A Sheriff in Tennessee (6 page)

They continued to walk the streets of Pleasant Ridge. There weren't all that many. Belle learned the names of the business owners; the troublemakers—there weren't all that many of those, either; any folks who might need more help than most.

“You make rounds like this every day?” she asked as they headed down Longstreet Avenue once more.

He gave an affirmative grunt. “Morning, noon and night.”

“Seriously? And your deputy?”

“Uses the squad car.”

“Why don't you?”

“Because I'm not older than dirt.”

“True.”

Belle waited for a serious answer to her question. Eventually, after they'd walked past several empty storefronts, he answered. Perhaps she was making progress.

“The only way to hear the gossip is to talk to the people, and that's pretty hard to do if I'm in a car passing by.”

“You don't strike me as much of a gossip-monger.”

“Gossip is how I find out what kind of trouble is brewing. There's usually some truth in all the hype. If I hear that Betty Jo Trumpen is sporting a black eye from running into the door…” He rolled his eyes.

“You know you'd better have a talk with Mr. Trumpen.”

“Damn straight,” he growled.

Belle smiled. “And I bet one talk is all it takes, too.”

He grunted. “With guys like that, not hardly.”

His shoulders slumped a bit, and Belle was reminded of Clint's droopy demeanor. She wanted to cheer Klein up, make him stop thinking of guys like Trumpen who picked on those who wouldn't or couldn't pick back.

“Hey,” she said brightly, pointing to the front window of the bakery. “I think the turnovers are done.”

His head went up and his eyes brightened as they lit on the sugar-coated dough wrapped around plump juicy cherries. He gave her a glance that told Belle he knew what she was up to, but he opened the door of the bakery anyway and waved her inside.

 

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, after Isabelle had signed autographs for Lucinda's grandchildren, two customers and their children and grandchildren, Klein carried a bag with half a dozen cherry turnovers and a thermos full of coffee out of the bakery.

“That'll go on for the rest of the day,” he grumbled. “Everyone's so pleased you're here.”

“Except for you.”

He shrugged. Truth was truth. He wanted her gone. Fat lot of good that wanting it did.

“They'll get used to me,” she said. “The more I'm around, the more normal I'll seem.”

Klein looked her up and down. Despite the fact that she was dressed plainly, she didn't fit in. “You couldn't be normal if you took lessons.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and he felt bad, even though he'd thought he was giving her a compliment. But the emotion, whatever it had been, was gone quickly, and when she spoke, her voice was bright, her smile the same.

“Isn't that what I'm doing? Taking lessons?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Let's sit over here.”

She followed him to a small picnic table in front of the bakery. Taking out a turnover for each of them, he tipped the thermos in her direction. She shook her head.

“How can you not drink coffee?” he demanded. “I suppose you're one of those people who doesn't eat anything with a face, either.”

“That's vegetarian. Or maybe it's vegan. Whatever. I'm not one of
those.
” She smiled. “How un-American.”

He had to keep himself from smiling back. She'd been annoyed with him yesterday, but this morning she was back to smiling and teasing. He had to admit she forgave much more easily than he did. If she'd said to him what he'd said to her… Well, that was over and forgotten, it appeared. Today they'd start fresh.

“Not drinking coffee.” He lifted his cup and took a deep drought. “Now,
that's
un-American.”

“Haven't you read the latest studies? Coffee causes wrinkles.”

Klein snorted. “I never read that stuff. They change their minds every other day about what's
good and bad for a body.” He slugged back more coffee. “Mmm-mmm
good.
” He waved the cup underneath her nose. “How can you resist? Lucinda makes the best in three counties.”

Isabelle took a healthy sniff. “I always did like the smell.” When he offered her his cup, she shook her head. “If you had to make your living off your face, you'd give it up, too.”

She'd directed her attention to the turnovers in the bag, so she didn't see him freeze as the hurt washed over him. How could offhand comments like those still hurt after all these years? After so many similar comments?

“I doubt I could make any kind of living off this face.” He snatched the bag from her hand.

Licking her lips in anticipation of the first bite of the sugar-dough-cherry concoction, suddenly she scowled and glanced his way. “What does that mean?”

Klein picked up his turnover and shoved half into his mouth. He needed sugar, then caffeine, then more sugar. She could just wait.

