by Amy Frazier
“Can I have a word with you?” His deep voice, held firmly in check, nonetheless threatened her equilibrium. “I’d like to talk about Rory.”
“He…he finished work for today. We rode our bikes into town together. Said he was going off with friends to swim.”
“I know. He dropped by the office. Have you eaten lunch?”
She didn’t want lunch with this man, but her stomach—last fed hours ago at a crack-of-dawn breakfast—took that moment to cast its own vote with a loud growl.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Before she could protest, he cupped her elbow and guided her across the street. She was stunned to discover he was leading her not to Rachel’s Diner, but next door to the sheriff’s office.
“I hope you like chili,” he said as he propelled her through the front door. “McMillan made enough for an army.”
That reminded Samantha of the children’s taunt, “Who’s gonna make me? You and whose army?” and wondered how much she’d have to reveal of herself during this “lunch.”
Garrett was determined to get some answers from Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—and he was going to do it on his own turf. He needed to balance her right to privacy with his need to know whom his son interacted with. The lunch invitation was meant to make the procedure—one that required finesse, something he wasn’t sure he possessed—less threatening. He might be sheriff, but he’d been raised Southern. You didn’t scare off a newcomer just because you didn’t know what her daddy, granddaddy and great-granddaddy did for a living. Didn’t know yet.
“Up this way.” He motioned to a staircase that led to the barracks above the ground-floor offices.
Cool caution seemed to form a shield around her as she climbed the stairs ahead of him. Clearly, she was on guard, and he wondered why. She paused, uncertain, at the top of the stairs.
Without introductions, he propelled her toward the kitchenette, past several deputies eating at the long central trestle table. They eyed Samantha with interest. It was unusual for him to bring an outsider up here. Business dealings he always conducted below and by the book. Any personal life he kept separate from his work. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Silently, he put together two trays of dishes, silverware, napkins, then indicated the chili, salad, bread, sweet tea. Holding herself regally, she responded with a nod that, yes, she’d try some of each. He hadn’t felt so uncomfortable since his first middle school dance. The silence of the deputies behind them was deafening.
Handing her a tray, he headed for the stairs once more. She seemed mildly surprised they wouldn’t be eating at the communal table—as if he’d ever let that happen.
“We can eat and talk in my office,” he said in a low voice, but not low enough. He saw the corner of Deputy Sooner’s mouth quirk in the beginning of a grin.
Safely downstairs in his office, he lowered his tray to the top of a stack of papers covering his blotter, then cleared a place opposite for hers. Pulling Rory’s backpack from the only other chair in the room, he indicated she should sit. She did, gingerly, looking down at an empty trap Ziggy Newsome had returned after relocating a raccoon that had taken up residence in the Newsome attic.
With his foot Garrett pushed the trap into the corner. “Sorry about the housekeeping.”
“You said you wanted to talk about your son.” She was unflappable, this one.
“I don’t know how much he’s told you about his situation,” he said, trying for equally cool.
“He said he spends summers and vacations with you and the rest of the year with his mother in Charlotte. Beyond that we only talk about animals and running my business. In those areas he seems very mature for his age.”
“Do you know much about kids?”
“No.”
“All the more reason we should talk.”
Slowly spreading a napkin on her lap, she raised one eyebrow and gave him an if-you-say-so look, but didn’t answer otherwise. He was a crossword fanatic. In the paper that morning one of the answers had been hauteur. At this moment the clue could have been “Samantha Weston.”
“I guess because Rory splits his time between my ex and me,” he said, “we’re twice as vigilant. As parents.”
“That—” she took a delicate nibble of her salad “—and the fact you’re sheriff and would naturally want to know who’s moving into your territory and what they’re planning on doing. Say, me.”
“You’ve read me accurately there. And just about ninety-nine percent of the rest of the town. You had to know your business would stir up curiosity. It’s unusual.”
“And here Abel just got through telling me this is a live-and-let-live town.” She shot him a command-the-room smile. “Are llama treks a suspicious activity, sheriff? I filed a prospectus when I applied for my permit. It’s public information.”
“I read it.”
“Oh?” She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Did you read Rachel’s when she bought the diner? Or Abel’s when he inherited the feed store?”
He found himself unaccountably taken back by her direct gaze and her cross-examination. “You…need to understand I’m talking to you as a father. I’d check out any situation I let my son into. Be it a sleepover with friends or a part-time job at Mickey D’s—”
“So you want to know what kind of employer I am? Have you talked to Red Harris? I think he’s observed me long and hard enough to provide a pretty good character reference. Or maybe Abel. He could tell you I pay my bills on time.” Her tone was pseudo-light with a defensiveness that swam just below the surface. Her body language said he wasn’t intimidating her. “Have you interviewed them?”
“No.” Who the hell was conducting this interview? He bristled at her ability to turn the tables. “But now you bring up the matter of background checks, why’s there no record for Samantha Weston? Not even a driver’s license.”
“So you did snoop on me.” She seemed almost relieved. “FYI, there’s no license under my name because I don’t drive. Your lunch is getting cold.”
