A Time to Keep (12 page)

He turned and walked back into Chauvin Hall. Gwen was still standing in the same spot when Shiloh found her.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her gently to his chest. “Are you ready to go home, princess?”

Leaning back in his embrace, she nodded. “Yes, prince.”

* * *

Shiloh held onto Gwen's hand as he walked her to the door. It was after two in the morning and he still hadn't wanted their date to end. He eased her key from her loose grip and opened the door. Stepping into the entryway, he placed the key on the table, then turned and cradled her face between his hands.

“I'll see you Wednesday.” He kissed the end of her nose. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

Gwen smiled. “Thank you for making it wonderful.” Rising on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his. “Good night, Sheriff Harper.”

Chuckling softly, he pressed a kiss along the column of her scented neck. “Good night, Gwen.”

Ten minutes later he unlocked the door to his house, undressed, showered, and for the first time in a long time he sought out his bed instead of the hammock.

G
wen woke to the hypnotic sound of rain tapping against the French doors. Rolling over and sitting up, she peered at the clock on the bedside table. She'd overslept—again.

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and slipped her feet into her fuzzy slippers, reality dawned. She wasn't in Boston, didn't have to get out of bed, didn't have a job, and she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to do.

Her life had changed—dramatically. Minutes, hours, meetings, daily calendars and deadlines no longer measured her life.

Within a month of listing her condominium with a Realtor she had a buyer. A husband-and-wife artist team made an offer she would've been a fool to refuse.

Upon the recommendation of her financial advisor, Gwen invested the proceeds of the sale and donated the apartment's furnishings to a local church and her favorite charity.

Rising from the bed she made her way into the bathroom. After an evening of eating, drinking and dancing she looked forward to a more leisurely day. What she did not want to think about were the hours she'd spent with Shiloh. He'd been the perfect date: charming and attentive. She knew many of the parish's longtime residents were curious about her, and she truly felt like Cinderella when she overheard curious whispers speculating about her identity. But unlike Cinderella, she did not flee the ball at the stroke of midnight. She did find herself in the arms of her prince when Shiloh gave her a kiss that heated her blood and left her wanting more—much more.

After breakfast she planned to call Nash McGraw, the
Tribune
's editor. She also wanted to go through at least one of the guest bedroom closets, and read some of her late aunt's letters before she prepared to go out with Shiloh's sister-in-law.

Gwen picked up the carafe to refill her coffee cup when the doorbell rang, startling her. She didn't think she would ever get used to the sound that reminded her of pealing church bells.

“That doorbell has got to go,” she mumbled under her breath as she walked out of the kitchen to answer the door.

Peering through the peephole, she saw a woman with a small child. She opened the door to discover that the rain had stopped and the rays of a watery sun pierced an overcast sky. A top-of-the-line Jaguar was parked in the driveway.

She smiled at a tall, thin woman with raven-black hair, alabaster skin, and cornflower-blue eyes. She reminded Gwen of a Ralph Lauren model in a white linen sheath dress and matching pearl necklace.

“Good afternoon, Miss Taylor. I'm Holly Turner, and this is my son, Kyle. I saw you at the dance last night with Sheriff Harper.” She handed Gwen a pale blue wicker basket wrapped in gold cellophane.
Turner Treats
was imprinted on a profusion
of matching streamers. “I wanted to give you time to settle in before welcoming you to town.”

“My mama makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the whole wide world,” Kyle said proudly.

Gwen smiled at the child, whom she assumed to be about four years old. A spray of freckles over his nose and cheeks was the only color in what would've otherwise been a very pale face. Kyle Turner was a small male version of his mother.

Her smile widened. “Yum-yum. My favorite.” She redirected her attention to Holly. “Won't you come in? And please call me Gwen.”

Holly shook her head. “I'm sorry, but I can't stay.” She ruffled her son's hair. “Kyle has a long overdue appointment with his barber. If you're free tomorrow evening, I'd like you to join a few of your neighbors for an early Sunday evening get-together.”

