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“Pete,” Brenna corrected her grandmother. “The old man’s name is Pete.”
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’m not interested in the old goat. I want to know more about the hunk wearing the badge.”
Brenna sighed. She and her grandmother had been down this road before. “What’s to tell? He listened to my complaint, then gave me his biased opinion.”
Abigail’s bright orange curls danced as she shook her head. “You know what I mean. What color are his eyes and hair? How tall is he? Is he a super stud or a major dud?”
Exasperated, Brenna stared at the woman. Since her retirement a little over a year ago as a high school guidance counselor, Abigail had made it her sole purpose in life to find Brenna a husband. She’d even gone so far as to sell the house she and Brenna had shared since the death of Brenna’s parents ten years ago to move to Tranquillity, Texas, with Brenna in order to keep up the pressure.
“Granny, every time I meet a man, we go through this same inquisition. Aren’t you getting a little tired of it?”
“Brenna Elaine Montgomery, you’re almost twenty-six years old and the only thing you’ve had that even resembles a serious relationship was a college fling with that jerk, Tim Miller.”
“Tom Mitchell,” Brenna said, making a face. “And he taught me a valuable lesson—men use women, then cast them aside when they’re done.”
“If you’ll remember, I told you from the beginning he reminded me of a weasel. And when he talked you into helping him get through law school, I knew I was right.” Abigail shook her head. “But don’t judge all men by that loser.”
Brenna felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Well, I haven’t seen a man yet who could tempt me into finding out if my first assessment was wrong.”
Abigail gave her a knowing look. “Maybe old Devin—”
“Dylan.”
“Whatever. Maybe he’ll prove you wrong.” Her grandmother’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “You know, that’s probably why you’re so uptight all the time. You need a man like Darwin in your life and a little hanky-panky to help you unwind.”
“Granny!”
“I just call it the way I see it.” Abigail pushed the sleeves of her hot-pink, nylon warm-up jacket to her elbows and leaned forward in the ladder-back chair. “Now, tell me about Sheriff Chancellor. You know I never get tired of talking about good-looking men.”
“His name is Chandler.”
“Whatever.”
Brenna frowned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” Abigail winked. “I’ll bet my new Reeboks this guy is a real stud. Probably better-looking than Mel Gibson and muscled up like Ronald Schwasenhoofer.”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Whatever.”
Brenna rose from the table to place her plate in the dishwasher. She was only delaying the inevitable. Abigail Montgomery could have been a top-notch interrogator for the CIA.
“Just how did you arrive at your conclusion that the sheriff had to be something special?”
“I didn’t deal with teenagers for over forty years and not learn to recognize a hedge job when I see one,” Abigail shot back. “You think he’s a hunk.”
“I do not.”
“Do too. Now spill it.”
Brenna threw up her hands, as much in exasperation as in surrender. “He’s tall—”
“How tall?” Abigail pressed.
“I’d say he’s a little over six feet tall and has black hair and green eyes.” When her grandmother frowned at the lack of information, Brenna tried to sound indifferent. “He looks to be somewhere in his early thirties. Now, that’s all I know about the man. And all I care to know.”
“Uh-oh! He must have a spare tire around his waist.” Abigail shook her head. “Don’t worry. The way you cook, the extra weight will drop off the poor man like leaves from a tree.”
Brenna ignored the remark about her lack of cooking skills as she remembered the sheriff’s assortment of lean muscles. Her mouth went dry. “His stomach is actually quite flat.”
“No teeth?”
A picture of his devastating smile flitted through Brenna’s mind. “He has beautiful teeth.”
“Got a real honker, huh?”
“Granny, will you stop?” Brenna placed her hands on her hips as she fought back a smile. “He doesn’t have a big nose. And even if he did, I doubt that it would detract from his good looks.”
“Ah-ha!” Abigail cried triumphantly. “Now we’re getting down to the nitty gritty. He’s that good-looking, huh?” She gave Brenna a wink and a wicked grin. “I’ll bet he’s a hell of a kisser, too.”
“Granny—”
“Are you going to need the car tonight?” Abigail asked, suddenly.
Dazed at how fast her grandmother had changed subjects, Brenna shook her head. “No, I can walk to class. Why?”
“I wanted to drive down to Alpine with one of my new friends.”
“That will be nice,” Brenna said, glad her grandmother had made friends so soon after their move to Tranquillity. “What do you have planned?”
Abigail’s grin turned wicked. “We’re going cruising for a stud muffin for you. Any preferences?”
“Granny, please don’t start in again with the you-need-a-husband routine.”
“Oh, lighten up,” Abigail said, rolling her eyes. “We’re just going to a movie. Want me to drop you off at the town hall?”
Brenna breathed a sigh of relief. She was never quite sure when the woman was serious and when she wasn’t. “No, thanks. It’s not far, and I need the exercise.”
