn’t let her finish. Instead, he supplied his own words. “Brash? Bold?”

  Once more, she faced him, searching his features. Was he teasing again? Or did he truly mean the words he was using to describe her? She couldn’t tell from his expression, and even though they may be true, it still rankled. “I prefer to think of myself as assert―” She stopped short as her hip rammed into a fruit and vegetable cart on the sidewalk. Several apples tumbled to the sidewalk and rolled around the cart. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen it. She had. She’d simply misjudged the distance between her body and the wheeled wagon. “Goodness gracious!”

  “Are you all right?” Teague grabbed her arm to steady her as she rubbed her hip.

  There would be a bruise tomorrow.

  “I’m fine.” She inhaled against the pain, her voice a little tight, and then stepped around the cart a little more gracefully, thankful she hadn’t fallen onto the fresh fruit and vegetables. That could have been messy, especially if she had squashed the cherries on display. That stain would never come out of her white blouse. “I do that all the time.”

  “What?” He picked up the fallen apples, inspected them for bruising, then put them back in the cart, apparently satisfied they were as good as new. “Walk into things?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “I didn’t walk into it.” Tongue firmly in cheek, she asked, “You didn’t see that vegetable cart jump out to accost me in broad daylight?” At the confused expression on his face, her grin widened. “I’m joking. I’m not exactly the most graceful thing on two feet, but you already know that. I fell on you yesterday.”

  “You didn’t do that on purpose?” He grinned as well, showing startling white teeth, a dimple in his left cheek, and that intriguing little scar on his chin. She wanted to reach out and touch it until his words reached her scattered mind and she realized what he’d said.

  “Of course not!” Heat rose from her chest all the way up to her face. Her cheeks were on fire.

  “Pity.”

  Her eyes widened and surprised laughter built in her throat. Sheriff MacDermott had a sense of humor. She liked that. And she liked the fact that he didn’t seem to hold a grudge over their meeting yesterday. In fact, there seemed to be an easiness between them, like they’d known each other for years. And she didn’t want to change that by asking the wrong question. She’d seen how quickly he could button his lip. Instead of asking him bluntly if the children he walked to school were his, she said, “I couldn’t help notice the children walking with you. Do they do that all the time?”

  She must have asked the question correctly, because he answered without hesitation and with a smile. “As a matter of fact, they do. They’re my neighbor’s children. Judd Hanlon’s. He’s a widower. They’re old enough to walk themselves, but it’s become a routine. And I like them. I remember when all of them were born. I was even there for Ross’s birth. He’s the young man you saw and the oldest of the Hanlon children.” He paused, his gaze on the group of men making themselves comfortable in the rocking chairs in front of the barbershop. Old timers, she assumed, who’d sit there and reminisce about the days when silver was mined from the mountain and the town of Paradise Falls was nothing more than a collection of tents.

  “Sheriff?”

  “Sorry. Where was I? Oh, the children. Ross wants to be sheriff when he’s older and Sofia wants to become a lawyer, like her daddy. And Vanessa . . . ” He chuckled and grinned. “Vanessa says she wants to marry me when she grows up.”

  “Is she the little girl whose hand you were holding?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  He’d listed only two girls. That left a third unnamed, the one whose hand he’d held, but he said nothing more, and Ryleigh realized he wouldn’t as they passed the sheriff’s office on the other side of the street and kept walking. So she asked. It’s what she did. Asked questions. Sometimes too many, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “And the other little girl? You only mentioned
two, but you were walking with three.”

  He gave a long sigh and glanced in her direction. After another long pause, he finally said, “Desi Lyn.”

  “Is she your neighbor’s child as well?”

  Another quick shake of his head followed by more silence. Really, getting any information out of Teague MacDermott was going to be a struggle if she constantly had to ask. “Is she your daughter?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Startled by the question, Ryleigh stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and just looked at him. Or perhaps gaped would be a better description, because her mouth was hanging open. People rarely asked her why she wanted to know something. They generally just answered, sometimes without even thinking, sometimes telling her more than she ever wanted to know. “I . . . uh . . . I . . . ”

  He grinned in response at her sudden inability to speak. “Has no one ever asked you that before?”

