A Sheriff in Tennessee Page 10

  “Does he catch much?”

  Klein sighed. “Not a thing. But don’t mention that. It embarrasses him.”

  She laughed. “Embarrasses you, most like.”

  “Not me. I couldn’t care less what he does, as long as he’s happy. But Clint thinks he has to try.”

  “Do you really think that he thinks? That he understands what you’re saying? That he can be embarrassed?”

  “Yep. Now, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  He left her smiling as if he’d said something incredibly cute. He hadn’t been cute since 1968, and probably not even then.

  She’d no doubt thought he was kidding when he’d said those things about Clint. But the dog had an uncommon ability to behave in a human fashion—sometimes more so than certain humans of Klein’s acquaintanceship. And Clint’s face could express a range of emotions that made Klein believe there was a lot more goin’ on behind those eyes than contemplation of his favorite trees on the property.

  Maybe he was giving Clint too much credit. Maybe all dogs were like that. Klein didn’t know.

  He hustled upstairs to his room and shucked his uniform. After a day in the sun, the standing, the lifting, the walking, he couldn’t bear to wear the thing a moment longer. Instead, he threw on a pair of jeans and a worn Atlanta Falcons T-shirt. Barefoot, he descended into the kitchen.

  His fridge was full. His mama hadn’t raised no fool. A man of Klein’s size needed to eat, and while he tried to eat right, every man had his Achilles’ heel. His were cherry turnovers. He’d never met one he didn’t like.

  While he wouldn’t turn down a beer and buttered popcorn, a Bloody Mary and Cheez Doodles, or ice cream smothered in Kahlúa, Klein had a feeling Isabelle’s idea of cocktail hour would be somewhat different from his own.

  So onto a tray he plopped a bottle of wine, some cheese, crackers, sliced apples and pears, two glasses and napkins, then headed for the porch.

  Isabelle smiled at him. “What’s this?”

  “I promised you a drink and a snack.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  He set the tray on a small table between two chairs and poured some sparkling white wine. “I always think that, too, until I start to eat. Anyway—” he held out the glass “—this wine is from Smith Winery in town. You’ll want to try some.”

  Hesitantly she took the glass. “Research, right?”

  “Exactly.” He poured himself a serving, then held the glass aloft in a toast. “To you. You were something today, Isabelle.”

  He clinked his glass against hers and took a swig of the house specialty. He had to say one thing for the Smiths. They knew how to make a decent white wine.

  He lowered his glass, and Isabelle still had not moved. “It’s common to take a sip after a toast.”

  “To me?” she murmured. “But I didn’t do anything.”

  He frowned. “Were you at the same accident I was? You did plenty, and I for one was impressed.”

  “I fell apart. I’m a complete wuss.”

  “You didn’t fall apart when the going was tough—you fell apart later. That doesn’t count.”

  “No?”

  “Do you know how many big, tough soldiers lose it after a battle? How many cops end up shaking in their showers after facing a gun in the night? It’s not what happens later that counts. It’s what happens in the thick of things that’s the measure of a man. Or a woman.”

  She seemed to be thinking about that. Good. He didn’t give a shit whether she pretended to be Florence Nightingale, Marilyn Monroe or Andy Taylor, if she helped people.

  “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it. After all, you are the teacher.” This time she clinked her glass against his, and she drank. “Mmm. Chai Smith makes this wine?”

  Klein snorted. “Not with his own hands.”

  “I figured that out for myself.”

  They shared a smile. “His family owns the winery. You should stop by and see it. Interesting place.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured again, absently this time as she stared at the horizon.

  He extended the plate. “It goes better with a few of these.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He wanted to growl at the repeated response. Instead, he held the food under her nose. She rolled her eyes and took one of each offering, then turned her attention to the yard.

  Klein set the plate on her side of the table, hoping she might continue to nibble. The memory of the pathetic offerings in her refrigerator gave him the uncommon urge to feed her. Despite his size and sex, he had a motherly soul. He just couldn’t help himself.