Her grandmother shook her head. “I can’t figure out why you’re so concerned about staying in shape if you aren’t interested in attracting a man.”
“Granny—”
“Okay. I’ll shut up for now,” Abigail said, glancing at her Mickey Mouse watch. “Time to pick up my friend.” She propelled herself from the chair and started into the living room. Turning back she shook her finger at Brenna. “Just remember I’d like to have a great-grandchild before I’m too senile to appreciate it. And that Sheriff Antler—”
“Chandler.”
“Whatever,” Abigail said, waving her hand. “He sounds like a great prospect for the father.”
With that parting shot, Abigail breezed from the room in a flurry of hot-pink nylon and orange curls, leaving Brenna to wonder what sort of ridiculous fantasies her grandmother would start weaving about the town’s insufferable sheriff.
Enjoying the mild, southwest Texas weather as she walked the short distance to the center of town, Brenna admired the rugged Davis Mountains a few miles away. Draped in the purpled shadows of early evening, the view was breathtaking and she forgot all about Abigail’s matchmaking attempts as she focused on the nervous anticipation filling every cell in her body.
She took a deep breath to help settle the butterflies in her stomach and tamped down the need for something chocolate. She was going to do this. She was going to dig down deep inside and find the courage to share her love of handmade crafts with the women of Tranquillity. It was a big part of her plan to reinvent herself and she wasn’t going to wimp out now. Besides, Tom had told her several times in the course of their four-year relationship that her dream of starting her own business and teaching Folk Art was silly and unprofitable. Brenna clenched her teeth. She had come a long way in the year since Tom decided that he had more in common with a woman in his law class than he had with her. But she still had a few things left to accomplish. She had every intention of proving him wrong about her teaching Folk Art, as well as his prediction that she’d never break her habit of reaching for something chocolate whenever she became nervous or upset.
By the time she reached the community room in the town hall, more than two dozen women milled around the display she’d set up earlier in the day, while others had already found a place for themselves at the work tables. Thrilled by the number of people in attendance, Brenna smiled as she walked into the room. Her only regret was that Tom wasn’t around so she could tell him how wrong he’d been.
“My dear, this is the best thing that’s happened to Tranquillity in decades,” Mrs. Worthington said, stepping forward. “I just know you’ll help add culture to our little community. It’s something I’ve sorely missed since I married Myron and moved from the East.”
Brenna smiled. Cornelia Worthington was the mayor’s wife, chairwoman of the Beautification Society and self-appointed matriarch of Tranquillity. Her approval could make or break Brenna’s classes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Worthington,” she said slowly, searching for the most tactful way to explain that Folk Art painting wasn’t in the same category with Rembrandt or van Gogh. “But I’m afraid this class will fall short of the benefits you have in mind. It’s considered more of a craft than fine art.”
“Oh, what a dear,” Mrs. Worthington said, turning to the ladies behind her. “She has such a modest attitude for someone so immensely talented. I’m so glad I discovered her and persuaded her to instruct this class.”
Brenna barely managed to keep her mouth from dropping open. She practically had to beg the woman for the use of the room, since it was overseen by the Beautification Society.
“Ladies, if you’ll please take your seats, we’ll get started,” she said, shaking her head and walking to the front of the room.
“Mildred, what took you so long?” she heard Mrs. Worthington call to a late arrival.
“My car broke down on the way home from work,” the woman said, sounding flustered. “Fortunately, Dylan passed by on his way to the poker game over at Luke’s and offered me a ride.”
“Dylan!” Mrs. Worthington’s voice turned to syrup. “It’s simply marvelous to see a man take an interest in the arts.”
At the mention of the sheriff’s name, Brenna cringed and slowly turned around. Sure enough, there the man stood, leaning against the door frame, a self-assured smile plastered on his masculine lips. His confidence grated on her nerves and reminded her of their earlier confrontation.
But they were on her turf now. Things were going to be vastly different from the first time they’d met.
Dylan swallowed hard when he noticed Brenna moving toward him. He was having the devil of a time accepting the way she looked now, as opposed to earlier. If he’d thought she was cute then, in that hideous, old-fashioned get-up, he’d sadly underestimated her attractiveness.
He no longer had to wonder about the curves hidden by yards of fabric, or the length of her hair. Hell’s bells, he almost wished he did. It would definitely be easier on him than the reality he faced now.
Her light blue shirt loosely caressed high, full breasts, while her faded jeans outlined nicely shaped legs and hips that swayed slightly as she walked. Her copper hair, shot with gold, brushed her waist and looked so soft, his fingers burned to thread themselves in the silken waves.
“Dylan, dear, you look a little feverish.” Mildred patted his arm sympathetically. “Are you feeling all right?”
