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“What’s the difference between Folk Art and painting a landscape or a portrait?” one of the women asked.
Brenna perched on the edge of the desk as she tried to organize her tangled thoughts. The sheriff’s presence was playing havoc with her already jangled nerves and had her ready to kill for a Hershey bar.
“Originally the label Folk Art was given to all forms of art created by people who knew little, if anything, about method or design. A folk artist ‘created’ without knowing how or what they’d done. Fine art requires more disciplined techniques.”
“How did it get started?” Mildred Bruner asked.
“You could say it evolved out of envy,” Brenna answered, trying her best to ignore the man sitting in the back of the room. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “In Europe, peasants wanted to simulate the expensive furnishings of the noble class, so they used Folk Art to paint their furniture, dishes and pottery. They even used it on store signs.”
Mrs. Worthington frowned. “Store signs?”
Brenna nodded. “Around the seventeenth and eighteenth century, the craft was used for practical, as well as decorative, purposes. Most of the common people were illiterate. But by having signs painted with bright colors and bold designs, shopkeepers could effectively advertise their product.” She paused as she searched for an example. “Let’s say Luke’s had a wooden sign with nothing more than a large beer stein with suds running down the side.” She smiled. “I don’t think any of us would be left to wonder what Luke sold, would we?”
“Oh, how quaint,” Mrs. Worthington said, her face brightening with a wide smile.
By the time Brenna went over what the ladies and Sheriff Chandler could expect to learn, it was almost time to dismiss the class. “Are there any more questions?” When no one responded, she smiled. “Then I’ll dismiss class early. I have all the supplies at my shop. Stop by and I’ll help you find everything you need so we can start painting next week.”
On their way out, several of the ladies stopped to tell Brenna how enthusiastic they were about the class and to inquire about her new craft shop. Her spirits soared and the incident with the sheriff was all but forgotten as she closed the door to the community room and stepped out into the late-November night.
She’d accomplished two very important goals tonight. She’d generated a lot of interest in her new business, but more important, she’d found the courage to stand in front of a class to teach. She only wished Tom had been around to see just how far she’d come in the year since he’d dumped her, and how wrong he’d been about her ambitions.
Thinking about the man who’d taken her to the cleaners, both emotionally and financially, she cringed. How could she have been so naive, so blind about his self-centeredness?
“Ms. Montgomery, could I have a word with you?” a male voice asked from behind her at the same time a hand came down on her shoulder.
Her surprised cry echoed through the deserted streets of Tranquillity as she spun around and swung her tote, her aim directed where it would hurt the most—her assailant’s groin.
“Take it easy, lady,” Dylan said, quickly turning his body to protect himself. “It’s just me.”
“Sheriff Chandler!” She placed her hand over her heart as she glared at him. “Do all the men in this town get some kind of kick out of frightening women?”
Dylan stepped closer and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. He couldn’t understand why she’d been so upset about the incident with Pete. If the way she swung that bag was any indication, she could easily take care of herself.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, thankful that he’d been quick enough to side-step her blow. If he hadn’t, he’d be writhing around on the sidewalk right now, feeling as if death would be a blessing. “I was just trying to stay out of the way until I could talk to you in private.”
“Do you want to withdraw from the class?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
Nothing would make him happier. But he’d be damned before he gave her the satisfaction. “Nope. I think I’m going to enjoy learning to paint,” he lied.
Her hopeful smile vanished. “That’s nice, Sheriff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.”
Dylan frowned. That was the second time this evening that she’d tried to dismiss him. And it didn’t sit any better this time than it had the last.
“Not so fast, Ms. Montgomery. We need to talk about what happened this afternoon.”
She shook her head as she stared up at him. “I really don’t see the need, Sheriff. I told you what happened. And you made it quite clear that you thought I was overreacting to the situation.”
Dylan studied her upturned face for several long seconds. She really was the best-looking trouble he’d seen in years. Her guileless blue eyes held an intelligence that he found sexy as hell and her perfect cupid’s bow lips were just begging to be kissed.
The ridiculous thought caused his stomach to twist into a tight knot. Thinking along those lines could get a man in serious trouble. He’d been there once and he had no intention of ever going there again.
Taking a deep breath, he nodded in the direction of the restaurant across the street. “Let’s talk this out over a cup of coffee.”
“But aren’t you supposed to give Mildred Bruner a ride home?” she asked, looking around.
“Corny…Mrs. Worthington, whisked Mildred away about ten minutes ago, along with the rest of the class.” He chuckled and shook his head when he thought of the flurry of flowered polyester as the women crowded into Corny’s pink Cadillac and Helen Washburn’s old Buick. “They mentioned something about an emergency meeting of the B.S. Club.”