  “There’s Clint.”

  He followed the direction of her finger to the tall grass at the edge of the yard. Slowly the dog approached, the grass parting in front of his long, red-brown body. His ears hung low; they wobbled to and fro. Klein shook his head as the words and tune of the old children’s song went through his mind. They disappeared completely when a rabbit shot out of the grass and across the yard.

  Clint let out a howl and leaped in pursuit. Klein knew what was coming. He groaned. “Don’t watch.”

  Belle glanced at him in surprise. “You said he never catches anything.”

  “He won’t.”

  Her brow furrowed, Isabelle focused on the high-speed chase occurring before their eyes.

  Huge paws churning, Clint scrambled after the fleeing rabbit. He was close at first. He almost had a chance—or, at least, it appeared that way. Then the rabbit put on a burst of speed, flashed past the oak tree in the yard and disappeared beneath the house.

  Clint stopped dead beneath the tree and looked up, panting, waiting, hoping. It was embarrassing.

  Isabelle choked, cleared her throat to cover, but Klein could hear the laughter in her voice. “Does he think he treed a rabbit?”

  “He thinks everything that runs is a squirrel.” Klein sighed and shook his head. “He’ll sit there all day waiting for something to come down that never went up in the first place. I’ve tried to explain to him that even if it is a squirrel, it won’t come down while he’s waiting, but he doesn’t believe me.”

  “Well, I can see why he has a hard time catching anything.” She glanced at Klein, then back at the dog. “And maybe that isn’t the worst thing. It’s not like you need him to bring home food for you to eat.”

  Something in her voice made him cut a glance her way. She was no longer smiling. Instead, she appeared pensive, as if remembering times gone by.

  “True,” he agreed. “But I worry about him. He doesn’t seem overly bright.”

  She raised her gaze to his. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Klein whistled, and Clint’s head whipped in his direction. After a longing look up the tree, he sighed and slunk over to join them on the porch. His snout sniffed the air and his sad gaze lit on the plate of snacks. Klein was gratified to see only two-thirds of the offerings remained.

  “I don’t think so, buddy.”

  Clint’s shoulders sagged and he wandered off, desolate and starving.

  Isabelle leaned back in the chair, holding the wineglass loosely in one hand. For a moment he studied that hand. Slim fingers, long manicured nails; though he liked it, the polish would have to go. What self-respecting small-town sheriff wore hot-pink nail polish?

  Her gaze now on the mountains, she appeared as relaxed as Klein had ever seen her. Well, that was what he’d been after. Getting her to slow down, smell the breeze, walk the dog. He just hadn’t thought she’d take to it so well or so easily.

  “You ready to head back to town?”

  As if he’d shouted in her ear, she jumped, shot to her feet and began to gather the plate and the glasses. “Of course. You’ve got work. I was just—”

  He touched her arm. Her skin literally vibrated; the muscles beneath quivered. Now he was reminded of times long past. For his mother, every day had brought a crisis, every minor annoyance a disaster; her entire life had be
en a running soap opera. Klein’s duty had been to keep her calm, smooth the way, take care of every little thing. Because when he did, she loved him.

  He sighed. Hyper people made him nuts. So why did they always surround him?

  “Stop,” he ordered.

  Slowly she raised her gaze from his hand on her arm to his face. “Stop?”

  Klein took the plate and glasses from her, removed several pieces of cheese, fruit and crackers and laid them in her empty hands. “Stop being so nervous. You’re going to turn me into you, instead of the other way around.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see that happening.”

  From the way his heart was jumping, he did. “You need to quit hopping around like Clint’s rabbits. No one’s going to chase you up a tree while I’m around.” She smiled. “Think small. Think slow. Think all the time in the world.”

