Lawman's Redemption (5 page)

He studied her a moment before adjusting the cowboy hat lower over his eyes. “Maybe you should,” he said in a gravelly voice, then started off. At the edge of the street, he glanced back. “See you around.”

She watched until he'd disappeared inside the courthouse, then gave a shake of her head. She didn't understand men, not for one minute, and she swore she was going to learn to live without them—except, of course, for the occasional temporary lover. But every feminine instinct she possessed suggested that was going to be a much harder proposition here in Buffalo Plains than it would have been in Beverly Hills.

And for that, she could thank Brady Marshall.

Climbing into her car, she backed out of the space, circled halfway around the block and headed south to Heartbreak. It was twenty miles of rolling hills and heavily wooded areas interspersed with pastures that didn't appear to have anything left to feed the cattle and horses they held. She passed neat farmhouses, occasional trailers, more than a few shabby little places and one particularly ostentatious house just outside Heartbreak.

Heartbreak was
not
the town she imagined Neely spending the rest of her life in. It lacked the charm of Buffalo Plains, as well as most of the amenities. Downtown filled all of three blocks, and it was all shabby. She passed the Heartbreak Café—Café Shay, Neely called it, after its owner, Shay Rafferty. That was the place you went to find out what was going on in the
town, the state and the world. Neely had also told Hallie about the doctor's office across the street, where Heartbreak's midwife practiced, who would someday deliver Neely's babies, and she'd mentioned the hardware store up ahead, owned by Grace James and her husband, Ethan.

Truth was, Neely talked about the place as if she loved it and couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Hallie had never
loved
any of the cities where she'd lived. In fact, at the moment, she had no clue where she was going to live when she left Oklahoma. She hadn't realized how desperately she wanted out of California until last week, when she'd driven across the state line into Arizona. The terrain hadn't changed one bit—desert was desert no matter which state it belonged to—but her outlook had. In a matter of seconds, the tension knotting her shoulders had eased, and so had the tight, panicky feeling that had settled in her chest six months earlier and never gone away. Her fingers had loosened their grip on the steering wheel, and she'd sunk a little more easily into the seat.

She'd thought then that she might never go back, not even to pack the rest of her things and sell her house.

She just didn't have a clue where she would go.

Following the directions Neely had given her, she soon came to a mailbox marked Barnett. She turned into the gravel drive, passed through a heavy stand of blackjack oaks, then pulled into a clearing that wasn't particularly clear.

A fresh, raw area on the right side of the drive showed where Reese's house had stood. For the first few weeks after the assault, he and Neely had intended simply to repair, replace and clean up, then move back into the house. When they realized they kept putting off the simple jobs that would make that possible, they decided to raze it and start over from scratch.

Hallie didn't blame them as she pulled onto the grass beside a half-dozen pickups. All the clean-ups in the world couldn't make a person forget that people had died there. It would be too creepy to share the house with those memories.

On both sides of the house was pasture, and out back was a huge old barn. Next time she came out, she would have to bring
her camera and get some shots of both the barn and the horses outside it.

Across the driveway from the old house site was the new house. Work was progressing rapidly—a good thing, since Neely had already issued invitations to everyone in both the Madison and the Barnett families for Thanksgiving dinner. Hallie found her way inside, got a wolf whistle from a carpenter and another from an electrician—
so there, Max
—and found Dane Watson in the master bedroom.

Good, honest and single, Brady had said. He'd forgotten to mention tall, muscular and handsome, with surfer-boy blond hair, blue eyes and the biggest dimples Hallie had seen. He looked her over with obvious appreciation, and when they shook hands, he held her hand far longer than he should have…and Hallie didn't feel a thing. He was gorgeous, funny, charming, and made her feel like the best part of his day, and all she could think was that she liked him, but that was the extent of it.

She felt a tremendous sense of relief when she left the site two hours later. Maybe she really was building up an immunity to men. Maybe, before long, she wouldn't pay them any more notice than she would the lovely purple-blooming crape myrtle over in the side yard or the Irish setter, gleaming deep mahogany, in the shade of a tree across the street. Pretty objects to be appreciated, then forgotten.

