Slow Dance with the Sheriff

Deputy slouched down in front of her blazing fire and his big black eyes flicked between the two of them. Jed’s hand and the matchbox still hung out there in space, so Ellie took it from him and placed it gently next to the existing one on the woodpile. ‘Thank you, Sheriff. Would you like a coffee? The pot’s just boiled.’

Colour soaked up Jed’s throat, though it was lessened by the orange glow coming from the stove. Had he forgotten his own woodpile came with matches?

‘Sorry. I thought you might be frightened.’

‘Of a storm…?’ Ellie swung the pot off its bracket and back onto her blazing stove, then set to spooning out instant coffee. ‘No.’

‘I’d only been home a few minutes when the power cut. I had visions of you trying to get down the stairs in the dark to find candles.’

Further evidence of his chivalry took second place to inexplicable concern that he’d been out there in the cold for hours. ‘Trouble?’

He shrugged out of his sheriff’s coat and draped it over the chairback closest to the heat. ‘The standard storm-related issues—flooding, downed trees. We’ve been that long without rain the earth is parched. Causes more run-off than usual.’

The kettle sang as it boiled and Ellie tumbled water into his coffee, then passed it to him. He took it gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

She sunk back into her spot on the sofa and he sat himself politely on the same chair as his dripping coat. Overhead, the storm grizzled and grumbled in rolling waves and sounded so much like a petulant child it was hard not to smile.

‘You really do love your weather, don’t you?’ he said.

‘I love…’ What? The way it was so completely out of her control and therefore liberating? No one could reasonably have expectations of the weather. ‘I love the freedom of a storm.’

He sipped his coffee and joined her in listening to the sounds above. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he finally said. ‘How did you know it was going to rain?’

She thought about that for a moment. Shrugged. ‘I could feel it.’

‘But you know nothing about Texas weather. And it was such a long shot.’

‘Intuition?’

He smiled in the flickering firelight. ‘You remind me a bit of someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Clay Calhoun.’

Her heart and stomach swapped positions for a few breaths.

‘Jessica’s father. That man was so in touch with his land he could look at the sky and tell you where a lightning bolt was going to hit earth.’

Awkwardness surged through her. Clay Calhoun was dead, just a legend now. Getting to know the man at the start of all her emotional chaos was not something she expected when she came to Texas. Yet, there was something intensely personal about discovering a shared…affinity…with the man that might be her father.

Was. She really needed to start digging her way out of denial and into reality. Her mother had virtually confirmed it with her bitter refusal to discuss it. And Jed had just reinforced it with his casual observation.

Maybe her weather thing was a case of nature, not nurture. Her Texan genes making their presence felt.

She cleared her throat. ‘Past tense?’

He shifted his legs around so that the heat from the stove could do as good a job drying his trouser bottoms as it was doing on his dog. ‘Yeah, Larkville lost Clay in October. Hit everyone real hard, especially his kids.’

Some harder than others.

He turned to look right at her. ‘I thought that might be why you were here. Given Jess’s recent loss. To bring condolences.’

‘I’m…’ This would be the perfect time to tell someone. Like confessing to a priest, a stranger. But for all she barely knew him, Jed Jackson didn’t feel entirely like a stranger. And so, ironically, it was easier to hedge. ‘No. I… Jess is helping me with…something.’

Wow… Eleanor Patterson totally tongue-tied. Rare. And exceedingly lame.

‘Well, whatever it is I hope it can wait a few weeks? Jess won’t be back until the end of the month, I hear.’

It had waited thirty years; it could wait a couple more weeks. ‘It can.’

He stood and turned his back on the fire to give the backs of his calves and boots a chance to dry off. A light steam rose from them. His new position meant he was five-eighths silhouette against the orange glow. Imposing and broad.

But as non-threatening as the storm.

‘Have you eaten?’ he suddenly asked, his silhouette head tilting down towards her.

Even after all these years she still had a moment of tension when anyone mentioned food. Back when she was sick it was second nature to avoid eating in public. ‘No. I was planning on having leftovers.’

Though her idea of leftovers was the other half of the apple she’d had at lunch.

‘Want to grab something at Gracie May’s?’ he asked, casually. ‘Best little diner in the county.’

The olive branch was unexpected and not entirely welcome. Was it a good idea to get friendly with the locals? Especially the gorgeous ones? ‘But you just got dry. And won’t her power be out, too?’

‘Right. Good point.’ He launched into action, turning for the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix us something here, then.’

‘Here?’ The delightful relaxation of her stormy evening fled on an anxious squeak.

He paused his tracks, cocked his head in a great impression of Deputy. ‘Unless you want to come next door to my place?’

How did he manage to invest just a few words with so much extra meaning? Did she want to go next door and sit down to a meal with Sheriff Jed Jackson? Surrounded by his cowboy stuff, his Texan trappings? His woodsy smell?

Yes.

‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘Here will be fine. Some guy delivered enough groceries for a month this morning.’

His smile did a good job of rivaling the fire’s glow and it echoed deep down inside her. He set about shaving thin slices of ham from the bone and thick slices of bread from the loaf. Then some crumbly cheese, a sliced apple and a wad of something preserved from a jar labelled Sandra’s Jellies and Jams.

‘Green-tomato jam. Calhouns’ finest.’

That distracted Ellie from the sinking of her stomach as he passed a full plate into her lap and sank down onto the other half of the suddenly shrunken sofa. She turned her interest up to him. ‘Sandra Calhoun?’

‘Jess, technically speaking, but a family recipe.’

Her family’s recipe. That never failed to feel weird. For so long her family had been in New York. She picked up her fork and slid some of the tomato jam onto the corner of the bread and then bit into it. If she was only going to get through a fifth of the food on her plate, then she wanted it to be Jess’s produce.

Jed was already three enormous bites into his sandwich and he tossed some ham offcuts over to Deputy, who roused himself long enough to gobble them up before flopping back down.