Abel cleared his throat. “You’re a woman alone. If you don’t already have a gun, you might think of getting one.”
The idea appalled her, and her face must have registered that reaction.
“Most people do around here,” he said. “If for no other reason than to protect their livestock. Against snakes and coyotes. Intruders.”
“I never thought…”
“Consider it,” the storekeeper urged, not unkindly.
The responsibility of individual gun ownership. The necessity. A daunting concept. In the hotel business, security was handled by…well, security. A staff discreet and out of sight. And always at the ready. Until this moment she hadn’t really considered how others had taken care of her every need. And she’d considered herself an independent woman. Unsettled, she turned to go, only to discover she’d have to make her way past the sheriff still standing outside the door. An even more formidable prospect than purchasing a gun.
Why did he make her nervous even when she had nothing to hide? Nothing of substance. Not really.
She squared her shoulders and prepared to breeze by him with a cursory greeting. But stepping from the dim interior of the feed store into the bright June sunlight, she was temporarily blinded, and stopped to get her bearings.
“Can I have a word with you?” His deep voice, held firmly in check, nonetheless threatened her equilibrium. “I’d like to talk about Rory.”
“He…he finished work for today. We rode our bikes into town together. Said he was going off with friends to swim.”
“I know. He dropped by the office. Have you eaten lunch?”
She didn’t want lunch with this man, but her stomach—last fed hours ago at a crack-of-dawn breakfast—took that moment to cast its own vote with a loud growl.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Before she could protest, he cupped her elbow and guided her across the street. She was stunned to discover he was leading her not to Rachel’s Diner, but next door to the sheriff’s office.
“I hope you like chili,” he said as he propelled her through the front door. “McMillan made enough for an army.”
That reminded Samantha of the children’s taunt, “Who’s gonna make me? You and whose army?” and wondered how much she’d have to reveal of herself during this “lunch.”
Garrett was determined to get some answers from Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—and he was going to do it on his own turf. He needed to balance her right to privacy with his need to know whom his son interacted with. The lunch invitation was meant to make the procedure—one that required finesse, something he wasn’t sure he possessed—less threatening. He might be sheriff, but he’d been raised Southern. You didn’t scare off a newcomer just because you didn’t know what her daddy, granddaddy and great-granddaddy did for a living. Didn’t know yet.
“Up this way.” He motioned to a staircase that led to the barracks above the ground-floor offices.
Cool caution seemed to form a shield around her as she climbed the stairs ahead of him. Clearly, she was on guard, and he wondered why. She paused, uncertain, at the top of the stairs.
Without introductions, he propelled her toward the kitchenette, past several deputies eating at the long central trestle table. They eyed Samantha with interest. It was unusual for him to bring an outsider up here. Business dealings he always conducted below and by the book. Any personal life he kept separate from his work. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Silently, he put together two trays of dishes, silverware, napkins, then indicated the chili, salad, bread, sweet tea. Holding herself regally, she responded with a nod that, yes, she’d try some of each. He hadn’t felt so uncomfortable since his first middle school dance. The silence of the deputies behind them was deafening.
Handing her a tray, he headed for the stairs once more. She seemed mildly surprised they wouldn’t be eating at the communal table—as if he’d ever let that happen.
“We can eat and talk in my office,” he said in a low voice, but not low enough. He saw the corner of Deputy Sooner’s mouth quirk in the beginning of a grin.
Safely downstairs in his office, he lowered his tray to the top of a stack of papers covering his blotter, then cleared a place opposite for hers. Pulling Rory’s backpack from the only other chair in the room, he indicated she should sit. She did, gingerly, looking down at an empty trap Ziggy Newsome had returned after relocating a raccoon that had taken up residence in the Newsome attic.
With his foot Garrett pushed the trap into the corner. “Sorry about the housekeeping.”
“You said you wanted to talk about your son.” She was unflappable, this one.
“I don’t know how much he’s told you about his situation,” he said, trying for equally cool.
“He said he spends summers and vacations with you and the rest of the year with his mother in Charlotte. Beyond that we only talk about animals and running my business. In those areas he seems very mature for his age.”
“Do you know much about kids?”
“No.”
“All the more reason we should talk.”
Slowly spreading a napkin on her lap, she raised one eyebrow and gave him an if-you-say-so look, but didn’t answer otherwise. He was a crossword fanatic. In the paper that morning one of the answers had been hauteur. At this moment the clue could have been “Samantha Weston.”
“I guess because Rory splits his time between my ex and me,” he said, “we’re twice as vigilant. As parents.”
“That—” she took a delicate nibble of her salad “—and the fact you’re sheriff and would naturally want to know who’s moving into your territory and what they’re planning on doing. Say, me.”
“You’ve read me accurately there. And just about ninety-nine percent of the rest of the town. You had to know your business would stir up curiosity. It’s unusual.”
“And here Abel just got through telling me this is a live-and-let-live town.” She shot him a command-the-room smile. “Are llama treks a suspicious activity, sheriff? I filed a prospectus when I applied for my permit. It’s public information.”
“I read it.”
“Oh?” She paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Did you read Rachel’s when she bought the diner? Or Abel’s when he inherited the feed store?”
He found himself unaccountably taken back by her direct gaze and her cross-examination. “You… need to understand I’m talking to you as a father. I’d check out any situation I let my son into. Be it a sleepover with friends or a part-time job at Mickey D’s—”
“So you want to know what kind of employer I am? Have you talked to Red Harris? I think he’s observed me long and hard enough to provide a pretty good character reference. Or maybe Abel. He could tell you I pay my bills on time.” Her tone was pseudo-light with a defensiveness that swam just below the surface. Her body language said he wasn’t intimidating her. “Have you interviewed them?”
“No.” Who the hell was conducting this interview? He bristled at her ability to turn the tables. “But now you bring up the matter of background checks, why’s there no record for Samantha Weston? Not even a driver’s license.”
“So you did snoop on me.” She seemed almost relieved. “FYI, there’s no license under my name because I don’t drive. Your lunch is getting cold.”
He looked at the untouched meal in front of him. So much for finesse and the excuse of getting to know his son’s employer.
“I think Rory and I are going to get along fine.” She