she studied his bland smile. “I said I was an artist.”
“Yeah.” All innocence, he sipped his beer while crickets chorused around them. “This guy I knew was really good at making birdbaths. He used to make this one with a fish on it-a carp, I think-and the water would come out the carp's mouth and fill the bowl.”
“Oh, I see. Class work.”
“You bet. He sold a bundle of them.”
“Good for him. I don't work in concrete.” She couldn't help it-it irked her that he wouldn't have heard of her work or seen her name. “I guess you guys don't get
People
or
Newsweek
around here.”
“Get
Soldier of Fortune,”
he said, tongue in cheek. “That's real popular.” He watched her take another chug of beer. Her mouth, and he still remembered her mouth, was full and wide. Yeah, she'd grown up nice all right. Who would have thought that shy and skinny Clare Kimball would turn into the long, sexy woman sitting across from him. “Heard you were married.”
“For a while.” She shrugged off the memory. “Didn't work out. How about you?”
“No. Never made it. Came close once.” He thought of Mary Ellen with a trace of sweet regret. “I guess some of us do better single file.” He drained the beer and set the empty bottle on the step between them.
“Want another?”
“No, thanks. Wouldn't do to have one of my own deputies pick me up DWI. How's your mother?” “She got married,” Clare said flatly.
“No kidding? When?”
“Couple of months ago.” Restless, she shifted and stared out at the dark, empty street. “How about your parents, do they still have the farm?”
“Most of it.” Even after all these years, he couldn't think of his stepfather as a parent. Biff Stokey had never and would never replace the father Cam had lost at the tender age of ten. “They had a couple of bad years and sold off some acreage. Could have been worse. Old man Haw-baker had to sell off his whole place. They subdivided it and planted modulars instead of corn and hay.”
Clare brooded into the last of her beer. “It's funny, when I was driving through town I kept thinking nothing had changed.” She glanced back up. “I guess I didn't look close enough.”
“We still have Martha's, the market, Dopper's Woods, and Crazy Annie.”
“Crazy Annie? Does she still carry a burlap sack and scout the roadside for junk?”
“Every day. She must be sixty now. Strong as an ox even if she does have a few loose boards in the attic.”
“The kids used to tease her.”
“Still do.”
“You gave her rides on your motorcycle.”
“I liked her.” He stretched once, lazily, then unfolded himself to stand at the base of the steps. Looking at her now, with the dark house brooding behind her, he thought she seemed lonely and a little sad. “I've got to get on. Are you going to be all right here?”
“Sure, why not?” She knew he was thinking of the attic room where her father had taken his final drink and final leap. “I've got a sleeping bag, some groceries, and the better part of a six-pack of beer. That'll do me fine until I locate a couple of tables, a lamp, a bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You're staying?”
It wasn't precisely a welcome she heard in his voice. She stood and kept to the stairs where she was a head taller than he. “Yes, I'm staying. At least for a few months. Is that a problem, Sheriff?”
“No-not for me.” He rocked back on his heels, wondering why she looked so edgily defiant with the gingerbread veranda at her back. “I guess I figured you were passing through or opening the place up for new tenants.”
“You thought wrong. I'm opening it up for me.”
“Why?”
She reached down and gathered up both empty bottles by the neck. “I could have asked you the same question.
But I didn't.”
“No, you didn't.” He glanced at the house behind her, big and empty and whispering with memories. “I guess you've got your reasons.” He smiled at her again. “See you around,
“Yeah.” All innocence, he sipped his beer while crickets chorused around them. “This guy I knew was really good at making birdbaths. He used to make this one with a fish on it-a carp, I think-and the water would come out the carp's mouth and fill the bowl.”
“Oh, I see. Class work.”
“You bet. He sold a bundle of them.”
“Good for him. I don't work in concrete.” She couldn't help it-it irked her that he wouldn't have heard of her work or seen her name. “I guess you guys don't get
People
or
Newsweek
around here.”
“Get
Soldier of Fortune,”
he said, tongue in cheek. “That's real popular.” He watched her take another chug of beer. Her mouth, and he still remembered her mouth, was full and wide. Yeah, she'd grown up nice all right. Who would have thought that shy and skinny Clare Kimball would turn into the long, sexy woman sitting across from him. “Heard you were married.”
“For a while.” She shrugged off the memory. “Didn't work out. How about you?”
“No. Never made it. Came close once.” He thought of Mary Ellen with a trace of sweet regret. “I guess some of us do better single file.” He drained the beer and set the empty bottle on the step between them.
“Want another?”
“No, thanks. Wouldn't do to have one of my own deputies pick me up DWI. How's your mother?” “She got married,” Clare said flatly.
“No kidding? When?”
“Couple of months ago.” Restless, she shifted and stared out at the dark, empty street. “How about your parents, do they still have the farm?”
“Most of it.” Even after all these years, he couldn't think of his stepfather as a parent. Biff Stokey had never and would never replace the father Cam had lost at the tender age of ten. “They had a couple of bad years and sold off some acreage. Could have been worse. Old man Haw-baker had to sell off his whole place. They subdivided it and planted modulars instead of corn and hay.”
Clare brooded into the last of her beer. “It's funny, when I was driving through town I kept thinking nothing had changed.” She glanced back up. “I guess I didn't look close enough.”
“We still have Martha's, the market, Dopper's Woods, and Crazy Annie.”
“Crazy Annie? Does she still carry a burlap sack and scout the roadside for junk?”
“Every day. She must be sixty now. Strong as an ox even if she does have a few loose boards in the attic.”
“The kids used to tease her.”
“Still do.”
“You gave her rides on your motorcycle.”
“I liked her.” He stretched once, lazily, then unfolded himself to stand at the base of the steps. Looking at her now, with the dark house brooding behind her, he thought she seemed lonely and a little sad. “I've got to get on. Are you going to be all right here?”
“Sure, why not?” She knew he was thinking of the attic room where her father had taken his final drink and final leap. “I've got a sleeping bag, some groceries, and the better part of a six-pack of beer. That'll do me fine until I locate a couple of tables, a lamp, a bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “You're staying?”
It wasn't precisely a welcome she heard in his voice. She stood and kept to the stairs where she was a head taller than he. “Yes, I'm staying. At least for a few months. Is that a problem, Sheriff?”
“No-not for me.” He rocked back on his heels, wondering why she looked so edgily defiant with the gingerbread veranda at her back. “I guess I figured you were passing through or opening the place up for new tenants.”
“You thought wrong. I'm opening it up for me.”
“Why?”
She reached down and gathered up both empty bottles by the neck. “I could have asked you the same question.
But I didn't.”
“No, you didn't.” He glanced at the house behind her, big and empty and whispering with memories. “I guess you've got your reasons.” He smiled at her again. “See you around,
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