But Isabelle was not a woman who waited. Instead, she got up from her side of the table and walked over to his. Sliding onto the bench next to him, she didn't stop until their hips bumped.

Right there in the middle of town he remembered what it had felt like to touch her skin, to catch the scent of her hair brushing his face, to see the bright colors of her shorts and shirt in contrast to the horrendous shades of his soon-to-be-remodeled bathroom.

The name Izzy whispered through his mind,
along with the same delusion he'd had yesterday—the one where she'd wanted to kiss him—and the hard-on he'd fought all night long returned.

“Klein—?”

She laid her hand on his knee. His body responded accordingly. He swallowed what was left of the turnover in his mouth. It lay like a brick in his belly.

“Tell me what you meant by that.”

Man, life just wasn't fair. Why did he always have to lust after the prom queen when he was the biggest geek in school?

Klein slid off the bench, away from the warmth of Isabelle's hip, the weight of her hand. No use torturing himself all day as he had all night. “You've got eyes,” he said. “I'm not a handsome guy.”

If that wasn't the understatement of the year.

Her gaze clouded with what appeared to be anger. “Who told you that?”

“No one had to tell me. I can see. I'm ugly, Isabelle. It's not a state secret.”

She was shaking her head before he finished his sentence. “You're a lot of things, Klein, but ugly isn't one of them.”

He stared into her eyes. He'd become adept at reading folks. Cops back in Savannah had called the ability his shit-o-meter. But the fact remained, Klein knew people. With Isabelle he found he didn't have a clue. She appeared sincere while feeding him the biggest load of crap he'd heard since high school.

He wasn't sure what to do, what to say—a novel
experience for him. Then a movement from the corner of his vision drew his attention from Isabelle.

Seven a.m.
The townspeople could set their watches by the mayor. Right on schedule, women stepped onto their porches or appeared in their windows. Some sights were too good to miss.

“You might not know ugly when you see it—” he nodded at Chai “—but you've got to know pretty.”

She followed his gaze, then shrugged, unimpressed. “My mama always said, ‘Pretty is as pretty does,' and in that vein, the mayor resembles a molting vulture in my eyes.”

Klein choked on his second cherry turnover. He took a slug of coffee to wash it down, then sprayed it all over his hiking boots when he scalded his tongue.

“Of course, right now you aren't too appealing, either,” she murmured.

Klein lifted his eyes. She was smiling.

He watched the mayor jogging down Longstreet Avenue in white running shorts, matching tank top, shoes and headband. Hell, if Klein had been a woman,
he'd
have run after him. What was the matter with
her?

“You don't think he's studly?”

“I think he's a snake in a thousand-dollar suit.” She stood, tossed three-quarters of a cherry turnover into the trash and shook her head. “God, Klein, give me credit for a few brain cells.”

He opened his mouth to answer that, though what he expected to say Klein wasn't sure—when Virgil's voice crackled from his walkie-talkie.

“Chief, we have a problem.”

Klein retrieved the contraption, pushed the button and held it to his mouth. “Where and what?”

“Out near the mountains. Possible 10-57. Definite 11-80.”

Klein's head spun. Police codes often differed by area and he'd learned his share of codes. Virgil used a variation on a standard 10-code, but Klein screwed it up more often than not, especially when he was distracted.

“English, Virgil. Now,” he snapped.

“Report of firearms discharged. Accident, with major injury. Call came on a passerby's cell phone that kept breaking up. They want paramedics.”

Klein cursed.

“What's the matter?” Belle asked.

“No paramedics. No hospital. Not even a clinic.”

“Doctor?”

“Kind of.” All Pleasant Ridge boasted for medical care was a lone family doctor who'd been practicing here since Virgil was a pup. Klein pushed the walkie-talkie button again. “You called Doc Meyers?”

“Yep. He was already out in that direction, delivering a baby. He'll get on site as quick as he can.”

Klein stifled another curse. Doc Meyers's quick was everyone else's yesterday.

The radio crackled again. “I'll pick you up. Location?”

“In front of Lucinda's.”

“Roger, that. Over and out.”

Klein resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Virgil's radio lingo, which wasn't much different from his regular lingo. The man would have done well in the military, or perhaps NASA.

Klein finished his coffee and tossed the garbage into the trash. Mind on the mystery accident—could be minor, could be major, from the information he had—he started when Isabelle spoke.

“I'll go with you.”