Hell no! He felt like he’d just been run down by a herd of stampeding longhorns. He had to swallow hard to get words to form in his suddenly dry mouth. “Uh…sure. I’m fine.”
He quickly looked around to see if anyone else detected his discomfort. Noting several curious stares, Dylan cursed his luck.
The room boasted the largest collection of gossips he’d seen since arresting Jed Phelps for getting drunk and crashing Corny’s Tupperware party. And that had been three years ago. If the old hens thought there was even a remote possibility that he found Brenna Montgomery attractive, they’d be like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
He glanced over at the woman standing beside him. Mildred Bruner was the county clerk and responsible for issuing all the marriage licenses in the county. It was common knowledge she was an incurable romantic and carried her book of forms everywhere she went just hoping someone would stop her and ask to apply for a ticket to wedded bliss.
He shifted from one foot to the other. If he didn’t leave, and damned quick, Mildred would start digging around in that suitcase of a purse she carried, trying to find her license book, and by sunrise the rest of the busybodies would have everyone in town taking bets on when the wedding would take place. He silently ran through every curse word he knew. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and even if he was, Brenna Montgomery wasn’t likely to ever be a candidate.
“I’ll be over at Luke’s if you need a ride home, Mildred.”
His cheeks burned as he watched several of the women smile knowingly. If they hadn’t noticed he was having a problem before, they sure as hell would now. His voice hadn’t sounded that uneven since puberty.
“You aren’t staying for class, Sheriff?” Brenna asked when he headed for the door.
Dylan stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe his ears. Brenna Montgomery wanted him in her painting class about as much as a poor, lost soul wanted to see a heat wave in hell.
He turned to face her, his scowl deepening. “No.”
“That’s a shame. Some of the most talented craftspeople I know are men.”
She took a step in Dylan’s direction. He took a step back. What was the woman up to now?
She thoughtfully tilted her head, her blue eyes dancing. “Of course, some men lack the patience and coordination it takes to learn the techniques.”
Her challenge punched him right square in his ego. When she took another step forward, Dylan stood his ground and reaching out, took her hand in his. “Oh, I’m sure I could master any technique, Ms. Montgomery. And I’m very patient.”
The moment their fingers touched, a tingle raced the length of Dylan’s arm, making his blood pressure skyrocket. But pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. “I’ve never had any trouble getting my hands to do what I want,” he assured. Letting a provocative drawl warm his words, he smiled suggestively. “Nor have I ever had anyone complain about their ability to obtain a satisfying result.”
She jerked her hand out of his so fast, he thought she might have sprained her wrist.
“It was nice of you to stop by, Sheriff, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to start my class. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
Dylan knew for sure he’d turned the tables. He could tell Brenna had been as affected by the touch of his hand as he’d been by hers. And, she was trying to give him the bum’s rush.
But he’d be damned before he let it happen. She’d started this confrontation. He intended to finish it.
“Where do you want me to sit?”
Her eyes grew round. “You…you don’t mean you’re staying?”
“Yep.” At her stunned reaction, he didn’t even try to hold back his satisfied smile. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Oh, this is wonderful,” old Corny said, clapping her pudgy hands to gain the women’s attention. “Now that Dylan’s taking the class, we shouldn’t have any trouble convincing our men they could use a measure of culture, too. I intend to speak with Myron about it this very evening, and I encourage every one of you to do the same with your husbands.”
Dylan’s triumphant grin evaporated, and he barely controlled the urge to squirm when several of the women bobbed their heads in eager agreement. He’d forgotten all about the guys over at Luke’s. Once they got wind he was taking an art class, he’d never hear the end of it. Now, short of humiliating himself in front of the entire room full of world-class busybodies, there wasn’t any way out.
Every Tuesday night for no telling how long, he’d miss the poker game over at Luke’s. He’d be forced to listen to Brenna’s soft voice as she instructed the class. He’d have to watch her silky, red hair brush the top of her shapely rear—
His body tightened noticeably, and muttering a curse, he removed his Resistol, lowered it to zipper level and took a seat. As he sat watching Brenna, his mood lightened and he fought back a grin. If any good came out of this mess, it had to be the dazed look on her face.
Brenna Montgomery looked like she’d just sat down on a bumblebee.
Two
Dazed, Brenna turned and slowly walked to the front of the class. What had she been thinking? The sheriff had been ready to leave. And he would have, if she’d just kept her mouth shut.
But, no. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’d tried to get even for this afternoon’s disagreement—tried to practice being assertive—and ended up making a mess of everything. Becoming a stronger, more self-assured woman was a balancing act. And she’d just proven she was tilting a little too far to one side.
“Okay, ladies…and gentleman.” She purposely avoided looking at the man as she handed out the supply lists. “These are the items you’ll need for the course.”