  She took a deep breath, let it out, ate a cracker, swallowed. “I’ll do my best, Klein, but I’m just not a small-thinkin’, slow-movin’ woman.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  KLEIN HANDED BELLE Clint’s leash as soon as they left his yard. Well, he had said she needed to walk the dog, and in truth she never had before. The dogs at home were either penned or set free to run in the mountains and bring home game for themselves or the family. Within five minutes she understood why such an activity was not considered exercise but a leisure activity.

  Clint was more laid-back than Klein. Since the dog needed to smell every inch of the road all the way back to town—with occasional breaks to sniff, then drool on, Belle’s shoes—she did a whole lot more standing than walking. And after the first half mile, she no longer gritted her teeth whenever he paused. He was having such a good time she didn’t have the heart to tug him along at her usual pace.

  As Klein had pointed out, she was supposed to slow down, not speed everyone else up. Belle couldn’t help it; she was just a speedy kind of gal. In her world the motto was “you snooze, you lose.” If she didn’t get there first, someone else would. But suddenly, in order to succeed, she had to be what she’d spent years training herself to leave behind.

  “How far to town?” she asked Klein, who was hanging even farther back than Clint.

  He shrugged. “’Bout half an hour if I’m in a hurry.”

  “Hurry? You? Never.”

  He smiled. “I do. Sometimes. But I have to have a very good reason.” He flicked a finger behind her. “You might want to roust Clint from the road. I expect that could be dangerous.”

  Belle turned around to discover that while they’d been chatting, Clint had fallen asleep on the center line of Highway B.

  By the time they reached Pleasant Ridge, businesses had closed. Lights flickered to life both in town and in the distance. Long gray fingers of dusk spread over the mountains, then into the valley.

  The three of them stopped right there on the sidewalk and together they watched the sun—a bright orange ball of flame circled by cobalt blue and wispy clouds of white—sink. Even Clint sighed.

  Belle had thought days in Pleasant Ridge would be dull beyond redemption. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Of course, not every day would be like this one. At least, she hoped not. But listening to Klein talk about people, places, the things that went on here, she could see that dull was not a word to describe the life of a small-town sheriff.

  While Klein observed the vestiges of sunlight dribble into the horizon like a child’s crayon drawing left to melt on the sky, Belle eyed his impressive chest and remembered all she had seen him do that day.

  Besides the walking, he’d probably done fifty leg squats as he bent to check on injured people. He’d lifted a good many, carried them, too, then twisted and turned to put them out of harm’s way. She’d even seen him directing traffic, holding out his no-doubt-chiseled arms, pointing here, there, everywhere enough times to make Belle’s arms ache just thinking about it. Gabe Klein’s entire day was one long exercise class.

  Which explained why muscles Belle couldn’t recall even having ached as though she’d pounded on them with a rubber hammer. She was going to be even more sore in the morning. And she didn’t care. She felt good. Sore, but good. She’d gotten her aches and pains by working, helping, doing, rather than running to get nowhere. Maybe there was something to be said about the exercise class of life.

  Klein didn’t seem to know she was watching him, or maybe he just didn’t care, so she kept looking. The problem was, she couldn’t look without wanting to touch. He had such nice skin, smooth and tanned, and his nose, while large, was straight and strong. She wanted to trail a finger down the bridge, smooth her thumbs over his cheekbones, run her palms all over his back. And that was just her hands. She wasn’t even going to think about what she wanted to do to him with her mouth.

  Belle’s sigh was echoed by Clint’s groan as he lay down on the sidewalk. Klein slid a glance at her. In his eyes was a wariness she couldn’t quite fathom. “We’d best get a move on before he settles in for the night.”

  Without waiting for her answer, he meandered down the street.

  KLEIN’S SKIN TINGLED. Why did she keep staring at him like that? Even now he could feel her gaze hot between his shoulder blades.

  He’d been gawked at all his life; you’d think he’d be used to it by now. He’d thought he was. But Isabelle’s staring got to him, made him think of things he hadn’t cared about in years—like the size of his nose, the shape of his face, the shade and lack of his hair. All foolishness—things he could not control or aspects of him that did not matter. But tell it to a woman who looked like her.