One sharp shake of his head and he headed for the curb. “Not a good idea.”

“Regardless.” She hurried to keep up. “I need to observe everything you do.”

“You might observe a whole lot more than you ever wanted to. Accident near the mountains could be vehicular, could be hunting, could be feudal.” She snorted as if he were kidding. But then, she was from out of town. “It could be damn near anything, and if they asked for paramedics, you can be certain there's blood involved.”

“I'll manage. I might even be able to help.”

Klein took in her pristine-white blouse and neatly pressed khakis, her slim soft hands, ponytailed blond hair and youthful demeanor. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Her eyes narrowed; her lips tightened. “I'm not just decoration, Klein. You'd be surprised at what I can do if you look a little deeper than my skin.”

The squad car slid to a stop at the curb. Isabelle held Klein's gaze. The annoyance in her eyes gave way to hope as he hesitated.

“Chief!” Virgil snapped. “Today.”

Klein opened the back door of the car. “All right,” he said. “Surprise me.”

N
OW THAT
K
LEIN
had called her bluff, Belle was uncertain. She didn't know much, except that she was tired of being just a pretty face. But if she wanted to be seen as more, she'd have to prove that she was. Or at least pretend.

Belle climbed in the back seat and Klein slammed the door. She glanced at Virgil through the crisscross gate that separated her seat from his. As their gazes met in the rearview mirror, he nodded solemnly.

“Four-twenty-five,” he greeted her.

“Virgil.” Klein slid into the passenger seat and tossed his thermos onto the floor. “This is Ms. Ash. Remember? The mayor asked me to teach her about my job for the television show.”

The old man grunted. “Fancy-girl actress. Fancy-man mayor. I remember. I ain't senile yet.”

Although
fancy girl
was a much nicer way of describing her than she'd heard in the past, Belle wasn't certain she appreciated being likened to Chai Smith. She didn't think the mayor had ever ridden in the prisoner section of a squad car to help with an accident.

Belle settled back in her seat and absorbed the experience. She couldn't say she liked it. No han
dles on the doors; no seat belts, either. She was trapped. And while that was the entire idea, the lack of control over her environment was not a big plus for Belle's state of mind.

The murmur of Klein's deep voice from the front seat brought her attention back to him. She recalled the strength of his hands, the gentleness of his fingers, the warmth of his body, the way hers had been drawn to his. Frowning, she considered their interrupted conversation and let her gaze drift over his wide shoulders, square jaw, the curve of his earlobe.

Klein thought he was ugly. What idiot had given him that idea?

Belle could see the mayor turning up his snooty nose at Klein; however, she could not see Klein giving a damn. But the way he'd looked when he'd said he was ugly… Belle shook her head. Someone had hurt him. Someone who mattered.

The belief that he was nothing special went deeper than an acquaintanceship, beyond Pleasant Ridge, probably all the way back to his childhood. Though Klein's problems were none of her business, Belle discovered that she wanted not only to know who had hurt him but to make his hurt go away.

She gave herself a mental shake. She had to stop thinking that way about him, because he certainly didn't think that way about her. To Gabe Klein, Isabelle Ash was an annoyance, nothing more. Someone he would endure until she left, and once she did he would no longer think of her at all.

A drop of sweat ran down her cheek, and she
brushed at it impatiently, glancing at the doors with no handles. She hated being trapped back there. What if Virgil rolled the car, the gas tank burst and she was stuck inside with no way out?

See the bright side, Belle,
advised her mama practically.
If he rolls this car, and you with no seat belt, there'll be no worryin' about a way out.

Needless to say, by the time they arrived at the foot of the mountain, Belle was squirrelly. As soon as Klein opened the door for her, she leaped out.

And landed in a horror movie.

What else could noise, crowds, twisted metal, bullets and blood be? Folks had stopped at the scene of the accident, which made for both a mob and a traffic jam.

Virgil trotted off, waving at the gawkers still near their cars, ordering them in a high, thready voice to “Move along now. Nothing for you t' see here.”

A lie if she'd ever heard one. There was so much to see, and so much to be done, Belle didn't know where to start. So she stood frozen next to the car, unable
to
start. Klein had no such problem. He waded right into the disaster.

Even without the uniform and the gun, the crackling walkie-talkie, the crowd would have parted for him. The aura of command dwelt in his bearing, his walk, his stance. Command clung to him, preceded him, defined him. His sharp blue eyes flicked over the scene, assessed what needed to be done, and then he did it.

