The Sheriff Catches a Bride (7 page)

Would they like some company?

“Does the father know?”
Rose asked Mia. They’d only been at the restaurant for fifteen minutes, but they’d already covered a lot of ground. Mia still lived at home. She worked at the hardware store about thirty hours a week. She’d saved enough money to cover the cost of the birth, but she’d have little left over afterward. She had no idea how she’d pay for child care after the baby was born; her parents were in their fifties, and they both still worked, too.

“Of course,” Mia said and dropped her gaze to her lap. “I told him this weekend. He doesn’t care.”

“Do you want to tell me whose it is?” Rose asked quietly.

Mia shook her head and her high ponytail swished back and forth. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said, still not looking up. “He’s married.”

Rose sat back. “Oh, Mia…”

“He said he was getting a divorce,” Mia said. “I believed him. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”

Once again Rose found herself biting back the words she really wanted to say. It was far too late now to warn Mia not to go anywhere near a married man. “You can make him pay support, you know. Go to court and they’ll force him to take a paternity test.”

Mia wiped her eyes with the back of her shirtsleeve. “No way. If he doesn’t want this baby, he doesn’t get to come anywhere near it. Besides,” she said, her shoulders slumping, “his wife doesn’t deserve that. She has no idea any of this happened. They’ve reconciled and it looks like he’s giving his marriage a real go. At least that’s what he said when I told him. I was just… I don’t know… his midlife crisis, I guess.” She hunched miserably over her barely touched meal.

“Midlife?” Rose went to take a bite of her burger but stopped short when she spotted Cab coming their way, his plastic tray laden with food. He caught her eye and smiled, and her stomach did a funny little flip.

“He’s kind of older,” Mia admitted.

“How much older?” She snapped her gaze back to unhappy girl across the table.

“Forty-two.”

Rose dropped the burger. “Eww! Forty-two?”

“Hi Rose, Mia,” Cab said, arriving at their table. “Want some company?”

Rose glanced at Mia, who nodded, apparently all too happy for an interruption now that she’d confessed the worst. Rose welcomed it, too. She really didn’t know what to tell Mia. Forty-two? That was… ancient.

“Sure, have a seat.” She scooted over and Cab sat down next to her, taking up most of the plastic bench. She always felt so tiny next to him. It took strength of will not to tuck herself under his arm and snuggle into his delicious sexiness. Boy, she was one to judge Mia’s actions; here she was, still engaged and lusting after another man. She didn’t know what it was about Cab. Many of the men in their group were handsome, many of them were accomplished in their own right, but Cab was the only one she truly admired. Maybe it was the nature of his job, or maybe his stature, but in a pinch, Cab was the one she’d want by her side. Right close by her side preferably.

She found his proximity disturbing in this case, however. Muscular, masculine, he practically filled the bench seat, squeezing her into the corner. Cab was another man who was used to being in control, just like Jason. Even if her engagement was already over, even if she was considering dating again, he’d be the wrong choice. How could she possibly assert her individuality with a man so absolutely sure of himself?

“How’s Jason doing?” Cab asked with a glance at her ring finger.

Touching the thin silver band, she kept her expression neutral. Trust the sheriff to remind her she had a fiancé.

But not for long.

“He’s fine. Busy,” she said before the silence stretched out too long.

“Have you set a date yet?”

“No,” she said shortly. She hoped Cab would drop the subject.

“Do you like North Dakota?” The sheriff bit into his burger.

Did she like North Dakota? What a strange question. “Um… I’ve hardly been there. Only once or twice.”

Cab glanced her way and swallowed. “Shouldn’t you spend some time there if that’s going to be your new home?”

“New home? What do you mean?” She watched him polish off the burger in another two bites and then unwrap the second. She glanced down at her own burger, only half-eaten. She was practically full. When she looked up she found Mia watching her, her face alight with interest.

“Jason’s an oilman, right? I just assumed the two of you would settle where the oil was,” Cab said.

“Oh. Right. Well, we haven’t made our minds up.”
In fact, we never discussed that possibility. Although…
Rose realized Jason had tried to discuss it once or twice, early on. “You’d love it over here, Rosie—there’s so much action. It’s wild on the weekends,” and “The price of houses is rising fast. Anyone who wants in better buy up now.”

She’d always brushed him off. After all, they planned to live in Chance Creek, didn’t they? That’s what she wanted. It’s what Emory wanted for them, too.

Was that what had caused Jason to go sour on her? Had he thought she’d aligned herself with Emory against him? It wasn’t the case; she simply loved Chance Creek and had no desire to move away. This was her home. The inspiration for all her paintings. This was where she wanted to raise her family.

But Cab was right—Jason probably didn’t want to come back. Why would he want to leave North Dakota? He loved making money and he loved the work. Jason thrived in the heady mix of testosterone, sweat and danger. What would he do in Chance Creek?

Sell jewelry?

Suddenly all the missing pieces clicked into place. Jason had avoided her for the same reason he avoided his father. She must seem just as controlling, just as likely to hold him back with all her talk of settling down here, buying a house and putting down roots. Did he think she wanted him to take over his father’s store?

“Rose?” Cab prompted.

“What?”

“I asked how your work is going.”

“Fine,” she said faintly, as the realization overtook her. Jason didn’t want to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him. He’d been using his actions to show her that for months. She didn’t have to worry about breaking his heart. All that was left was to return his ring.

Cab held the door
for Rose and Mia, then hesitated as the women said their good-byes.

“Could we have dinner again soon?” Mia asked Rose.

“Sure—how’s Friday?” Rose said. “Same time, same place?”

