Falling For The Deputy

“So—” in the face of this woman’s disbelief, Chloe forged ahead “—who’s left to handle my interview?”

“While Garrett’s gone, Mack’s in charge.”

“Mack?”

“Deputy Whittaker.”

Interesting. The lock in need of a pick.

“The guy who sent you here for…what?” Mel prodded.

“Yes. My car’s broken taillight. The deputy ran into me outside town. Didn’t cite me on condition I see you.”

“I gotta say this new department’s been good for my business.”

“Do you have an arrangement?” Chloe blurted out. She fumbled in her pocket for her notepad, then realized she’d left it in the Yugo. She’d heard of small towns adding to their coffers with overzealous ticketing or costly kick-back repairs that targeted motorists passing through.

Mel dropped a rag on the spilled coffee. As she bent over to wipe it up, she uttered a terse no. When she stood again, the sparkle had gone from her eyes. “I merely meant this particular crew adheres strictly to the law.”

“So what’s Deputy Whittaker like?” Chloe asked, struggling to reconnect.

Mel tossed the coffee-soaked rag into a bin by the door. “Let’s look at that taillight,” she said, all business now.

If this was the level of Applegate respect, cooperation and disclosure that Chloe could expect, she had her work cut out for her.

MACK LEFT THE DOOR to the sheriff’s office open. A symbolic gesture. Let the reporter see the department had nothing whatsoever to hide.

He placed his Stetson on a rack behind the door, then sat on the edge of the desk, feeling edgy himself. His headache had subsided to a dull throb. He relished the law-and-order part of his job, not the public relations. He examined his watch. Twice.

Garrett and he had talked about how they wanted the new Colum County Sheriff’s Department’s story told. To that end, they’d hoped to get a reporter without an agenda, who’d write an unbiased story that would accurately portray both the danger and the drudgery of rural law enforcement. They’d agreed the article shouldn’t be about individuals, but about the team.

Thinking about the fishbowl position he was now in, Mack’s muscles went rigid. The pencil he gripped snapped in two.

“Surely, the prospect of meeting with me can’t generate that much tension.”

He jerked his head up to see the young woman who drove the battered Yugo, standing in the office doorway, carrying an enormous backpack. He chucked the ruined pencil in the trash, then stood. “Did you get your car fixed?”

“Mel says I can pick it up this afternoon before she closes.”

“Is that going to throw your schedule off?” He didn’t really want to know. He was trying to be…human. Approachable. Practicing for that reporter. “Work? School?”

“No.” The kid stepped into the room. “I was planning to stay the week, anyway. At June Parker’s bed and breakfast. While I take care of my assignment.”

“Let me guess. Appalachian folkways.” The professors at Brevard College often sent their students to do field work in Colum County.

“No. I’ve come to see you. Well, Sheriff McQuire, but I understand you’re the one in charge at the moment.”

“I am. What can I do for you?”

She extended her hand. “I’m Chloe Atherton. Reporter for the Western Carolina Sun. I have an appointment.”

He inhaled sharply. My head. Ignoring her outstretched hand, Mack walked around the desk and glared at the sheriff’s calendar. He deliberately placed the tips of his fingers on Garrett’s illegible handwriting next to today’s date. Gave himself a couple of seconds to absorb it.

This kid was the reporter?

“You could have told me who you were back by the roadside,” he said at last, looking up.

“You could have told me Mel was a woman.” She plunked her battered backpack on the floor, then perched on the chair opposite his desk. “Can we begin?” Without waiting for his reply, she pulled various items from the backpack.

He remained standing, the desk solidly between them. “Ms. Atherton, how long have you been a newspaper reporter?”

“I think I’m the one doing the interviewing.” There was a defiant tilt to her chin. “But if it will make you feel more comfortable…no, I’m not thirteen years old.”

He’d been thinking more like seventeen.

“I’m twenty-six,” she offered, lining up a notebook, a pencil, a small tape recorder and what appeared to be an expensive Nikon camera on the metal desk. As if the space were hers to do with as she pleased. “How old are you?”

He frowned. “Do you need to know?”

“My newspaper still requires ages.”

“Thirty-five,” he said, suddenly feeling ten years older. “But this article isn’t supposed to be about me.”

“Maybe not, but you’re my first interview.”

Damn. Although she looked like a teenager, she handled herself with the equanimity of a pro.

“I can give you an hour today,” he allowed. “We can use the time to work up a schedule for the rest of the week.”

“Only an hour? I’d hoped—”

He raised his hand to cut her off. “Can that car of yours withstand a week’s worth of cruising these roads?”

“I intend to ride with you.”

He rubbed his forehead as the headache came roaring out of retirement. “I don’t think so.”

“Deputy Whittaker, this article was Sheriff McQuire’s idea. He contacted my paper. He suggested a human-interest story on a week in the life of a sheriff’s department. I wouldn’t get much of an idea of what the job entailed if I were to follow several car lengths behind you, would I?”

“I doubt Garrett—Sheriff McQuire—had a ride-along in mind. Liability issues—”

She flipped through her notebook. “I’ve done my homework. Ah, here it is. Sheriff McQuire encourages public-safety interns from the college. They ride in the cruisers. I’ll ride in the cruiser.”

“He didn’t tell me—”

“Call him.”

“He’s on his honeymoon.”