Gwen knew she'd become an object of curiosity after she'd attended the fund-raiser with Teche's sheriff. She hadn't planned anything for the next day, but wanted to remain an enigma for as long as she could.

“I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it.”

“How about next Sunday?”

She wouldn't be available the following Sunday because she'd committed to share dinner with Moriah. “If the invitation is still open in two weeks, then I'll join you.”

Holly gave her a triumphant grin. “Of course it is, Gwen. The other ladies are just dying to meet you.” She'd drawn out the word
dying
into three syllables.

What they're dying to know is my business,
Gwen mused, returning Holly's smile. She'd admitted to Shiloh that she wanted to maintain a measure of anonymity, but that would be difficult once she was introduced to Holly's social circle.

“Do you want a puppy, Miss Taylor?”

Holly gave Kyle a warning look. “Mind your manners, darling.”

“But you said we have to give them away, Mama.”

Gwen smiled at the interchange between mother and son that reminded her of Lauren and her children. “What kind of puppies are you giving away?”

Kyle scrunched up his face. “What kind are they, Mama?”

Holly met Gwen's amused gaze. “They're purebred toy poodles. I have AKA papers on them.”

“How old?”

“Three months.”

“Color and sex?” Gwen asked Holly. She'd grown up with cats and dogs as pets.

“I have two. Both female. One is like a sandy-beige and the other a chocolate brown. They're already paper-trained and a vet has given them their shots.”

Gwen decided having a little dog would be fun. “I'll take the brown one.”

A flush suffused Holly's face. “I don't want you to think I'm here because I want to give away a puppy.”

“Of course not,” Gwen said softly, hoping to put the obviously flustered woman at ease. “It's been a long time since I've had a pet and I have more than enough room for a tiny dog to have the run of the place.”

Holly's blush deepened. “If it's all right with you, I'll drop her off later this afternoon.”

Gwen nodded. “I'll be here.” She waited until Holly and Kyle returned to their car before she closed the door.

She had the house and now a dog. All she needed was a husband and children. As soon as the thought popped into her head, she dismissed it. Lauren's teasing was getting to her.

She didn't need a husband or children. Not now, not when her sole mission was restoring her new home.

* * *

Shiloh looked up with a knock at the door. He closed the cover on the report compiled by the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. Deputy Jameson's stocky body filled the doorway.

“Yes, Jimmie?”

“A Marvin Oliver wants to see you.”

Shiloh stared at the man who was certain to become sheriff once his term expired. “What does he want, Jimmie?”

James Jameson shook his shaved head. The Dillard University graduate stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. “I don't know, Shiloh.”

“Didn't you ask him?”

Jimmie nodded. “Yeah. But he wouldn't tell me,” he said in a hushed whisper. “The suit smells like the law.”

Shiloh smiled at his deputy. He was the brightest police officer Shiloh had ever encountered. The FBI had recruited Jimmie within weeks of his graduation because they were actively seeking African-American agents.

Jimmie's tenure with the bureau was ten years, after which he returned to Louisiana to help his father with his younger siblings after his mother died of a massive stroke.

“Which one, deputy?”

Jimmie flashed a smug grin. “U.S. Marshal or DEA.”

Pushing back his chair, Shiloh came to his feet. “We'll find out soon enough. Send him in.”

He was still standing when a slender man entered his office. He was the quintessential bureaucrat—short, conservative haircut and dark suit.

Shiloh extended a hand. “Special Agent Oliver, or is it Marshal Oliver?”

Marvin Oliver went completely still as he stared at Sheriff Harper. “Who told you?”

“Which one is it?”

Recovering quickly, he shook the proffered hand. “It's Special Agent Oliver. DEA. How did you know?”

