Kiss Me, Sheriff!

“Me? I am.” She’d nodded vigorously, as if being emphatic would turn her lie into the truth. She hadn’t been “okay” in two years. But that had nothing to do with him.

Now, this morning, he transferred his gaze from her to the pastry case. “Got anything to tempt me?”

The words didn’t sound utterly innocent, but his tone did, so she took them at face value. Reaching into the case, she withdrew a large flaky golden rectangle.

“Our signature cheese Danish,” she said.

He squinted at the glazed pastry. “Where’s the cheese?”

“Inside. It’s filled with a blend of ricotta, cream cheese and honey. And a touch of orange zest and cinnamon.”

“A Danish with hidden charms.” He nodded. “Okay, I’ll try it. And a large black coffee.” Withdrawing his wallet, he pulled out a few bills. “I’m going to need the caffeine to stay extra alert now that I know Mrs. W’s plans.” He looked at Willa with a straight face, but roguish eyes so darkly brown they appeared black. “Mr. Wittenberg is ten years older than his wife, you know. If that babka really is an aphrodisiac, he may not survive the morning. I hope I don’t have to bring you in for aiding and abetting an aggravated manslaughter.”

The comment made Willa smile, and she remembered that he’d made her smile quite a lot, actually, that night in the tavern. “It isn’t my recipe,” she countered, “so I don’t think I should be held responsible.” She shrugged. “On the other hand, forewarned is forearmed, so thanks. I’ll go home at lunch and pack a duffle bag in case I have to run from the law.” She turned, the curve of his lips an enjoyable image to hold on to as she got him a large coffee to go and slid the Danish into a bag.

Derek paid her, the expression in his eyes that mesmerizing combo of sincere and humorous. “I hope you won’t run from the law. I’m here to help.” He gave her a quick nod. “Morning.”

She watched him go, sharing a few words with an older gentleman who walked in as he walked out.

“Good morning, Mr. Stroud,” Willa greeted the new arrival as he approached the counter. “Toasted bialy and cream cheese?” She named the savory round roll he had every morning. Soon, Jerry Ellison, who owned First Strike Realty up the block, arrived and sat with Charlie Stroud at one of the six small tables in the bakery. Business picked up the closer they got to 7:00 a.m., and Willa stayed busy throughout the morning.

“I’m here to help.”

A couple of hours after Derek left, his parting words continued to play through her mind. She’d heard those words, or a variation of them, before.

“Don’t try to do this on your own.”

“You’ve been through so much. Let us help.”

Didn’t people know that their help was sometimes the cruelest of gifts? What they really wanted was to help her “move on,” to “let go,” to be happy again the way she used to be. To forget. And she couldn’t let that happen.

“I don’t want help. I don’t need help,” she muttered to herself as she slid a fresh tray of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies into the oven. Kim Appel, a mother of young children who worked from nine to three or seven at the bakery, depending on whether her husband was available to pick the kids up from school, was now behind the counter while Willa toiled in the kitchen. That gave Willa plenty of time alone to obsess.

Her mind raced, her heart pumped too hard, her stomach churned. What was the matter with her?

“You’re tired and you need some sleep, that’s what.” Wiping her perspiring palms on her apron, she gathered up bowls and utensils to stack them in the dishwasher. Maybe she should go home for a couple of hours. Kim could handle it; she was a capable worker. Willa could come back after a nap and close up shop.

Yeah, except whom was she kidding? She wasn’t going to sleep. She was going to hear Derek’s words over and over, see his sincere face, imagine his strong arms.

“I’m here to help.”

For nearly a year now she’d caught him watching her and had sensed all along that he was interested. Interested in a way that, in a vulnerable moment, could make her skin tingle and her veins flood with heat.

He’d been unfailingly polite, courteous, gentle—never pushy—almost as if he sensed he would have to move softly if he hoped to get anywhere with her at all. And that agonizing yearning to lose herself in his arms, to forget for a night, for an hour...that yearning would sometimes overtake her like it had in the tavern. Her heart would race, and she would imagine surrendering to his arms and to his smile, to the unbridled laughter of lovers.

She would sometimes dream of really moving on.

Willa set the timer on the oven so she wouldn’t burn the cookies while she cleaned the marble countertop. She hadn’t moved to Thunder Ridge, eight hundred miles from family, friends and a brilliant career as a chef and culinary arts instructor so that she could forget everything. No. She’d moved so that she could live the way she wanted to—quietly, privately. She’d moved so she could hang on to the one thing that still held her broken heart together: her memories.

So far, she saw no reason to change.

* * *

When Derek walked through the door to the sheriff’s office at seven-twenty, the sun was still trying to make its first appearance of the morning. The lights inside the large boxy room, however, were burning and emitted a warm, welcoming glow completely at odds with the rubber band that whizzed past his head with such force it could surely be classified a lethal weapon. Rearing back, Derek tightened his hold on the coffee cup, popping open the plastic lid and sloshing hot coffee over his hand and onto the linoleum floor.

“Russell,” he growled.

“Sorry!”

Derek’s deputy, Russell Annen, whipped his feet off the wide desk in front of him and stood. “I was aiming for Bat Masterson.” He jerked his thumb at a poster of Old West sheriffs on the wall opposite him as he ran to fetch paper towels and sop up the spill.

“I hope you aim a gun better than you shoot rubber bands.” Derek had almost had his eye put out on several occasions by Russell’s wayward shots. “Slow night?”

“Yup.” Russell bent to clean the mess. “Slow morning, too.”

“You might as well take off then.”

“I have another forty-five minutes.”

“That’s okay. You can get an early start.” Heading for his desk, Derek noted the remains of Russell’s breakfast littering the blotter: a liter bottle of soda and an open, half-eaten box of chocolate-covered donut holes. “Get a blood panel, would ya, Russell?” he suggested. “Check your sugar and cholesterol levels.”

His deputy grinned. “Hey, I have to get my fix somewhere. LeeAnn watched some video about diet and heart disease, and now all she makes when I come over is vegetables and beans.”

“Smart woman. You should marry her.”

“I hate beans. Before that video, we used to look for the best burger-and-brew pubs. Now when we go to Portland, she wants to find vegan restaurants. Do I look like I’m meant to be vegan?”

Derek eyed his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound deputy. “You do not.”

Russell began to wander toward their work area instead of toward the door, and Derek felt his shoulders tense. Seating himself behind the big oak desk, he pretended to become engrossed in his computer screen. Every morning after seeing Willa at the bakery, he required a few minutes alone to debrief himself. Willa took up residence in his thoughts more than anyone or, lately, anything else. It took some effort to refocus, and he liked to do that in private. His love life—or current lack of one—was his business, no one else’s.

On that note, he said pointedly before Russell could sit down, “Enjoy your time off.”

“I was planning to.” Russell sighed heavily. “Before.”

Do not, I repeat, do not take the bait. But Russell looked like a giant puppy whose favorite chew toy was stolen. Give me patience. “Okay.” Derek crossed his forearms on the desk. “Before what?”

Closing the distance between himself and the desk, Russell dropped into the chair opposite Derek’s. “See, it’s this way. I made reservations for dinner up at Summit Lodge. Tonight. Their special is prime rib.” He practically moaned the end of the sentence. “Eleven o’clock last night, LeeAnn tells me her cousin is in town today through the end of the week.”

“So?”

“So, LeeAnn is refusing to go anywhere unless Penelope has something to do, too. And, someone to do it with.”

“Can’t she find something to do on her own?”

Russell slapped his palm on the desktop. “Dude, right? That’s what I said. But Penelope and LeeAnn are females, see? They don’t think like us.”

Derek waited for more. “Okay. And?”