  She shook her head, still dumbfounded and unsure what to say. Her mother called her inquisitive. Her father called her just plain nosy, but no one, not in all her thirty years, had asked her why she wanted to know something. Warmth blossomed beneath the lace of her collar then traveled upward to her face, leaving her cheeks on fire. Again. As long as she was having a physician listen to her heart, she might as well have him tell her why she was suddenly blushing all the time. She’d never turned red so much in her life, and she’d had plenty of embarrassing moments.

  Teague’s grin widened, and one eyebrow rose higher than the other. His eyes seemed to change color, going from polished pewter to the light gray of smoke rising from a fire. Humor hid within their depths and sparkled to life when he asked, “Cat got your tongue?”

  “I . . . well . . . ” Her cheeks flamed hotter, and her tongue remained fully tied.

  After a moment, he took pity on her and answered. “She’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”

  Ryleigh nodded and managed to get her wits about her. “And you just walk her to school?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Miss Steele, but yes, I walk her to school every morning. I’m all she has, aside from Mrs. Calvin and several very good friends.” He turned toward her, and as quickly as the snap of fingers, the humor in his eyes disappeared, replaced with stark, naked fear that made her draw in her breath. She’d never seen such anguish in another person’s face. “She’s my late brother’s daughter, but you probably already knew that.” He let out a long breath. “She’s a remarkably well-adjusted, happy child, and she doesn’t remember what happened. She was too young. She knows her parents died, but we’ve never told her the circumstances, and she’s never asked. Maybe she will someday, but until that time . . . ”

  He wasn’t unkind with his words, but there was an expression on his face that left no doubt in her mind he would do anything to protect Desi Lyn . . . like a mama bear with her cubs. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she took offense at his attitude. It was a universal emotion to protect one’s child. As much as she and her father argued, she’d seen that same expression on his face when someone said something derogatory about her. “What did you think I would do? Accost her on the street? Bombard her with questions she couldn’t possibly answer? Bring up painful memories? I’m no monster, Sheriff. I like children―sometimes more than I like adults.” Her tone seemed a little curt, even to her own ears, and it was on the tip of her tongue to apologize for it.

  He gave a slight nod. “I’m sorry. I get a little defensive when it comes to Desi Lyn. When I found her . . . after . . . ” He didn’t finish. His mouth clamped shut, and the fine lines radiating from his eyes deepened as he studied his surroundings. His body tensed, too, and the easiness which had accompanied their walk vanished.

  What did he mean by When I found her? She wanted to know. Needed to, actually, but once again, he wasn’t forthcoming with an explanation. The incident was apparently too painful to put into words, judging by his expression. Ryleigh forced aside her inquisitive nature and changed the subject, though she was more than curious. “What made you decide to be a lawman?”

  Teague shrugged, and the tension that had stiffened his muscles eased a little. “My mother.”

  “Your mother? Not your father? I know your father was sheriff here. And that you took over for him when he . . . when he passed.”

  “He was. I did. After years of moving from place to place, he took the sheriff’s job here, in Paradise Falls. He loved this town. These people. He was well-respected, too. And truly loved. I never wanted to do anything else. It’s what I know.” He grinned, then patted his shirt pocket. A moment later, he retrieved his pipe and small bag of tobacco and proceeded to tamp the tobacco into the bowl as they walked.

  “But it was my mother more than my father. She had a moral compass of what was right and wrong. She instilled that in all of us. Kept me and my brothers on the straight and narrow. That’s not to say we didn’t find our fair share of mischief, because we did, but truthfully, we were more afraid of disappointing Mam than Da.”

  They had walked to the opposite end of town along the main thoroughfare, a wide avenue with businesses on both sides of the street, going up and down the raised sidewalk with barely a pause or a misstep on her part. Ryleigh’s gaze swiveled, glancing from him to the side streets they passed. She caught glimpses of houses and tall, towering trees and people going about their daily lives. Children, those too young to attend school, laughed and chased each other while their mothers hung clean clothes on clotheslines or worked in their gardens.