“Deputy Jameson, the man you just blew off like a gnat, made you the instant you walked in here. Please sit down, Agent Oliver.” He motioned to a leather love seat. He waited for the drug enforcement agent to sit before he took a matching chair. Shiloh turned the chair around to face him.

“You're here because you either need my assistance, or you are going to tell me something I already know,” he said, not bothering to conceal his irritation.

“Look, Harper—”

“No, Oliver,” Shiloh countered, interrupting him. “I'm more than happy to cooperate with your agency, but I'm going to demand one thing from you.”

There was a moment of tense silence before the agent asked, “What's that?”

“Respect. You will respect
my
office
and
the people who work here. When Deputy Jameson asked you to identify yourself, then you should've done so.”

Marvin Oliver's gaze narrowed; he was smarting from the reprimand. His supervisor had briefed him about Sheriff Shiloh Harper. The arrogant former district attorney had been on a fast track for a judgeship before he was appointed to serve out his father's term. It was apparent he wasn't too happy in his present position.

“I didn't come down to this
swamp
to mix it up with you, Sheriff Harper. I'd like to believe we're on the same side.”

Shiloh schooled his facial expression not to react to the remark. Crossing his knee over the opposite leg, he stared at the toe of his polished boot. His head came up slowly as he gave the DEA agent a long look.

“Are you here on an undercover assignment?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I'm willing to bet that you'll end up as gator bait before the end of the week.”

The agent's back stiffened as he leaned forward. “Is that a threat, Sheriff?”

Shiloh's expression was impassive. “As a former officer of the court I know enough not to threaten a federal officer. I'm just cautioning you that if you don't change your attitude, then you're going nowhere—fast. Folks around here don't take kindly to outsiders looking down their noses at them.”

Agent Oliver shifted uncomfortably. He hadn't wanted to come to the bayou because of the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, snakes and alligators. Layers of sunscreen and insect repellant provided little or no protection for his fair skin.

“I'm here to brief you on an operation that has been approved by your Police Jury Association.” When Shiloh's expression did not change, he continued. “Last year we busted up a major meth operation outside Natchitoches. Informants tell us that several meth production sites have moved into southern Louisiana, which makes it more difficult for undercover agents unfamiliar with this part of the state. Once we got your report about the hijacking of a truck carrying anhydrous ammonia, we were certain that they had set up something around here.”

Shiloh lowered his leg, placing his feet firmly on the carpeted floor. “Do you have enough agents to cover the twenty-two parishes that make up southern Louisiana?”

Marvin shook his head. “We don't have enough agents who are able to blend in in this part of the country.”

“Who do you have?”

“Inez Leroux. She lived in Lake Charles for sixteen years before her family moved to Shreveport. What's good is that she speaks the Cajun dialect.”

Shiloh listened intently to Agent Oliver as he related the
background information on the special agent assigned to his jurisdiction. “My field director believes your brother's restaurant is the best place for Inez because it's a hangout during the week, and most of the locals gather there on the weekend. We're certain she'll overhear something that just might give us a lead.”

Ninety minutes after the DEA agent walked out of his office, Shiloh read the fax signed by the executive director of the Police Jury Association. The directive confirmed the cooperation of local law enforcement with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration's fight against the manufacture and sale of methamphetamine. Reaching for his telephone, he dialed his brother's private number.

“Ian here.”

“How long are you going to be there?”

“Until closing time. What's up, brother?”

Shiloh stared at the Baton Rogue address on the fax. “I'll tell you when I see you.”

“Is it about Mama and Augustine?”

He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “No, Ian. Mama can see whoever she wants.”

“Is it because of a beautiful young woman in a red dress that you changed your mind?”

“Don't bring Gwen into this.”

“We'll talk about her once you get here,” Ian said, chuckling softly.

“No, we
won't.
I'll see you later.” Shiloh replaced the receiver, ending the call. He didn't want to discuss Gwen Taylor with his brother, because he didn't want to lie to Ian about what he was beginning to feel for her.