Brenna arched a perfectly shaped brow. “B.S. Club?”
“Uh…Beautification Society.”
Way to go, Chandler. He’d just slipped up and told her the men’s secret name for the town’s only women’s organization. A name that the men knew better than to mention in front of any of the club’s members.
He cleared his throat. “They…uh, get together once or twice a month and share the latest gossip.”
“I get the distinct impression that secrets aren’t kept for very long around here,” she said.
“Everyone knowing your business is one of the hazards of living in a small town,” he said, relieved that she’d let his less than flattering reference to the organization pass. He placed a hand on her back to usher her across the quiet street and felt a jolt travel up his arm and spread across his chest.
“Just a minute, Sheriff,” she said, stiffening beneath his touch. “Why can’t we talk right here?”
A slight tremor coursed through her, and he knew it had nothing to do with the chill of the autumn evening.
Good. At least he wasn’t the only one affected by the contact.
“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I asked you to stand out here in the night air.” He did his best to suppress a knowing grin as he added, “You’re already shivering.”
He almost laughed out loud when he had to trot to keep up with her as she marched across the street to Luke’s.
Brenna had only been in Luke’s Bar and Grill twice in the two weeks she’d been in Tranquillity, but both times she felt as if she’d taken a step back in time. Wanted posters from the late 1800s decorated the walls, along with cow skulls, branding irons and various pieces of old, leather harness. Shiny, brass spittoons were placed on the floor at either end of the bar and the room’s muted light filtered down from suspended wagon wheels with antique lanterns converted to accommodate electricity.
Sheriff Chandler must have noticed her curiosity as he led the way to an empty table on the far side of the room. “Luke’s granddaddy opened the saloon around the turn of the century and Luke is pretty sentimental about the place.” He held a chair for her. “How do you take your coffee?”
“With cream.”
She watched his long-legged stride carry him to the bar. Sheriff Chandler was as good-looking from the back as he was from the front, she decided. He had the widest shoulders, longest legs and the tightest butt—
Stunned by the direction her thoughts had taken, Brenna quickly looked away. Had she lost her mind? She had absolutely no interest in Dylan Chandler. No way. None.
“Here you go,” he said, returning with their coffee. He placed two mugs on the table, then seated himself in the chair opposite her.
Taking a sip of the steamy liquid, Brenna listened to a country ballad playing on the jukebox as she waited for him to tell her what was on his mind. She wanted to get this over and put some distance between them. Something about the man made her insides quiver and her nerves tingle. And she was mere seconds away from going in search of the nearest candy machine for a chocolate fix.
Unable to stand the tension any longer, she cleared her throat and asked, “What was it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”
He smiled at her over the top of his cup, making her heart skip a beat. “You got the wrong impression this afternoon and I’d like to set things straight.” She started to interrupt, but he held up a hand. “I wasn’t making light of the situation. But this is a small town, with small-town ways. When someone moves in, most everyone tries to do the neighborly thing and welcome the newcomer with open arms.” He chuckled. “I’ll admit most folks are a little more subtle than Pete, but believe me, he has the best intentions. After you left the office, I talked to him and it was just as I thought—he was only trying to make you feel a part of the community.”
Brenna set her cup down and tried to ignore the tingling sensation skimming up her spine from the sound of his smooth baritone. “Before today, I’d never laid eyes on the man. How was I to know about his neighborly tradition?”
“I’m sure it was unnerving,” he said, nodding. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
“If that’s not it, then what’s the purpose of this?”
“I think you have the right to know why I was so defensive about Pete.”
“Okay, I’m listening, Sheriff. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Will you stop that?” For reasons he’d rather not dwell on, Dylan wanted to hear her velvet voice say his name. “Call me Dylan.”
“Okay…Dylan. Why are you so protective of Pete?”
He slowly placed his cup on the table as he tried to collect his thoughts. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, insisting that she use his name. The sound had sent his blood pressure up a couple of dozen points and made his mouth go dry.
“If you’ll remember, I told you I’ve known Pete all my life,” he said, finally forcing words past the cotton in his throat. “In fact, he lives with me.”
Dylan paused. This was the part he dreaded. But it would be better coming from him than from someone else. And she’d find out soon enough anyway.
Clearing his throat, he met her expectant gaze head-on. “Pete Winstead is my uncle.”
Her expressive blue eyes widened. “No wonder you were so adamant about him being harmless. Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”
Relieved she wasn’t throwing something at him for withholding that bit of information, Dylan grinned. “To tell the truth, I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing. I’ve warned him for years that something like this might happen.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think Pete will be a lot less enthusiastic about his greetings from now on. He was pretty upset that he’d frightened you and made me promise to talk to you the first chance I got.”
