The Sheriff of Heartbreak County

swivel chair and slipped it on. It was all she could do to make herself look at the sheriff in silent acquiescence. For a moment he looked back at her with a certain wariness in his eyes, as if he’d been caught off-guard by the sudden lull after the heat of battle. Then, and with a wry smile and a nod of mock gallantry, he waved her ahead of him.

When they reached the ruffled curtain that divided the back rooms from the salon, he reached past her to pull it aside for her-more gallantry that could only be meant in a sarcastic way, given the fact that he was the man who’d arrested and charged her with murder. And if that was so, why did the brush of his arm against her shoulder make her shiver, and heat blossom in her belly at his nearness…his smell?

“You sure must like pink,” he remarked as he twitched the curtain back into place.

“I hate pink,” Mary said in a choked voice, and she was shocked to discover how close to the surface the anger was, and the tears. And the fear.

He threw her a startled look, no doubt wondering why anyone should become so passionate over something so un-passionate as the color pink. But he only said mildly, “Coulda fooled me.”

“This is all Queenie’s,” she said, trying not to let her voice show how fast her heart was beating. “I’ve…never cared for pink.”

He tilted his head back and looked at her from under his hat brim. “No kidding? Neither does my daughter. Thinks it’s awful girls are expected to like pink.”

There was a pause while they maneuvered through the back door, the sheriff trying to play the gentleman and open it for her while Mary tried her best not to let her body brush against any part of his. Outside, she waited, hunched inside the thin nylon smock that was no barrier at all to the wicked little wind that skirled around her ankles and reached freshly under her skirt, while he snapped the padlock in place.

He turned back to her, hitching his jacket closer against that taunting wind, and went on in a conversational, almost friendly tone, “In her case it’s maybe because she’s a redhead. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that redheads don’t like pink. Why is that? Think maybe because it clashes with their hair?”

“Or their skin tones,” she said dully. And it was her turn, now, to watch him, and to wonder what might be behind the sudden transformation from steely-eyed lawman to easygoing companion. Be careful, Mary…be careful. He’s trying to lull you into saying too much.

They started down the alley together, and after a moment, because the silence felt awkward to her, she said neutrally, “So, your daughter has red hair?”

“Got it from her mother.” Glancing at him she saw something flicker in his eyes, a brief darkness, like a bird’s shadow. It was quickly gone, though, and he added with an air of surprise, “Come to think of it, she wasn’t partial to pink, either.”

Mary felt the keen blue eyes studying her, inviting her comment, but this time she had herself together enough to know better than to reply. They don’t miss much, those eyes…

They went the back way through the alley to the parking lot behind the courthouse that was reserved for law- enforcement vehicles and the various officers of the court. Mary knew this place; it was where she’d been brought from the jail early this morning by two sheriff’s deputies she’d never seen before. They’d put handcuffs on her and whisked her into the courthouse through a heavy steel door at the top of some concrete steps and into a barren little room where she was to meet with her lawyer, Mr. Klein, and change into the clothes he’d brought for her to wear before the judge. She could still feel the cold bite of those handcuffs…and the sick fear in the pit of her stomach.

Suppressing a shudder and making a conscious effort not to rub her wrists, she allowed the sheriff to guide her to an SUV with the department’s logo on the side. He unlocked the door, opened it and waited for her to get in, then went around to the driver’s side, taking off his hat as he opened the door, and tossing it onto the back seat.

Like we’re going on a date, Mary thought, and almost smiled at the irony.

The sheriff spoke briefly and, to Mary, unintelligibly into his radio, then started up the SUV. His ice-blue gaze slid across her when he turned to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking space, and she couldn’t hide her shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, and turned on the SUV’s heater without waiting for her reply.

She turned her face quickly to look out the window, emotion catching her unawares. Why are you doing this? Why are you being nice to me? she wanted to ask-and then, to her dismay, she did.

“If you’ve told me the truth about killing my b-Jason,” he said, narrowed eyes focused on the road ahead, “I’ve got no reason not to be nice to you. Do I?” She didn’t answer, and after a moment he shook his head and let out a breath in an exasperated sigh. “Ah…Mary. I don’t know what I can do to get you to trust me.”

She gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Trust you? You must be joking. You arrested me for murder.”

She saw the depressions in his cheeks deepen with his frown before they were partly obscured by a big, long- boned hand scrubbed impatiently across the lower part of his face. “Dammit, I told you, I didn’t have a whole lot of choice.” He threw her a brief, stinging look. “The truth is, I-ah hell.” Scowling through the windshield again, he growled, “Look, I want the truth, that’s all. If you didn’t kill Jason, if you’ve got nothing to hide, then…then for God’s sake tell me who you are. Tell me what your real name is…who you’re being protected from.”

Mary made an involuntary sound, then just gazed at him, heart pounding.

He turned his head to give her a sardonic little smile. “Oh, yeah, I’ve pretty much figured that part out. Look, dammit,” he said, facing forward again, “if you’re a federally protected witness, you know I’m gonna find that out sooner or later. The U.S. Marshal’s Office isn’t going to protect you from a charge of murder.”

“Then why do you need me to tell you anything?” she said bitterly, watching houses and yards flash by, bravely clinging to their fresh spring finery in the face of winter’s spiteful reprise. Blackberry winter…that’s what my mother used to call this weather.

Thoughts of her mother were so unexpected, and so predictably painful, she wasn’t even aware of where they were until the SUV came to an abrupt stop. For a moment she stared at the little white clapboard house without recognizing it as hers. Then she noticed that while she’d been in jail the big lilac bush beside the front porch had come into bloom, and that brought another flood of unwelcome memories.

“I want to help you,” the sheriff said softly.

She couldn’t help herself. She laughed-and was shocked when she felt warm fingers brush her cheek.

Her breath snagged delicately, like roughened skin in fine silk. She caught and held it with infinite care, terrified to let it go for not knowing what might come with it. It had been so long since anyone had touched her this way… gently, with that special kind of tenderness that happens between lovers…and how was that possible when this was the man responsible for her utter and complete humiliation?

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her…a beautiful woman, a pitiful victim or a vicious killer? What did her skin feel like to his work-roughened fingers, and did he feel her blood surging hot and wild beneath it?

“If you’re innocent, why is that hard for you to believe? It’s my job to protect the innocent, just as much as it is to catch bad guys.”

His voice was like his fingers…warm, a little rough, but gentle and oddly stirring. His fingers caressed her cheek as he watched her…stroked a strand of her hair aside as if it were an obstruction to his view. Under their hypnotic spell she no longer felt the least bit cold…and yet she shivered. Protect? Who can protect me, if the marshals won’t?

Loneliness and longing descended on her like a blanket, pervasive as the need for sleep; her eyelids grew heavy, and the muscles in her face and neck cramped with the fierceness of her struggle against the desire to rest her cheek on his hand.

“I can’t help if you won’t talk to me, Mary.”

Talk to me…

Could he help her? Against all common sense, was it possible this man would protect her-this man who, by all indications, appeared to be trying to put her in jail for the rest of her life? What was it about him that, against all common sense, made the urge to trust him so strong? Was it his eyes, that seemed to know so much? His voice, so soft and yet so powerful? His hands, so strong and yet so gentle?

While she struggled with it, tense and silent…on the verge of giving in, his hand left her cheek. He leaned across in front of her to open the door, muttering, “Oh, hell, I just hope to God Harvey Klein doesn’t catch me talking to you like this.”

Her skin felt tingly and cold where his hand had been. She wanted to put her hand up and rub the spot, almost