bed.”
“They’re up.” He moved aside and the glass door closed behind him. “Here.” With his free hand, he held out a bottle of passion fruit. “This is my favorite.”
She reached for it, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he stepped closer until he stood just a few inches from her. “Do you like passion fruit, Ms. Spencer?”
Her finger brushed his thumb, and she looked up from their hands to his deep green eyes gazing at her from beneath the brim of his battered straw hat. She wasn’t a silly country girl who got all flattered and tongue-tied over a sexy-as-hell cowboy in a pair of jeans worn thin in interesting places. “It might be a bit early in the day for passion fruit, Sheriff.”
“Dylan,” he corrected her as a slow, easy smile curved his lips. “And, honey, it’s never too early for passion fruit.”
It was the word “honey” that got to her. It just slid inside and warmed the pit of her stomach before she could do a thing about it. She’d heard him use the same endearment with the waitress, too, and she’d thought she was immune. She wasn’t. She tried to think up a witty comeback and couldn’t. He’d invaded her personal space, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She was saved by the approach of his son.
“Dad, did ya get the night crawlers?” Adam asked.
Dylan dropped his hand from the bottle and took a step back. His gaze lingered on Hope for a moment longer; then he directed his attention to his son. “Right here, buddy,” he said and held up the two Styrofoam cups.
“Those are worms?” Hope glanced from what she’d assumed were little ice-cream cups to his face.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But they were”-she pointed to the glass case- “next to the milk.”
“Not right next,” he assured her. He took the chocolate milk from beneath his arm and gestured toward Hope. “Adam, say hello to Ms. Spencer.”
“Hi. Do you need me to scare any more bats?”
She shook her head as she gazed from one to the other.
“What kind of doughnuts did you get for breakfast?” Dylan asked his son. “Powdered sugar?”
“Nope, chocolate.”
“Well, I guess I can choke down a few chocolate.”
“We’re going fishing for Dolly Varden,” Adam informed her.
Obviously they thought worms in the milk-and-juice case was perfectly normal. “Dolly who?”
Deep laughter rumbled within Dylan’s chest as if he were extremely amused. “Trout,” he answered. “Come on, son. Let’s go catch some Dolly who.”
Adam laughed, a younger, childlike version of his father.
“City girls,” Dylan scoffed as he walked away.
“Yeah,” Adam added, the squeak of his rubber-soled sneakers keeping perfect time with the heavier tread of his father’s worn boots.
Really, who were they to laugh at her? Hope wondered as she watched them move toward the front counter. She wasn’t the crazy one who thought worms belonged next to milk. She was normal. She set the bottle of juice in her basket and made her way to the housewares aisle. Across rows of Comet and boxes of dog food, she watched a large man with a potbelly, a handlebar mustache, and a blood-smeared apron approach from the back. As he rang up Dylan’s purchases, Hope moved up and down the aisles and dumped two pairs of pink rubber gloves, half a gallon of pine cleaner, and a can of Raid into her basket. In the small produce department, she smelled the peaches for freshness.
“See you around, Ms. Spencer.”
She glanced up from her peaches to where Dylan stood holding the door open for Adam. He looked over at her, one corner of his mouth curved up, and then he was gone.
“Are you ready to be rung up?” the big man behind the counter asked. “ ‘Cause if you’re gonna be a while yet, I’ve got some meat to wrap in the back.”
“I’m ready.” She placed the peaches in a produce baggie and walked to the counter.
“Are you the woman with the car alarm?”
Hope set the basket on the counter, next to a display of cigarettes and lighters. “Yes,” she answered warily.
“Ada called me last night when that thing went off,” he said, his big fingers pecking out the keys on the cash register.
“I’m sorry she disturbed you.”
“She nearly choked to death on a chicken bone, you know.”
Apparently Hope was the only one who found that odd.
He checked the price sticker on the Raid, then rang it up. “Are you going to be in town long?”
“Six months.”
“Oh, yeah?” He looked up. “Are you a tree hugger?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a paper sack. “You don’t look like no tree hugger.”
Hope didn’t know if he was complimenting her or not, so she kept quiet.
“I hear you’re staying at the Donnelly place.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you going to do out there?”
That was the second time in two days she’d been asked that question. “Spend a relaxing summer.”
“My wife, Melba, was over at Dixie’s getting her hair kinked when Ada called from the Sandman saying you need some available men.”
“To clean the bats out of the house I leased,” she clarified. He subtotaled her purchases and she pulled a twenty from her wallet.
He looked at her closely and must have decided she was harmless, because he shook his head and smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Ada said.” He took her money, then counted out the change to her. “Too bad. I have a nephew working the mine up near Challis, and he sure could use an available woman. ‘Course, you don’t look like the kind of woman who’d be interested in Alvin.”
He’d piqued her curiosity and she asked, “What kind of woman is that?”
“A woman not in her right mind.” The ends of his mustache curled on his cheeks beneath his eyes.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. My name’s Stanley Caldwell. Me and my wife, Melba own this store, and if there’s something you need in the way of a special order, just let me know.”
“I will.” She took the paper sack. “Do you know where I can get a cappuccino?”
“Yep. Sun Valley.”
She’d never wanted a cappuccino bad enough to drive an hour for it. She thanked him anyway and left the market. Her Porsche was parked by the front doors and she dropped the sack on the passenger seat. As she pulled from the parking lot, she slipped a CD in the player, pumped up the volume, and sang along with Sheryl Crow. “Run baby run baby run,” she sang as she drove down the main street of Gospel and continued around the lake to Timberline Road. It was just after eight when she pulled into the driveway of the house she’d leased. It looked just as bad as it had the day before.
She wasn’t about to step foot inside until it was bat-free. Instead, she walked across the road and knocked on her neighbor’s door. A woman with red, curly hair and freckles, and wearing a blue chintz robe, answered. Hope introduced herself through the screen.
“Dylan said you might be coming by.” She held the door open and Hope entered a living room decorated with a profusion of tole painting. It was everywhere, on pieces of driftwood, old saw blades, and metal milk jugs. “I’m Shelly Aberdeen.” She wore big bunny slippers and could not have stood much over five feet.
“Did Sheriff Taber mention my problem with bats?”
“Yeah, he did. I was just about to wake up the boys. Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll tell them what you need.”
She disappeared down a hall and Hope sat in a swivel chair next to the stone fireplace. From the rear of the
