Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

“Nah, not me. I didn’t expect it.”

“But you wouldn’t have turned it down.”

“No, I wouldn’t have, but … well, I guess, in a way, it’s my fault you didn’t get the promotion.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Ah, Ron, come on. You know the answer to that as well as I do. Hell, everybody knows Bernie didn’t want to choose between the two of us, and that’s why she brought in a ‘hired gun’ from Memphis. Norton made a name for himself with those murders back last year when some nut job killed that Vanderley woman and that high-priced lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved.”

“Okay, sure, I figure Bernie made it easy on herself by looking outside, and I can see why she picked a guy like Norton. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d take this job. Who’d trade being a Memphis police detective for being a chief deputy in Adams County?”

“I guess we could just ask him.”

Ron guffawed. “Yeah, you do that, John.”

“Nah, not me. I thought you could ask.” John grinned at Ron, then took a huge bite out of the bear claw.

He parked on the side of the paved county road, a road he knew well. At this time of day, the odds of any traffic coming along to interrupt him were low. But just in case, he removed the jack and the tire iron and placed them by the back wheel. Then he scanned the road and the area on both sides, soybean fields that had once been cotton fields as far as the eye could see. He pulled the plastic tarp from the back of his vehicle, lifted it gently in his arms, and headed down the old dirt road that led out into the fields. When he reached midway, far enough off the main road not to be seen, yet close enough for his delivery to be easily discovered tomorrow or the next day or next week, he rolled the contents out of the tarp and into the middle of the rut-scarred lane. She spread out on the ground in a most unladylike manner, her lifeless body pale, her dark eyes wide open and staring up at him. After tossing the tarp aside, he knelt down and arranged Stephanie’s body so that one hand covered her pussy and the other arm rested across her breasts.

There, she was decently covered and yet the beauty of her luscious body was not hidden. He lifted her long dark hair and spread it out across both shoulders, the feel of it like silk against his fingers.

“You wanted to be free, didn’t you, my beauty? You told me so yourself.”

He rose to his feet, then took one final look at his old lover. The only thing that marred her sultry, dark beauty was the slash across her throat, highlighted by dried blood against her flesh.

You’re free now. And so am I. Free to love again.

He wished his relationship with Stephanie had worked out, for his sake and hers. He had thought surely she was the one, that he could love her as much as she loved him. But in the end, he had realized that he had no choice but to end things and continue his search. Out there somewhere was the one and only woman for him, someone who would erase all the painful memories, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him, someone worthy of his love.

Picking up the tarp and folding it into a twenty-by-twenty-inch square, he headed back to his parked vehicle. Off in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder. Glancing at the horizon to the west, he noted the dark sky and figured it was raining over in Scottsboro. Back on the paved road, he scanned the four directions hurriedly; seeing and hearing no sign of anyone approaching, he opened the back of his vehicle, tossed the tarp inside, then retrieved the jack and tire iron. After putting everything back in order, he opened the passenger door, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.

He reached out and fingered the note lying on the passenger seat. A love note for his new love. Sighing, he closed his eyes and pictured her. Young and beautiful. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Maybe she was the one. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be disappointed. Maybe this time she wouldn’t hurt him.

“Ah, my beautiful, sweet Thomasina.”

He loved the pursuit, those heady days of getting to know each other, those romantic moments when anything and everything was possible. He would leave the note for her today. And then he would wait. But not for long. He was eager to begin their love affair.

Sheriff Granger stayed in step with Jim as they headed up Main Street, away from the courthouse and toward the restaurant in the heart of downtown Adams Landing. Her long-legged stride easily matched his pace, an advantage of her being a tall woman.

“I did warn you that Jerry Dale was a huge Jimmy Norton fan,” she said. “So be prepared. He’ll probably gush all over you.”

Jim groaned inwardly, but managed not to cringe. It wasn’t that he had any hang-ups about his glorious past as a star running back for UT, but God almighty, that had ended nearly twenty years ago.

“I suppose you run into fans all the time, huh?” she asked.

“Occasionally,” he replied. “But when it comes to people I have to work with, I don’t want them to think of me as Jimmy Norton. To be honest with you, Sheriff Granger, I prefer people get to know the man I am now, just plain old Jim Norton.”

She looked at him, a peculiar expression in her brown eyes. “I was a fan, too. My dad and I. Of course, my dad is a big Alabama fan, and the truth is, he really doesn’t like UT, but he used to watch every game back when you and Griffin Powell played. Heck, I guess just about every college football fan in the South did.”

“You watched college football with your dad? How old were you—ten?”

“Actually, I was twelve your freshman year and turned fifteen your senior year.” And I fell madly in love with youwhen I was fourteen and spent the rest of my teen years comparingevery guy I met to the great Jimmy Norton, a man I’dseen only on TV, in newspapers and in magazines. Looking back, she supposed one of the reasons she’d started dating Ryan Fowler in high school was because he’d been the team’s number one running back, and in her fantasies, Bernie had put him on a level with her idol. Her big mistake hadn’t been dating Ryan; it had been falling in love with him and marrying him.

“You’re what now—?” He mentally counted the years. “Thirty-two?”

She nodded.

“Was it unmannerly for me to ask your age?” he asked.

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

He liked her attitude. “You’re young to be sheriff.”

“The youngest Adams County sheriff ever,” she told him. “And the first female. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father and grandfather both held the office before me.”

“A family tradition, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Tell me, Sheriff Granger—”

“Bernie.”

“Huh?”

“Call me Bernie,” she said. “Everyone does.”

“Okay. Bernie.” Somehow the name suited her. She didn’t look like a Bernadette. That name belonged to some petite bit of fluff, not a substantial woman who looked like she could take care of herself in just about any situation. She was no helpless, clinging female. No I-need-a-big-strong-man female. He’d bet when she was a kid, she could beat the living daylights out of all the little boys and had probably put the fear of God into more than one. And he’d lay odds that in a fair fight, she’d hold her own even now.

“I prefer to be called Jim,” he said. “Not Jimmy. And James was my dad.”

“Jim it is.” She paused. “We’re here. This is Methel’s.”

He stopped at her side and inspected the building. His guess was the two-story structure dated back to the late eighteen hundreds and the outside facade hadn’t been updated in a good thirty or forty years.

“Local lawyers and courthouse personnel, along with city policemen and our department, keep Methel’s in business,” Bernie told him. “There’s always a huge lunch crowd during the week. If you like down-home cooking, you’ll love the food here.”

He reached around her, grasped the door handle and opened the door. She jerked back, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, then walked into the restaurant. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to men opening doors for her. She had seemed taken slightly off guard by his gentlemanly action.

“We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.

Just making conversation, Jim said, “Something sure smells good.”

“It’s the Friday special. Beef roast.” Bernie lifted her hand and waved. “There they are, in the very back booth. Come on. If we don’t put in our order before one, we won’t get any peach cobbler. It goes fast.”

Jim followed her. In his peripheral vision he caught the inquisitive stares of the other patrons. He figured everybody knew who he was and they were wondering how he would measure up. When they approached the back booth, two men slid off the red vinyl seats and stood. He recognized Ron Hensley, and by process of elimination assumed the other man was the DA, Jerry Dale Simms. Auburn-haired and freckled, Simms grinned and held out his hand. He was taller than Hensley, about six-one, broad shouldered, hefty, with a wrestler’s bulky build.

After Bernie made introductions, Jerry Dale grabbed Jim’s hand and pumped it as he grinned and talked and slapped Jim on the back. Jim usually hated it when people fawned over him—over who he used to be—but he got nothing but good vibes from Jerry Dale and decided then and there that he liked the friendly good old boy.