He looked at the untouched meal in front of him. So much for finesse and the excuse of getting to know his son’s employer.
“I think Rory and I are going to get along fine.” She seemed to have no trouble eating and talking. With an unhurried elegance that would fit right in at a formal luncheon at the Grove Park Inn, she’d finished half her meal. “If you’d like, you could come with him to work one day. To observe.”
“You really don’t know much about twelve-year-olds, do you? He’d be mortified.”
“Ah, yes. So much easier to investigate me.”
“Come on now. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”
“But you did run a background check on me. Beyond the license.”
He got the feeling this woman could hold her own. Anywhere. “Yes.”
“And would you tell me what you found out?” she asked politely, as if they were discussing the weather for an upcoming polo match.
Screw finesse. “That everything from your phone bills to ownership of Whistling Meadows traces back to a corporation. Ashley Dreams, Inc.”
“Yes,” she replied without offering further explanation. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Well, I guess I can’t blame a man for doing his job.” Her tone said otherwise.
“Just out of curiosity, what’s your connection to Ashley Dreams?”
“Is this a sheriff question or a father question?” He noticed her brown eyes were flecked with gold. And they got darker the more serious she became.
“Neither. Just a question.”
“You want to know if I’m the CEO or the hired help. Is that what you’re getting at?”
One thing was certain, this woman was no one’s hired help.
“Let’s put it this way,” she continued. “On paper Whistling Meadows is owned by Ashley Dreams, Incorporated, but no one really owns that slice of pasture land and moun
tain. You should know that, sheriff. Your son says you grew up here. Its geologic history alone reaches so far back no human can really claim it. The llamas sense that if the people can’t. The animals just live on the surface. Day to day. Content to be here amid the splendor. I suspect they chuckle at the idea that someone—corporation or individual—thinks he or she owns them or the land. But they humor us. Me, I’m just part of the scenery. Trying to live on Whistling Meadows without leaving too intrusive a footprint.”
“A philosopher,” he said, noting rather cynically she hadn’t come close to answering his question.
“Now that’s the nicest thing I’ve been called in a long time.” She rose. “On that positive note, I need to get back to the farm. Thanks for lunch.”
She smiled, then left his office, leaving him with a cold meal, the hint of some sophisticated fragrance she’d been wearing and the firm conviction that, philosopher or not, Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—was one self-contained woman.
Outside, Samantha shook herself as if chilled. She was so mad she could bite someone. And wouldn’t her mother be shocked at even the thought of such behavior. Well, this wasn’t the Orchid Court at the Singapore Ashley. It wasn’t even the breakfast room back home in Virginia. This was Main Street, Applegate, North Carolina, and the sheriff seemed to think he could be rude—rude and nosy—and get away with it.
So much for Abel’s assessment that the town didn’t abide snoops. Outside snoops, perhaps. The homegrown ones seemed to come with a badge.
Trying to let off steam, she pedaled her bike furiously back to the farm.
So what was she to do about the sheriff? What she always did with rude people. Ignore them. But what about Rory? With him working for her, she upped her chances of running into his father. She could fire the boy. And his “vigilant” guardian would probably seek legal redress. Wouldn’t he think he’d discovered the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow when he realized how much she was worth?
No, she’d have to fly under the radar. With both the sheriff and Max on her trail…damn, she’d forgotten about Max. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t have forgotten about her. That she hadn’t seen him in town meant only one thing—he’d found out what he wanted and was headed back to her father to report. Then her daddy would take his time. He hadn’t built his hotel empire by being rash. The grand opening of the Singapore Ashley would occupy him for a week or two. Maybe. If she was lucky. He wouldn’t mention anything to her mother, not until the very moment he’d say, “Throw a few things in a bag for a little getaway.” Then the two would sweep south. And Samantha’s new life would be turned topsy-turvy by the whirlwind that always accompanied her parents. She could just picture Mother in the farmhouse. She’d do an extreme makeover in no time. And Father? She couldn’t quite imagine him and Red and martinis on the bunkhouse porch.
Despite her request for time, her parents would arrive. Like a tsunami. There was absolutely nothing Samantha could do to stop them. She only hoped the press wouldn’t follow.
Wouldn’t that give the sheriff something to investigate?
As she turned her bicycle into the lane running up to Whistling Meadows, she realized she’d worked up quite a sweat under the June sun. How unladylike. Well, Mother would have to get used to her daughter’s adaptation to the rigors of country living. And Samantha would simply have to not think about tomorrow. Stay in the moment, she chided herself. Right now, neither the press nor your parents are here. Right now, there is no reason for you to see the sheriff. Right now… there appeared to be a body on her front porch.
Yes, a man. Sprawled. Unmoving.
She looked toward the bunkhouse. Red’s truck was gone. Instinctively, she moved to page hotel security, then gave herself a reality check. Her next move was to call 9-1-1 and pray the sheriff didn’t think she’d added murder to her sketchy résumé.
CHAPTER FOUR
“IS HE DEAD?”
“Dead drunk.” Garrett surveyed Mack, collapsed and motionless, on Samantha’s porch. How had he managed to walk here from the Whittaker property with all that whiskey in him?
