The Sheriff Catches a Bride (12 page)

“You’ll have to give your statement about what happened and they’ll want a list of the paintings Emory took. Do you want to press charges?”

Rose laughed bitterly. “How can I? He’s sick, right? He’s got OCD—everyone knows that. So he gets a free pass to do whatever he wants.”

“That’s not entirely true.” Cab touched her arm. “You’re right; Emory needs help, but a charge against him could be what it takes to get him to see that.”

“My parents would kill me,” she said, trying desperately not to cry. “They would hate my guts.”

“I doubt that. They worry for their friend, that’s all. Emory hasn’t had an easy time of it, but that’s no excuse for what he did to you. Do you think you can go back inside and start a list of what’s missing? You don’t have to do it all tonight. Just get a start.”

Nausea swept over her at the thought of seeing her studio again, but Rose allowed him to help her to her feet and support her as she walked back to the carriage house. She was thankful for his steadying arm as she climbed the steps back to the entrance. He had a word with the officer posted there and led her inside. Back in the spare bedroom, she fought even harder to hold back her tears. As professionally and methodically as she could, she described all the changes Emory had made in each of the rooms, and then listed as many missing canvasses as she could recall. With each one, her voice thickened until she couldn’t speak anymore. When Cab moved to comfort her, she waved him off, bracing herself against the wide desk to keep on her feet. Cab disappeared and came back with a box of tissues. She grabbed one gratefully and mopped her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just…”

“It’s just someone came into your house and destroyed the things most precious to you. I’m sorry, Rose. I’m so sorry. Your paintings are beautiful.”

His perception surprised her.

“Do you want me to take you back to Ethan and Autumn’s place? I’m not sure you should stay here tonight,” he said.

No, she didn’t want to stay here. Not now. “I guess so. I hate to bother them.”

“It won’t be a bother, you know that. Or you could stay with me if you prefer. I assumed you’d be more comfortable with Autumn.”

Rose nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

He put an arm around her shoulder as he led her out the door. “I wish I could say things will look better in the morning, but I won’t. You’ve sustained a real loss. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He said no more as they walked to his truck and for that she was grateful.

‡
Chapter Seven

W
hen she heard her seatmates
complaining about the long train ride from Washington, D.C. to Illinois, Fila smothered a laugh. These soft, safe Americans had no idea how long a journey could be. Her trip with her guards had begun before dawn, a long walk through gray light down a precipitous track from her mountain enclave. Several hours later they had emerged in a village that was large by northwestern Afghanistan standards, but tiny compared to the cities she’d passed through so far in the United States. There they’d boarded a run-down Jeep that hailed back to the Russian occupation. After a bone-rattling journey across the pitted and pockmarked back roads of her country, they pulled into Kabul just as the sun was setting again.

She’d been stored like an old rug in the back room of a run-down apartment overnight, the children and wives of the extended family living there taking turns peeking at her around the curtain that acted as a door.

That was the easy part of her journey.

While the first day of travels involved hardships of the body, the second day involved hardships of the mind and soul. The three men chosen to ferry her to New York City—Wahid, Abdul, and Mehran—expected strict obedience. Why wouldn’t they? When hadn’t she been anything but obedient? For the thousandth time, Fila said a prayer of thanks for her mother’s dire warnings on their flight to Afghanistan. Had her mother had a premonition about her own death? Something had compelled her to prepare Fila for what might come.

“Afghan women survive through a mixture of non-resistance and deep-seated rebellion,” she told Fila. “On the surface they wear a serene mask of compliance. That mask must always be in place. Underneath, they boil with plots and plans. When we get there, you watch. The men run the show, but some women, some very powerful women call the shots. It’s an art form, Fila. All survival is an art form.”

Fila did watch when she got to Afghanistan, and she did see. In her remote village, most younger women were almost slaves to their men and the older women around them, but some of the elder wives were powerful in their own right. They influenced their men through the way they spiced their meals, the way they stitched their clothes, the way they spoke to their children. They berated each other for the shortcomings they actually despised in their spouses, and let slip tidbits of gossip aimed with arrow-accuracy, darts of shame to prick their sons and husbands into righteous—and advantageous—action. Fila quickly learned to hide among the village children—she had no power and never would. She mimicked them down to the utmost nuances of their expressions. Disliked and abused at first, she made a campaign out of turning first one and then another to her side. Tiny gifts, bribes, services—whatever it took to cultivate the friendship and loyalty of each of the girls her age in the village. Another campaign to cultivate her elders. A third to ingratiate herself to the littlest ones.

Sooner than she’d dared to hope, she became indispensable to many of them. Her true goal—a return to the United States—she kept from everyone until so many years went by that when her peers began to talk of that shiny, wealthy, infidel place they all loathed and longed for in equal measure, they forgot they’d ever mistrusted her as one who’d been corrupted by actual contact with American soil.

