“His mommy is right here,” she said. “And I think you’ve made one little boy very happy.”
“Well, I aim to please.” Whit was a little disappointed to see she was wearing more than a robe this morning, though he couldn’t fault the fit of her soft yellow sweater or those form-fitting jeans that hugged her slender legs.
The color of the sweater let loose the gold fire in her hair and made the flecks in her green eyes dance like the sun. She had a smattering of freckles, like Brody’s, across her straight, refined nose, and Whit found the effect touching. A few were scattered on her arms below the pushed-up sleeves of her sweater, making him ponder where else he might find a provocative patch.
“You’d better hang on to him, Brody,” she called to her son, and Whit glanced toward the pair just as Wolf threatened to roar off again, probably to see if the youngster would give chase.
Brody made a valiant grab for the leash, but it slipped through his small hands.
“Oh, no, you don’t, you miserable piece of stuffed sausage,” Whit bellowed, and to the accompaniment of Brody’s giggles and his mom’s velvet-soft laughter, he lunged for the animal.
He and the dog tumbled in the grass, with Brody dancing about excitedly beside him and Jill not even trying to hide her amusement.
“Have you ever considered obedience training for this monster?” he asked, when he had Wolf finally in hand.
He thought of his friend, Joe Farrell, with the K-9 Unit. Joe could teach even the most worthless beast to “stay”—and Wolf certainly qualified as worthless.
“I haven’t—but it’s something I think I need to seriously consider,” Jill said, when she could finally manage the words. “A little obedience wouldn’t hurt him.”
An understatement if Whit had ever heard one. “I’ll see if I can come up with a name or two for you,” he volunteered. He might just ask Joe if he’d be interested in a little moonlighting.
However, knowing Joe’s reputation with the ladies, Whit would be damned if he’d allow the man to get within ten feet of Jill Harper without Whit being present.
He dusted off his jeans and offered Brody the end of the rope leash. “This time hang on to it, pardner,” he said.
“Okay, Off’cer.”
“That’s Whit to you, pardner,” Whit said, tousling the boy’s hair.
“Okay…Whit,” Brody said shyly before charging off with Wolf.
Whit gave renewed attention to the woman on the porch. Her eyes were bright as she watched her son play, then she turned her gaze on him.
“It seems I’m once again in your debt,” she said. “Thank you for bringing Wolf home. How ever did you find the little rascal?”
“Don’t ask.”
Jill raised an eyebrow at the low groan he gave with his answer. “Not an easy capture, Officer?”
He strode closer and leaned against the porch railing near her. Very near. She could see the dark heat of his eyes, the small razor nick at his jawline. “Let’s just say I didn’t relish standing at the side of the road calling to a short-legged, overweight animal, sadly misnamed. Wolf…”
She hid a smile. “It did damage to your image, did it?”
She was enjoying this, he thought. “It’ll heal. Sometime along about…Christmas.”
Her laugh was soft and it trickled along his nerve endings.
“I’m really very sorry. Brody came up with the name. And you’re right, it doesn’t fit.”
He accepted her apology with good grace. “No harm done. Just don’t let it happen again. It’s dangerous out there at night for boy and dog. Next time neither of them might be as lucky.”
Another of his good-citizen warnings, Jill thought, one she already knew to heed. He didn’t have to remind her. “I can assure you, it won’t happen again.”
“And get that dog an address tag,” he added. “I assume he’s had his shots.”
She wondered if the man’s bite was worse than his bark. “We’ve only had the dog two weeks, but he’s had his shots. And the vet has ordered him an address tag. Anything else, Officer?”
He saw the military-rigid set to her shoulders, realized the laughter in her eyes had disappeared. He wanted it back, but he had a point to make. “The dead bolt,” he added.
Her green eyes gleamed with glacier coolness. “The dead bolt.” She crossed one denimed leg over the other and fixed him with a fierce glower. “It may surprise you to know that despite Brody’s dangerous escapade last night I really am a good mother. I don’t let my child run loose, climb tall trees or play on the interstate. I take him to the pediatrician, the dentist, give him nutritious foods, his vitamins and tuck him into bed every night.”
Whit wouldn’t mind having her tuck him into bed at night. But as angry as he’d made her, he didn’t think that was going to happen. At least not anytime soon.
“I’m sure you’re a good mother. It’s just that accidents tend to happen the one time you’re not looking. I’m only offering a word or two of advice.”
“Advice.”
He held out a hand to her. “How about a truce? You continue to be a good mother—and I’ll continue to be a good cop.”
“Well, you’ve more than done your civic duty.” Jill was still angry, but she decided she’d give the overbearing man the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just trying to do his job.
She stuck out her hand. “I suppose we could try a truce and see how it goes.”
His touch was warm as his big hand swallowed hers. And in spite of herself a tingle traveled the length of her arm, heat chasing along behind it. What was it about the man that kept her a little off center in his presence?
“I was about to fix Brody and me a glass of lemonade when you arrived. Would…you care for one?” she asked, feeling an overwhelming need to retreat to the kitchen and search for her good sense.
“Lemonade? Sounds great. While you’re at it, I’ll uh, take a look at that door lock—I have a few tools in the four-by-four.”
She spun back around to face him, and he put up his hands in defense. “It’s just an offer of help, not an indictment of guilt.”
Her glance was wary for a long moment, then she relaxed. “Okay,” she said. “Yes—that would be helpful. Thank you,” she added.
Jill took longer than usual to squeeze the lemons into fresh lemonade, but she needed time to find that composure of hers that had slipped the moment Whit arrived on the scene.
Last night she’d thought the attraction was strictly for a man in uniform—but that didn’t account for the awareness she felt today.
She and Brody were just getting settled; she was recovering from a divorce and trying to get both her feet firmly planted on the ground. Now was not the time for her senses to take a trip to nowhere.
When she returned to the front of the house, tray of lemonade in her hands, she expected to find her dead bolt in parts, spread about the entry hall. Instead it was in one piece and, she suspected, functioning—if she knew Whit Tanner already. Once again he seemed to have come to her rescue.
She found him in the yard with Brody, playing a game of what looked like football—with Wolf as the pigskin. At least they were both scrambling after the animal as if he were a missed pass they were each trying to recover for their own side.