“Anyone here a doctor? A nurse?”

Heads shook. No one came forward.

“Anyone with any first-aid training at all?”

He received the same response.

“Son of a—” He bit off the rest, lowering himself to one knee and placing his fingers on the neck of a victim.

In a smooth, confident motion, he began CPR. No one helped, but everyone gathered closer to watch.

Belle glanced at Virgil, but he had his hands full clearing the road and keeping any more gawkers from assembling. She hadn't realized she'd followed Klein, until he glanced up when she paused at his side.

“Go back to the car, Isabelle,” he snapped. “There's nothing you can do here except get in the way.”

Ignoring the spark of resentment his summary judgment caused, she, too, dropped to her knees, replaced his hands with hers and began compressions. “I can do this,” she murmured, as much to him as herself. “It's just been a while. You go on.”

After watching her work a moment, assessing that she did in fact know what she was doing, Klein gave her a nod of approval that settled into her belly like a cup of tea on a chilly day, then moved off to help the others.

Morning bled toward afternoon. Doc Meyers arrived, took one look at Belle pressing a compress to a gaping wound without a quiver and commandeered her for his own. She lost track of how many times he grabbed her hand and showed her something she really didn't want to know.

As a child Belle had often pretended she was someone else to make her forget for a while the
misery of being herself. As she worked amid the blood and the pain, she began to pretend she was a competent nurse so she could forget the uncertainty, the fear and the dread. The longer she pretended, the better at it she became. Though always, in the back of her mind, there was the thread of panic that accompanied any situation beyond her control.

Klein moved in and out of her vision—first here, then there, eventually swallowed up in the increasing swarm of people, cars and things to do. But he was the calm in the chaos. Serenity swirled around him like the clouds atop the mountains, creating beauty, dispensing peace, while leaving the mountain untouched.

 

K
LEIN DID HIS JOB
. His job was what he did best. But he had to say that in a tiny corner of his mind he was screaming. Violence and tragedy—they were as much a part of life as death. He knew that. But that didn't mean he had to like it or accept it.

So Klein walked faster, talked louder, worked harder, trying to stave off what tragedy he could. He'd always dealt with the uncontrollable in life by butting his head against it until every aspect that could be controlled by him was. That was the only way he could keep doing his job without losing his mind.

Doc Meyers tried, but there were too many injured, and help took too long to arrive. By the time a helicopter landed, he'd lost one patient. By the time an ambulance pulled up, another was perilously close to the end. The old man continued to
labor gamely, but Klein could see the situation weighed on him.

Sometime after noon the urgency diminished. Serious injuries had been routed by air or land, minor wounds dealt with on site. Statements had been taken, weapons confiscated, arrests made. Klein had sent Virgil back to the station with the moron responsible for it all.

Isabelle had laughed when he'd referred to a feudal accident, but that was what this was. In the South—hell, most likely in the North, too—feuds between families still raged. Some were worse than others—leaving burning dog crap on the porch as opposed to leaving dead folks on the lawn—but a feud was a feud. They did not fade with time, and it was rare for any of the participants to know what had started them in the first place. However, everyone knew how to keep them going. Land disputes, boundary arguments, romantic entanglements—he'd have to sort this one out later.

Walking around the perimeter of the disaster, Klein made sure all the others were doing their jobs. He stopped dead near the makeshift clinic when he saw a familiar blond ponytail bobbing among the injured. Somewhere along the line Isabelle had covered her pristine-white blouse with a mint-green scrub shirt.

Occupied with other problems, he'd lost track of her, but he'd figured that once the doctor showed up Isabelle would get back to Pleasant Ridge—somehow. He couldn't say he hadn't been shocked that she'd known CPR, and that she'd gotten right down in the dirt and used it, but he had been grate
ful. Meaning to thank her and then send her on her way, he headed in Isabelle's direction, only to halt and go still when he realized what she was doing.

“Here,” Doc Meyers said, taking her hand. “Pressure there. Don't make a face.”

“I'll make a face if I have need to. You just keep on talkin' so I don't puke.”

Meyers snorted. “I've never seen anyone less of a mind to puke than you, Belle.”

Klein scowled at the easy way the man said her name. Klein certainly couldn't manage it.