Unbidden, the image of Brady Marshall popped into her mind and burst her bubble. When he'd walked into the sandwich shop, she had gotten the oddest quivery sensation all through her torso—not just butterflies, but butterflies doing acrobatics. Her palms had gotten damp, and she hadn't been able to decide between sliding onto the floor under the table or making a quick dash for the door while he was facing the counter.

Maybe she
was
building up an immunity to men.

But apparently Brady Marshall was the exception to the rule.

She was afraid she would have to be dead to be immune to
him.

B
y the time Brady left the courthouse Monday evening, the sun hung low in the western sky. There was little traffic and no activity as he walked to his department SUV in the lot out back. All the shops and businesses downtown were closed by six o'clock, except on Thursdays, when most stores stayed open an extra two hours. The rest of the week, any money spent in Buffalo Plains at night was spent on food, alcohol, gasoline or at the small Wal-Mart on the edge of town.

Before heading home, he drove by the county maintenance facility in the north part of town and filled up his gas tank. It wouldn't do to get called out on an emergency in the middle of the night and find out the gas tank was empty.

That done, he started home…and made it as far as the stop-light in front of the courthouse. It was red, and he stopped, wondering idly what he could fix for dinner that wouldn't take long, paying little attention to the music on the radio, when something—he couldn't even say what—caught his attention and made him look to his left.

There in front of the First National Bank of Buffalo Plains, fiddling with a camera and a tripod, was Hallie Madison.
I imag
ine in a town like this, it will be impossible to avoid each other entirely,
she'd said at lunch. No kidding. He wondered why that was. In spite of the town's size, he rarely had any problem avoiding people, so why was she any different?

Maybe because she'd been on his mind ever since he'd seen her at the wedding.

Checking the rearview mirror and finding the street clear, he backed up far enough to pull into a parking space, then climbed out. When he crossed the street, Hallie was bent slightly, making adjustments to the camera. He kept his distance and remained silent until she straightened and took a step back.

“What are you doing?”

She automatically smiled when she saw him. “Taking a picture of the courthouse in the setting sun. You're a master at asking the obvious, aren't you?”

“That's what I get paid the big bucks for,” he said dryly.

“Oh, so is this an official interrogation?” She stood straighter and raised her hands in the air. “I'm not doing anything wrong… What's your official title?”

“Undersheriff.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Gee, I believe I'll stick with deputy. I swear, Deputy Marshall— Isn't that cute? Did you ever notice—”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I'll get it right this time. I swear, Deputy Marshall, I'm not doing anything wrong, and I don't have any weapons, drugs or contraband. You can search me if you like.”

One innocent, playacting sentence, and it changed the whole tenor of the evening. It was still hot and muggy, but now the air seemed to crackle all around them. Brady felt the strong pull of desire deep in his belly, as if he hadn't just spent practically two entire nights with this woman. He was finding it difficult to breathe, or think, or to find words to give voice to—especially when the only words he wanted to say were, yes, I like.

Slowly, her gaze locked with his, she lowered her arms, then laced her fingers together. “I—I didn't mean—”

“Damn,” he murmured. “And here you got my hopes up.” And that wasn't all.

For a moment she looked uncertain, as if she wasn't entirely sure he was teasing—fair enough, since he wasn't either. Then she started fussing with the camera again. “If you work this late every day, you need a raise,” she remarked, her tone a shade too cheerful.

“Every deputy in the state of Oklahoma needs a raise.”

“Not a job you'll get rich doing, huh?”

“Not if you're honest.”

“And you are.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if there could be no doubt.

“As the day is long.” Coming a few feet closer, he gestured toward the camera. “Isn't it too dark to be taking pictures?”

“Not if you know what you're doing. For a time I worked as a photographer—did portraits, weddings, publicity photos. That's how I met Max. I did a portrait of his sister's kids, and we became friends—sort of—and she introduced us.”