“Do you know who he is?” Samantha looked at Garrett with an extraordinary degree of equanimity. He could think of several women in town whom he’d known since childhood, yet those very women would be all bent out of shape in this situation. Had been in similar situations.
“I know him,” he replied, unwilling to give out too much information. “Mack Whittaker.” He began to calculate what it would take to get his friend’s six-four, two-hundred-pound-plus frame into the cruiser. Although the men were equally matched size-wise, Garrett was at a disadvantage when Mack was unconscious and Garrett was doing all the work.
“Is someone missing him?” Without so much as wrinkling her nose, Samantha knelt beside Mack’s none-too-clean form. Garrett found himself staring at the curls of blond hair floating around her face, found himself noting that her porcelain complexion wasn’t the norm around here. He worried a little at the hint of sunburn across her nose and cheeks, before catching himself. She looked up at him. Her eyes were actually the softest shade of hazel, not brown as he’d first thought, but her gaze was penetrating. “A wife maybe?”
“N-no. No wife. Parents.” He pulled himself back into professional mode. “But I don’t want Miss Lily to see her son like this. She’s worried enough about him as is. I’ll call for backup. Let him sleep it off in a jail cell. Clean him up when he wakes.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No.” He didn’t want to add, only to himself. It would be an admission on Garrett’s part of how low his old buddy had sunk, of how grim the road to recovery seemed and how little Garrett had been able to help. He wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet, even if Mack was.
“Then let him stay here,” she said, standing. As if she was in charge. In fact, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself, said she was accustomed to giving orders. And used to having those orders followed.
“You don’t even know him.”
“But I know something about—”
Red Harris drove up then, interrupting their conversation. Too bad. Garrett couldn’t imagine how Samantha could possibly relate to this sorry-looking piece of humanity taking up floor space on her porch. As different from her as night and day.
Red jumped out of his truck. “Ziggy Newsome told me he saw Mack heading this way. None too steady on his feet, he said.” With concern on his craggy features, he studied Samantha. “Did he scare you, Duchess?”
“I’m okay now. But at first I thought he was dead.”
“He couldn’t look much worse if he was.” Red turned to Garrett. “You want help gettin’ him in the car?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Wait!” Samantha put out a hand to stop them. “I still think he should stay here. Until he sobers up.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Garrett replied, squatting to get a grip under Mack’s armpits, “but you’re crazy. A jail cell’s the place for him until he comes round.”
“On second thought, maybe she isn’t crazy,” Red countered, hefting Mack from under his knees. “He’d be right pissed with you if he woke up in front of coworkers. Humiliated. Let’s carry him to the bunkhouse. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Garrett was still skeptical. “You don’t have to do this, Red.”
“I know I don’t. But everyone—me included—has a story about Mack helping ’em at one time or another. He’s good people. Laid a little low, is all.”
Samantha seemed to hang on every word.
Garrett could fully understand Red’s feelings, but he couldn’t get a handle on hers.
“Duchess,” Red said, “get the bunkhouse door for us. The sheriff and I’ll haul Mack along as best we can.”
Even with the two of them, they had to sidle cautiously, Mack’s dead weight hanging between them. Inside the old bunkhouse Samantha stood beside a bed in the corner of what used to be the foreman’s room.
“Not there!” Red exclaimed. “That’s my bed and I just put on fresh sheets. I may be a Good Samaritan, but I’m no saint. Let’s get him on a bunk in the workers’ dorm, next room over.”
Garrett was glad to finally lay Mack down. That whole “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother” saying was a crock.
“You’ll let me know when he’s conscious?” Samantha asked Red. “I want to talk to him.”
“Sure.”
She then turned to Garrett. “I’ll see you to your cruiser.”
“No need.” He wondered what Samantha could possibly have to say to Mack.
Despite the brush-off, she followed anyway. “This man works for the sheriff’s department?”
“He’s on leave.” It wasn’t any of her business. Besides, he didn’t like being questioned. Especially about things beyond his control. “Plus, he’s a buddy from way back. So…what’s your interest?”
She leveled her cool gaze at him. There was strength and resolve beneath that sophisticated exterior. You could tell by being three minutes in her company. What he didn’t know—yet—was what made her tick. Why she’d picked Applegate in the first place. Why, after being a quiet newcomer to this point, she’d chosen to get involved with Mack, of all people.
“Do you want us to call you?” she asked, “When—Mack, did you say?—is in better shape?”
“I’ll circle back in a while. If you wait until he gets his feet under him, he may be gone before you know it.”
“Perhaps.” She looked as if she knew something about his old friend that he didn’t.
“I’ll check in later anyway.”
“No need,” she insisted in an echo of his own words earlier. “Red and I are good.”
Dissatisfied, he got in the car. This morning he’d set two goals at the top of his mental to-do list: help Mack and run a background check on Rory’s employer. And what had he accomplished at the end of the day? Damn little.
Samantha watched the sheriff leave. Having deliberately sought solitude to put her life back together, why had she stuck out her neck just then?