“I can understand your frustration,” she said, nodding. “I live with a pretty eccentric relative of my own. I hope Pete’s not too upset.”
Her lips turned up and Dylan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Brenna Montgomery could drop a three hundred pound lumberjack with that smile of hers.
“Don’t worry about Pete.” Dylan cringed at the rust in his voice. Clearing his throat, he went on, “He’ll get over it. Nothing gets him down for long.”
“He sounds like my grandmother.” Grinning, she shook her head. “On second thought, I don’t think anyone’s like Granny.”
In spite of the warning bells clanging in his brain, Dylan grinned right back. “She’s not your typical, rocking chair senior citizen?”
“No,” Brenna said, laughing.
Dylan felt his gut do a cartwheel and sweat pop out on his upper lip. When Brenna Montgomery let herself, she could be downright devastating. She had the most delightful laugh. And her lips were just meant for kissing.
He frowned. What was wrong with him? She was too unpredictable, too anxious to upset the status quo. She’d not only complained about his uncle Pete’s forty year tradition, she’d goaded him into taking her damned class and missing the Tuesday night poker game—a ritual he hadn’t missed in the last ten years. Until tonight.
No doubt about it. The lady was trouble. And he’d do well to remember that. He suddenly looked around. The poker game would be breaking up soon. The last thing he needed was for the boys to come out of the back room and start asking why he’d missed the game.
“Is something wrong?” Brenna asked. “All of a sudden you look rather grim.”
“Uh…no.” Dylan glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think we’d better call it a night.”
Rising from his chair, he offered his hand. But the moment she placed her hand in his, he knew he’d made a big mistake. Her tender flesh slid along his callused palm like a piece of fine silk, and it took monumental effort on his part not to groan aloud.
He said nothing as he released her hand and followed her out into the night. He couldn’t. His mind and body were at war, and it took every bit of his concentration to keep from acting on his first impulse.
Trouble or not, Dylan wanted to take Brenna in his arms and kiss her senseless.
“Where’s your car parked?” he asked.
“My grandmother borrowed it for the evening.” She glanced at her watch. “But it’s probably at home by now.” She started down the street. “See you in class next week.”
He caught her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. “You walked?”
Nodding, she shrugged out of his grip. “It’s not that far.”
“It’s dark.”
“It gets that way at night,” she said, dryly. “And that’s a problem, because…?”
“It’s not safe.”
She met his frown with one of her own. “You’ve just spent the last half hour telling me what a friendly place Tranquillity is. Now you’re telling me it’s not safe to walk the streets?” She folded her arms and glared up at him. “Make up your mind, Sheriff. What kind of place is this?”
“For the most part, Tranquillity is about as safe as any place can be,” he admitted, trying not to stare at the way her full breasts rested on her folded arms. He focused his gaze on the safer area of her forehead. “But once in a while a cowboy from one of the ranches around here gets tanked up and starts to thinking he’s Don Juan.”
Taking her by the elbow, Dylan hustled her toward his restored ’49 Chevy pickup parked across the deserted street. “I’ve already gotten one complaint from you today. I’d just as soon skip the second.”
“No, thanks,” she said stubbornly. “I’d rather walk.”
He stared down at her. Damn, but she was a feisty little thing. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her right then and there. Instead, he opened the driver’s door, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her into the truck.
She let out an alarmed squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Seeing that you get home safely,” he said, climbing in beside her.
“This is totally uncalled for.” Glaring at him, she slid over to the passenger side. “I can take care of myself.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“You can’t do this.”
“Watch me.” He gave her a stern look in an effort to stop any further protest, but she completely ignored it. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he jammed the key into the ignition.
“Are you this controlling with everyone?” she asked.
Dylan tried counting to ten, then twenty. At thirty he gave up. “Lady, you could drive Job over the edge. You complain about an old man’s innocent gesture of friendship and then go walking down a dark street at night, inviting all kinds of trouble.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do.”
Gunning the engine, he spun gravel and squealed the tires as he steered the truck away from the curb. He cringed as he imagined the chips the rocks had made in the paint job. He and his dad had spent several years restoring the old Chevy, and Jack Chandler was probably looking down from heaven right now, ready to sling a couple of lightning bolts Dylan’s way for treating the truck with such irreverence.
He glanced over at the woman beside him. And it was all her fault, too. She was making him crazy and causing him to do things he hadn’t done in years. The last time he’d laid rubber had been when he was nineteen and full of more piss and vinegar than good sense.