It appeared most of her friends in California had been sort-of friends, since at lunch, she said Max had gotten them all in the divorce. That couldn't have been fun. “Then you married the big Hollywood producer and…took up a life of leisure?”

“And photography became a hobby that interfered with my obligations as Mrs. Max Parker.” She leaned back against the bank building and gazed at the courthouse. “It's impressive, isn't it? Looks as if it's been there forever.”

He moved to stand a few feet from her and studied the building where he worked. It was built of native stone and stood three stories tall, with arched windows spaced equidistantly on all four sides. Carved into the stone above the main entrance was the date it was built. Eighty-two years old, he calculated, and still looking as solid as when it was new.

“What brought you to Buffalo Plains?”

With the heat seeping from the bank's stone facade into his back, Brady slowly turned his head to look at her. “How is it Neely's the lawyer when you're the one full of questions?”

She laughed. “Neely's the lawyer because she's the smart one.”

“Uh-huh.” He'd heard that before. “And what are you?”

For a long time she continued to gaze at the courthouse, but
he was pretty sure she wasn't seeing the building. After a while, she shook her head, making her braid swing, then laughed again, though far less convincingly this time. “I'm the screwup. The dumb one, the ditzy one, the one who doesn't know the meaning of the word
commitment.
”

His jaw tightening, Brady looked away. His impulse was to disagree with her, to insist that her family didn't see her in those terms, but he wasn't sure he would be telling the truth.

Her eyes too bright, she bumped his arm with her shoulder. “Made you uncomfortable, didn't I?”

“No. I was just thinking that a better label for you is probably the misunderstood one.” And he knew how it felt to be misunderstood.

Without giving her time to respond, he went on. “After the divorce, I wanted to be anywhere but Texas. First I headed out to New Mexico, then into Colorado, and about six years ago I wound up in Buffalo Plains. I got a job, I liked it and was good at it, and I stayed. It only took me eight years to find a place I could stay.”

“Sheesh, I hope I have better luck.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not staying in Beverly Hills. I'm going to sell the house and find someplace where I can belong. What do I need with ten acres of lawn and gardens, seven bedrooms, a dining room that seats thirty, a screening room that seats fifty and two guest houses?”

“That's not a house. It's a mansion.”

She shrugged as if it didn't matter. “I never liked it anyway. Max picked it out, and his interior designer decorated it. All I got to do was live in it.”

“If you didn't like it, why didn't you let him have it in the divorce?” He'd been more than happy to walk away from the house he'd built for Sandra. If he'd kept it after the divorce, he would have burned it to the ground, then left the rubble there so he would never forget.

By then the sun had set enough that the streetlights were on. In their artificial glow, he could make out the sheepish expression on her face. “The bimbo wanted it, and I— She'd already
taken my husband. There was no way I was going to let her have my house, too.”

“Does the bimbo have a name?” He hadn't set foot in a movie theater in longer than he could remember, but his satellite system delivered more channels of movies than a reasonable person could watch. Since he spent the bulk of his free time alone, he watched a lot.

“Lilah Grant.”

He gave a low whistle.

“I see you're familiar with her,” Hallie said, her voice so dry it could suck the humidity out of the air. “She wears a size two—which also happens to be her IQ, by the way—and she's got less acting talent than that post over there, but she never met a nude scene she didn't love. And, no, they're not real. Those are the best triple-D breasts money can buy.”

Earlier he hadn't been able to imagine the woman a man would pick over Hallie. Even knowing, he couldn't see it. The starving waif look had never appealed to him, not even with the big boobs. He liked women who looked like women, who had curves where they should, who had a little softness to them.

“So did you know when you married him that he was an idiot, or did you find that out later?”

Pushing away from the wall, she disconnected the camera from the tripod, returned it to its bag, then expertly folded the tripod and slid it through a loop on the bag. When she was done, she faced him. “You're a nice man, Brady.”

Her words struck that place deep inside him that was always frozen and hard, and made his muscles clench and tighten. “No, Hallie,” he said quietly. “I'm not.”

She shrugged as if his disagreement meant nothing. “You see yourself your way, and I'll see you my way.” Then… “I guess I'll head back to the motel.”