  Caught up in thoughts of Isabelle and all those foolish things that mattered to “other” people, Klein forgot to cross the street. He stopped dead as furious yapping erupted from the building to his left and a streak of black-and-brown fur cloaked in white shot from the doorway. Prepared for a lump with teeth to latch onto his leg, he tensed. But this time, T.B. raced past him in the direction of—

  “Isabelle!”

  He spun on his heel, already running, not sure what he’d do except scoop her off the ground and keep her safe from manic Mexican mutts. However, T.B. wasn’t interested in her. He only had eyes for Clint.

  Yap-yap-yap! Klein had never seen the animal so furious. Clint stared at the dog as though not quite sure what it was. Klein couldn’t blame him. He’d never been quite sure, either.

  Though T.B. talked a good game, his bark was too high-pitched to take seriously, and while the lace bonnet and equally lacy bloomers matched the bark, they didn’t elicit the terror T.B. seemed to think followed wherever he roamed.

  Before Klein reached them, Isabelle made a move to get in between the yapping dog and the silent one.

  “No!” Klein snapped. T.B. might not look fierce, but Klein had enough shredded pants to prove that the little dog was deep-down crazy.

  Klein glanced around for a bucket of water, some ice, a fire hose—anything to defuse the animals. He did not want to have to tell Mrs. Dubray that his huge hound dog had marked her cute, though insane, baby boy.

  T.B. continued to yap. Clint leaned down and delicately sniffed the moving mouth. Then he sneezed—right in T.B.’s face. The little dog went silent.

  “Oh-oh,” Isabelle murmured.

  Klein reached out, tugged her to his side and just behind him. In his mind he imagined something like a dogfight on Cartoon Network—animals rolling, spit spraying, fur flying. What happened was a whole lot different. Considering Clint and T.B., he shouldn’t have been surprised.

  The little dog vibrated with fury. A buzzing noise came from his throat. It took Klein a moment to realize T.B. was growling.

  He glanced at Clint. Klein could almost see understanding spread over that hound dog face. The sniping, buzzing thing was a dog!

  Clint collapsed to the pavement and rolled on his back, belly up, neck bared, complete submissiveness in every fluid bone of his chicken-hearted body.

 
“Oh man,” Klein groaned. “He’s gutless.” T.B. stopped growling, stared down his nose at the groveling hound dog and tipped his head in a regal manner made ridiculous by his bonnet. T.B. didn’t care. He was a wolf in Chihuahua skin, while Clint was a wuss with a hound dog body.

  As if to mark Clint’s head as his territory, T.B. began to lift his leg. Klein could stand only so much. “Hey!” The dog looked at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Klein took a step toward T.B., prepared to help him back home physically. After eyeing Klein’s pants with interest, the dog trotted back toward the museum.

  As soon as the little dog was gone, the big one rolled over and stared at Klein with his tongue hanging out. He appeared to be smiling. Considering Clint’s face, this was quite an accomplishment.

  “He has no idea,” Klein said slowly. “Not a single clue that he’s just rolled belly up to a dog one-twentieth his size.”

  “Did you want them to fight?”

  “All he had to do was bark, growl, even stand his ground. Something. Anything. Now he’ll have to fight, or keep crawling to that pipsqueak for the rest of his life.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t mind crawling.”

  “How could he not mind?”

  “Because he’d rather be a crawler than a fighter?”

  Klein couldn’t fathom that. He’d learned in countless small towns in countless places that you had to stand up for yourself right off the bat or be a doormat forever. Klein had never made a good doormat. He was too big for the porch.

  “I was hoping once he felt at home here, once he knew he was safe and I’d never let anyone hurt him, then he’d be braver, stronger.”

  Isabelle took Klein’s hand. He started, but she just smiled and linked their fingers. “You were hoping his hound doggedness was more than skin deep?”

  Klein blinked. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “Just because he looks like a hound dog and sounds like a hound dog doesn’t make him a hound dog.”