“You held up today like an army nurse. In my opinion, you've got balls of steel, girl.”

“Why, Dr. Meyers, sir, you flatter me.”

There it was again, a hint of the South in her flat Yankee voice. Klein had forgotten that little mystery in the midst of so many others. Unable to stop himself, he inched closer and observed.

Except for the shrouded body in need of a hearse, only those awaiting family members to come and take them home, or one last check from the doctor, remained in the makeshift clinic. Klein refused to look at the body, instead focusing on Isabelle, the doctor and the unconscious elderly gentleman, who by virtue of the gash on his forehead would resemble Frankenstein if not for his snow-white hair.

“Hold together the ends of the wound so I can stitch him up,” Meyers growled. “Stubborn old bird. I told him to wait for his daughter, but he had to stand up on his own.”

“I don't think the standing up was the problem. More the falling down,” Isabelle murmured.

Klein smiled at her wit, but Meyers merely nod
ded and began to stitch the man's head. From where Klein stood, the task was not at all pleasant. No wonder Isabelle had made a face.

Head wounds bled like a bitch, and her gloved fingers were soon slick. As Meyers had predicted, she did not pale or flinch. She did what she was told quickly, and when it was over, she cleaned the blood off the old man, as Meyers moved on to check another patient, then snapped off the bloody surgical gloves and tossed them in a nearby receptacle.

Klein took a step forward, planning once again to thank her for her help, then quiz her a bit. Where had she learned CPR and first aid, for instance? And why did a woman who spoke as if she was from Minneapolis twist certain words toward Mississippi?

Before he could ask, Cass Tyler appeared from nowhere and stuck a camera in Isabelle's face. The whir of the shutter made Isabelle flinch as the blood had not.

“Ms. Ash,” Cass said, still clicking picture after picture, “you're a heroine. Tell me how it feels to get your hands dirty.”

Half expecting her to revel in the publicity, he was surprised when she cringed and turned her face away.

Cass got it all. Circling her prey like the wolf she was, the newspaperwoman shot an entire roll of Isabelle Ash standing in the middle of the worst disaster to hit Pleasant Ridge in years.

“What?” Isabelle asked, her voice as shaky as the hand she used to push back her hair.

That hand did him in—the contrast of strength and fragility, pale skin beneath the brown slash of old blood on her forearm and the red slash of new blood along her wrist. Technology was a wonderful thing, but surgical gloves only extended so far.

Klein strode forward, snatched the camera from Cass's hand, flipped open the back and yanked out the film.

“Hey!” she shouted, making a grab for it. “Give that back!”

But Klein hadn't danced through the marines. Assume, assimilate, adapt. While he held Cass off with a shoulder, he grasped the hanging end of the film and ripped the reel out of the canister like a ribbon.

“Here you go,” he said, agreeably placing the ruined film and the open camera in her hands.

“Dammit, Klein—” She poked him in the chest.

She did that a lot. One of these days, she was going to do it one time too many.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“My job.”

“Ruining perfectly good film is your job?”

“Nope. Serve and protect. That's my job.”

Cass scowled. “I should sue your ass.”

“Knock yourself out.”

She sighed and stared at the ruined film. “You know I won't.”

“Uh-huh.”

Cass was another in a long line of Gabe Klein's female friends. Pretty in an edgy way, tall and solidly built, with sharp gray eyes and chestnut hair, Cass was also intelligent and ambitious. She'd
taken one look at Klein and pronounced him a pal. That happened to him a lot.

“Isabelle's presence in Pleasant Ridge is supposed to be a secret.”

“Isabelle, huh?”

Klein scowled, and she held up one hand in surrender.

“All right, all right. Isabelle Ash isn't any secret, Klein. Everyone in town knows she's here.”

“Let's keep it in town, then, shall we?”

“Good luck.”

Klein sighed and kicked the dirt with his boot. That was what he'd thought.

“Where did she go?”

Cass's question brought Klein's head up. He scanned the steadily decreasing crowd at the site. There was no sign of Isabelle. He shrugged, both disturbed and relieved to find her gone.

Why had it bothered her to have her picture taken? Today she was a heroine. Wouldn't a woman like Isabelle crave the publicity?

Klein sighed at the echo of his thoughts.
A woman like Isabelle.
When had he become the exact type of person he despised? He had judged her at face value, even though he'd already seen there was a lot more to Isabelle than met the eye.