  Teague stopped in front of the Carlisle Cottage, the other hotel in Paradise Falls, and struck a match against a post. He brought the flame to the pipe. Smoke rose to dissipate into the air as he puffed it alight, leaving a pleasant aroma. A moment later, he shook his hand, extinguishing the flame then pinched the head of the match between his fingers, making certain it was out before he tucked it into his pocket.

  His gaze roamed over her face, and she felt the heat of it on her cheeks, her eyes, and finally, her lips, which made her uncomfortable. Not in a bad way, but in a way that had her heart fluttering in her chest once again. She’d never been so aware of a man’s masculinity before. His mere presence, the smell of soap and tobacco, that intriguing scar on his chin, his smile, completely unnerved her. She stared at him, unable to help herself, taking in the dark slash of his brows over his smoky-gray eyes, which returned her stare with humor. Her gaze traveled downward, noticing the small bump at the bridge of his nose then stopped at his mouth.

  What would it be like to kiss this man?

  The thought popped into her head, surprising her. She’d never actually wanted to kiss a man before, though she’d been on the receiving end of a few unwanted and awkward encounters. This was completely different. This was an experience she wanted.

  “And you, Miss Steele? What made you decide to be a journalist? That’s unusual for a woman, isn’t it?”

  Ryleigh studied his handsome face. There was nothing belittling or disparaging in his questions. His tone didn’t suggest that because she was a woman, she wasn’t capable of doing the job, just that it was unusual for a woman to have such a career. Still, it was like being doused with freezing water.

  She gained control of her wayward thoughts and shrugged as he turned away from her and stared at the small bridge that spanned the river and a dense copse of evergreens signaling the south edge of town. A ribbon of road peeked between the branches of the trees. “Like you, it’s what I know. I have ink for blood. My father owns newspapers, Sheriff. Several in San Francisco, one in Santa Fe, New Mexico, one in Portland, Oregon, and he just started a new enterprise in Seattle, Washington. He’s building an empire, or so he says.”

  He clamped the pipe between his teeth and began walking again, heading toward the cool shade of the trees in the near distance. Ryleigh picked up her skirts a little as they descended the last set of steps at the end of the sidewalk, admitting, if only to herself, that walking and talking sometimes presented
a problem. “We spent a great deal of time discussing the stories in his papers, and his competitors’ newspapers as well. When I was younger, Papa took my brother and me down to his office quite a bit. Not only did I get to rub elbows with the reporters and such, but I got to see how the newspaper was printed and distributed.”

  She glanced at him, then paid attention to the uneven ground beneath her feet, picking her way around several bigger rocks that could be a hazard. “It always ended in some disaster―those visits to his office. On more than one occasion, I came home covered in ink.”

  Humor danced in his eyes. “Have you always been this, uh―?”

  She laughed and supplied the words. “Clumsy? Awkward? Oh yes, it’s a lifelong affliction, I’m afraid, but I’ve accepted it as part of who I am. Luckily, my proclivity for disaster has never stopped me from pursuing my goals.”

  “Tell me more, Miss―Ryleigh,” he encouraged as he reached for her arm to guide her away from a boulder she could have easily walked into and turned them around, away from the river and the thunderous sound of water rushing over and between huge rocks.

  How had the tables turned? When had the topic of discussion changed from him to her? And how had he done it so easily? With a touch of surprise, she found she didn’t mind. She liked talking with him, but if she wasn’t careful, he’d learn all her secrets. She might be the reporter, but he had experience getting people to talk, too.

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers resting on hard muscle, amazed at how easy and right it felt to do so as they stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “I conducted my first interview when I was four. And before you ask, yes, I was very precocious, but according to my father, I was just looking for trouble. Of course, he didn’t quite say it that way, especially when I got older.”

  She cleared her throat and imitated father. “Cordelia―she’s my mother―that girl will never find a husband with her attitude. Do something. Talk to her.” She cleared her throat again. “To which my mother would reply ‘She’s your daughter, Magnus, through and through, as stubborn as you are. Her attitude is not going to change. Perhaps yours should.’.”