And when more and more girls found themselves chained to more and more grizzled, greedy older men, and the village women began to mutter among themselves about things going too far and where was it going to end, Fila was well-positioned to hear every scrap of gossip about failed—and successful—escape attempts. Once she knew it was possible to flee an arranged marriage, Fila created her new campaign: to get out of Afghanistan altogether.

Rose was quiet
on the way to the Cruz ranch. Cab didn’t blame her. He’d like to strangle Emory for destroying her paintings. What kind of person did that?

“Has Emory always been so intrusive into your place?” he forced himself to ask in a calm voice.

“Pretty much. Although this is by far the worst he’s done.”

“And you stay because…”

“Cheap rent, he’s my parents’ friend, and my fiancé’s father, although Jason never wanted me to move in. Once I was there, though, it was impossible to move out.”

“Why?”

“My parents would freak. They’re good friends with him and they told me it would hurt his feelings if I left.”

“That’s not much of a reason to stay.”

She shot him a look. “I was raised to care about the effect I had on other people.”

He mulled this over. “If that’s true, then your parents must care about your feelings.”

“Sure,” she said irritably. “Of course they do.”

“So they should understand why you’d want to move out when your landlord is going through your things.”

“They think I should tolerate it because he means well.” She emphasized the last two words sourly.

“They’ll think differently now that he’s started to burn your possessions.”

“Just my paintings. They don’t think those are very important.”

“So, they don’t care about your feelings after all.”

Rose opened her mouth, closed it again. Wiped a stray hair from her face. “Of course they do, it’s just… Emory’s older.”

“So he gets to behave badly but you don’t,” Cab said, wanting to be clear.

“When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous,” Rose complained. “And it’s not. I’m supposed to be nice. Everyone is supposed to be nice.”

“But everyone isn’t nice.” He glanced over at her. “Emory sure as hell isn’t. You have to take care of yourself. There are a lot of people in this world who wouldn’t think twice about hurting you, Rose. Bad people.”

She stared at him for a moment. “You think I don’t know that? I feel like I play by a different set of rules than everyone else. It’s like, we’re all taught what’s right and wrong, but I’m the only one sticking to it. Everyone else does exactly what they want, but if I try it, all hell breaks loose. You think I haven’t tried to leave? You think I haven’t tried to quit that stupid job and do something else? Even when I sit at home painting I feel guilty because everyone says it’s a waste of time.”

“Everyone? Or just your parents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “You know I’m the county sheriff, right?”

Rose nodded. “Of course.”

“I believe in law and order. I believe that human society in general wants the best for its people, but I also believe that as a whole we take shortcuts. In the interest of making it easy to keep the peace, we make as many people as possible compliant. Especially women and children. You’re raised to say yes even when you mean no. You’re raised to be nice even when the situation calls for anger. That makes you vulnerable.” A muscle in his jaw jumped. “Much too vulnerable. You have to learn to say no and mean it. You have to have the strength of mind to identify what’s best for you and fight for that. You can’t say yes to everyone in order to try to keep them all happy. Women who need to please men end up their victims.” He realized he was lecturing her. “Put yourself first, Rose. Take a look at your life. Decide what you want to keep and what you want to change. Then do it.”

“But…”

“No buts. I’m serious. That’s what adults do, Rose; they make choices about their lives. You have to make choices, too.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “Why are you so interested in what I do with my life all of a sudden?”

“Because I’m interested in you.”

Rose concentrated on a set of taillights
far ahead of them for several minutes, trying to digest everything that Cab had said. Could someone like him even understand what it was like to be someone like her? Look at him—he was tall, strong, powerful… he even had a badge. Every trapping of authority was his for the taking. And look at her. Small, weak, feminine. No one gave a damn what she thought. It was true, she needed to make some decisions about everything from where she lived to how she earned an income. It was true, too, that she let people ride roughshod over her instead of standing up for her own desires. Thank God she’d already started on the tree house. First and foremost she needed an art studio that was hers alone. Preferably one with a lock no one else had the key for.

Second, she needed a new home. Maybe she’d talk to Autumn about renting a room for the winter. Living out of town was inconvenient for work, but at least she’d be close to her studio.

And Cab
.

She automatically tried to clear that thought from her mind, but stopped and considered the last thing he’d said. He was interested in her. The knowledge sent a shiver of awareness through her. Well, she was interested in him, too. No matter how stupid that made her.

Which brought her to the third thing she needed to do: break up with Jason. She twisted the ring on her finger unconsciously. Tomorrow. She’d call him tomorrow, no matter that she hadn’t settled her living arrangements or gotten a new job. After what happened tonight she was done with Emory, anyway. Might as well get the worst with Jason over, too.

Cab was still waiting for her response to his declaration, but she didn’t know what to say. She cast a covert gaze over at him, found him looking back at her.

“Okay.”

‡
Chapter Eight

F
ila was used to the cold;
she’d never been properly dressed for the weather in her small village. Still, each time she disembarked from a train and found the next one, she grew more uncomfortable, both with the temperature and the way she was dressed.