“Sounds good. Bye, Cab!” Mia headed for her ancient Chevy Impala, and Rose turned to him.

“Thanks for joining us,” she said, putting her hand out.

Cab took it, shook, and tried not to hold on for an extra moment. Her hand was so small, his big one swallowed it up. It was soft, too. Womanly.

He let go. “Thanks for having me,” he said. “Must get lonely sometimes with Jason gone so much.”

She smiled a little, but it wasn’t a happy smile. Trouble in paradise? His earlier question about North Dakota seemed to throw her off.

“Yeah, well. You have to do what you have to do, right? I keep busy.”

“Walk you to your car?”

She glanced up at him and his heartbeat sped up. Did she know he was hitting on her? He was trying not to, but somehow he couldn’t stop himself. Jason was a damn fool to leave her alone so long.

“Sure. It’s over here.” They walked through the shadows of the parking lot to Rose’s truck. He couldn’t help noticing the pile of lumber in the back.

“What are you building?” he said, peeking over the side.

“Just fixing something at the carriage house,” she said and bit her lip. Cab narrowed his eyes. That was a
tell
if he ever saw one. Most people had a tell; a little quirk that broadcast they were lying. Why would Rose lie about a building project?

“Oh, yeah? A big project?” he pressed.

“Medium-sized.”

She wasn’t going to give up anything, was she? Rose didn’t seem the type to get into trouble, but you never knew with women. Men he could usually peg pretty quickly. Women?

Absolutely inscrutable.

They didn’t make logical decisions for one thing. Men put two and two together and got four. They bought exactly the right tools to get the job done and they did what was necessary and then stopped. Women, on the other hand, put two and two together and came up with a reason to buy two hundred Hummel angels and store them in a fancy cabinet for the next fifty years. They got in stranger’s cars and ended up dead.

Rose might be lying because she planned to build a catapult. Or she might simply lie because she didn’t want his interference. Women were like that, too.

“Got all the tools you need? I’ve got a bunch kicking around if you need to borrow any.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m all set.” She fumbled in her purse for her keys. “Good to see you again, Cab. Good night.”

He thought about her driving home alone, parking in the carriage house driveway, walking up the front steps and inserting her key in the lock. There was shrubbery around her front door. Anyone could hide in it.

“Was there something else?” Rose asked when he didn’t walk away.

“What? No… nothing. Good night, Rose.”

He forced himself to walk nonchalantly back to his vehicle, and when Rose pulled out of the parking lot he hung back to let another car pass before he followed. He kept his distance, slowing down to a crawl when she turned in to her place. Pulling off the road several houses down he watched her exit her truck, walk up the steps and let herself inside. Only when her lights came on did he pull out, execute a U-turn and head on home.

He didn’t park the car, sneak up to the house and check the door handle to make sure she’d locked it.

But he wanted to.

‡
Chapter Five

A
t twelve,
Fila had been a typical American kid and was well aware her mother never wanted to set foot in Afghanistan again. Like her father, her mother had moved from Kabul to the United States in her twenties. The daughter of a government official, she’d been raised more liberally than most, and as soon as she reached the States she’d thrown off all vestiges of her homeland’s restrictive traditions. Fila, born and raised in Connecticut, was aware of her heritage, but not concerned with it. All that changed when her great-grandmother died and her father insisted they travel to Afghanistan to pay their respects. Both her mother and father had lost their parents in the past decade. Fila assumed he craved a connection to what was left of his family.

“We have to go, just for a week,” he said over and over again to her mother, and in the end her mother had given in. She spent the remainder of their time in the United States alternately packing and cramming Fila’s head with every memory she had of how restrictive Afghanistan was to its women, the expectations her relatives would have for her, and how much she regretted ever having to bring Fila there.

“I’d leave you here if I could,” she said, “but your father insists.”

“It’s okay,” Fila said. She was excited about the plane ride and their exotic destination despite her mother’s stories.

As soon as they boarded the plane, however, she wished she had stayed home. They were split apart, Fila and her mother in one row, her father in a different one, and all Fila’s mother’s fears sprung to the surface. She spent every minute of their time in the air telling Fila more stories—horrible ones about public floggings, death by stoning, wife-beating, child marriage, until Fila thought she’d never sleep again.

“If anything happens to us while we’re there,” her mother said, taking her hand and gripping it tight, “if anything happens to your father and me, promise me you’ll do anything you can to get home. Get to the embassy, kick up a fuss, do whatever it takes.”

Fila, terrified now, promised her she would. By the time they reached Kabul she’d been consumed by fear, exhausted with the effort to calm her mother, and sure they all faced certain death.

For the first few days, however, all went well. They were welcomed by dozens of relatives with tears and laughter. Fila understood almost nothing that was said, having never learned Pashto. She understood her relatives’ smiles, though, and their hugs and glad exclamations. Surely there was nothing to fear.

Two days later, however, her grandmother’s funeral procession was attacked by armed gunmen and her parents were among the victims. Snatched from the chaos by Taliban radicals, the next few weeks were so terrifying Fila couldn’t bring herself to remember them. In the end her captors claimed they were also her relatives, and brought her to their home in a nearly inaccessible mountain village. They tried to beat out of her every American habit she held in a kind of Taliban experiment: could they transform an infidel into a proper Afghani woman?

After a decade, their methods worked to the extent that Fila blended in with every other blue-veiled woman in the village. She spoke Pashto fluently and cooked, cleaned and sewed like all the rest of them. But she remembered America, she remembered friends and pop music and iPods and all the rest of it. So now—surrounded by noisy American passengers—she could process the cues she saw around her in the AirTrain.