She'd gone a few yards before he could bring himself to move. “Hey, where's your car?”

“Back at the motel. I walked.”

“Let me give you a ride.”

She turned around, her head tilted to one side. “I understand Buffalo Plains is about as safe as a town can get.”

“It is, but there's no reason to tempt fate.” Which was exactly what he was doing. If he took her back to the motel, would he insist on seeing her to her door? Would he stop there?

He honestly didn't know.

After a moment's consideration, she nodded and returned to him. He automatically reached for the camera bag and was surprised by its weight. “What have you got in here?”

“Just the essentials. I'd be happy to take it back if you can't handle it.”

He scowled at her. “Don't forget—I'm the one with the gun and the handcuffs.”

“Yeah, and I'm the one whose favorite sister is married to your boss.”

And he kept managing to forget that.

He directed her to his truck around the corner, then put her bag in the back seat. “Have you had dinner?” he asked when he settled in the driver's seat.

“I had a chili dog at the drive-in across the street from the motel.”

“You like to live dangerously, don't you?”

“I've been doing that ever since I set foot in this town,” she said quietly.

They drove the nine blocks to the motel in silence. How many times had he gone to a motel with a woman he hardly knew? And yet it felt strange this time. Maybe because he already knew to pull around back and park next to the Mercedes.

Or maybe because this time he wanted like hell to go inside with her…but not as much as he wanted to say good-night in the parking lot.

He shut off the engine, and for the space of a few heartbeats, they both sat there. Brady was looking at the window of the room in front of them, and he could tell by nothing more than feeling that she was looking elsewhere, too.

As the cool air inside the SUV was replaced with warmer, damper air, she opened the door. He did the same. She led the way up the stairs, and he followed…but only as far as the top landing. She had covered half the twenty-foot distance to her
room before realizing that he'd stopped. Turning back, she smiled uneasily. “Would you like to come in?”

“Very much.”

“But you're not going to.”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

Because it would be wrong—more so than the first time, not as much as the second, but still wrong. Because, in spite of her assurances, he wasn't sure what her expectations were. Hell, he wasn't sure what
his
expectations were. Because they were a great match for a one-night stand, but neither of them brought much hope to the success of anything more.

And because he liked her, honestly liked her, and though he didn't know what he wanted from her, he did know one thing for sure—he didn't want to hurt her. She'd gotten enough of that for a lifetime.

She smiled faintly. “It's okay. You don't have to answer that. I've got plenty of answers to choose from.” Coming back, she held out her hand, and he gave her the camera bag. “Thank you for the ride home.”

He nodded, then watched until she'd unlocked her room. “Hallie?”

She glanced at him.

“I'd like to see your pictures sometime.”

“Sure.” Once again she started to go inside, and once again he stopped her.

“You want to have lunch tomorrow?”

“Sure. Should I meet you at the courthouse?”

“That would be good. Around noon?”

“Okay. Good night.” She went inside and closed the door. Even from that distance, he heard the lock click.

As he started down the stairs, he swore silently. He couldn't believe he'd found himself twenty-five feet from a bed and a beautiful and willing woman, and he was walking away. Sure, it was the safe choice, but how much was he going to hate himself a few hours from now, when he was alone in bed and unable to sleep?

Not as much as if he'd taken advantage of her again.

Hallie Madison was the most wrong person for him in all of Oklahoma. She was vulnerable and lonely and needed more than he'd ever been able to give.

But he wasn't going to hurt her. He swore to God he wouldn't.

He just wished he could be as sure that
he
wasn't going to get hurt, either.

 

Hallie loved old furniture—not antiques, necessarily. Just old. Pieces that people had lived with, that showed the marks and scars of use. Anticipating lunch with Brady far more than was safe, she went downtown more than an hour early on Tuesday and spent the time wandering through antique stores on the block across from the courthouse. She'd bought a couple of pitchers in the first store—one glazed green and brown, the other beige and brown. Oklahoma-made, the elderly woman behind the counter had declared, at Frankoma Pottery over to Sapulpa.