On Pins and Needles. Victoria Pade

that didn’t mean he wasn’t the sheriff. And since he was lingering outside the door, Megan thought it was possible he might indeed be Josh Brimley. And that maybe he was having second thoughts. That maybe he wouldn’t come in at all without some encouragement.

      But if that was the case, she wasn’t going to let him get away. So she got up and went to the door, opening it to smile again at the man with the hooked nose and the very small eyes as he took a flyer out of the basket she and Annissa had set out when they’d opened for business two weeks ago.

      “Hi,” she greeted him warmly.

      “’Lo,” came the gruff reply.

      She held out her hand. “I’m Megan Bailey.”

      The man looked from her out stretched hand to her face and back to her hand again before he accepted it. But he didn’t offer his name.

      So Megan said, “You wouldn’t happen to be Josh Brimley, would you?”

      The man gave her a look that said it was a dumb question. “No, I wouldn’t be. Name’s Burns,” he finally informed her.

      “Ah. Well, I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Burns. Can I help you with anything or answer any questions you might have?”

      “Wife’s curious about this hooey. Wanted me to bring ’er home somethin’ about it.”

      Not a warm welcome or a hearty endorsement but Megan didn’t let it daunt her.

      “You lookin’ fer the sheriff?” the man asked then. “’Cuz he’s down on the corner there, keepin’ an eye on this place.”

      Mr. Burns’s tone was suspicious but it was the news that Josh Brimley was standing off in the distance, watching the office as if he were on a stakeout that really dismayed Megan. It didn’t seem like a good sign.

      She glanced in the direction Mr. Burns had indicated with a pointing of his nearly nonexistent chin and discovered that there was, indeed, another man three doors down, leaning a shoulder against one of the many Victorian lamp posts that lined either side of Center Street, his hands in the pockets of a pair of tight blue jeans, one ankle crossed over the other.

      But before she could decide how she should handle what appeared to be the sheriff’s reluctance to come any closer, Mr. Burns piped up in a louder voice and called, “Lady’s askin’ after ya, Josh.”

      That news did not seem to please the other man.

      In fact, even though his face was mostly lost in the shadow cast by the brim of his own cowboy hat, his jaw seemed to clench.

      An even worse sign.

      “That so?” he called back as if he didn’t have the foggiest idea why Megan might be inquiring about him.

      That was when it occurred to her that he might have been waiting to come in for his appointment until the disparaging Mr. Burns moved on so that no one would see him.

      So much for hopes of word getting around and having a man who held a respected public position as a client breaking the ice around here and helping to get her started. At that point, Mrs. Burns’s curiosity seemed more promising.

      But as Megan stood there she thought that she had two choices. She could say some thing that would give Josh Brimley away and get the word out herself that he had an appointment with her, or she could respect what seemed to be his desire not to have that known and just hope that when her treatments were successful, he’d admit to having had them.

      She opted for the second scenario and in a voice loud enough for him to hear, she said, “I was just hoping to have the sheriff check our locks for us at some point, for safety’s sake.” Then, only to Mr. Burns, she added, “I hope your wife will come in and see us.”

      And with that, Megan turned on her heels and returned to her office, keeping her fingers crossed that Mr. Burns would finally be on his way and Josh Brimley would feel free to keep his appointment under the auspices of giving his stamp of approval to her office security.

      Although she was beginning to worry that he might not keep the appointment at all. That he might just go the other way and be a no-show.

      But her fears were un founded. After Mr. Burns had disappeared in the opposite direction and the coast was pre sum ably clear, in came Josh Brimley.

      Megan was nonchalantly watering the fern in the corner of the waiting room when he did and it struck her almost instantly that even though the space was large, the sheriff seemed to fill it.

      He was a big man, she realized as she set the watering can down and turned to face him. He was probably three inches over six feet tall, with shoulders so broad it was a wonder they’d fit through the door. He wore a pale-gray Western shirt tucked into his jeans and there didn’t seem to be an ounce of fat on him. Instead he was a tower of lean muscle in long legs, narrow hips and a waist that V’d sharply up to those massive shoulders.

      But it wasn’t sheer size that was responsible for his command of the room. He had a kind of intangible presence that she thought would cause the phenomenon no matter what room he entered.

      Then he took off his hat and Megan’s gaze went naturally to his face.

      He was no pretty boy but he had rugged good looks in a face of perfect sharp angles and planes. Perfect enough to cause a little catch in Megan’s breathing as she took it all in.

      His brow was square, his nose was straight, and his lips had an intriguing suppleness to them that made her want to see them slide into a smile. His well-defined jawline was shaded by the hint of a thick beard, and to top it all off, he had the most incredible midnight-blue eyes she’d ever seen.

      With his hat in one large, adept hand he ran the other over the short bristles of hair the color of antique oak, leaving it slightly spiky on top before he leveled those amazing eyes on her.

      And the oddest thing happened. Megan felt a buzzing intensity ripple through her almost as if he’d actually touched her.

      Of course she ignored it, held out her hand the same way she had to Mr. Burns, and said, “In case you didn’t know, I’m Megan Bailey.”

      But unlike Mr. Burns, Josh Brimley didn’t take his eyes off her face even as he accepted her hand.

      “Josh Brimley,” he said unnecessarily in a voice as deep and rich as aged bourbon.

      His hand was strong, callused and warm to the touch, and having it wrapped around hers did wild and wicked things to the pit of her stomach. But she ignored that, too, clearing her throat so that when she spoke again her own voice didn’t ring with the effects he was having on her.

      “I don’t remember too many people from around here so I assume not too many of them remember me, either,” she explained. “I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to introduce myself.”

      “My brother Scott remembers you and your sister from grade school, but I’m two years older than he is and I can’t say that I have much recollection of the two of you. I know your place, though. I was amazed to see anyone trying to live in it again. It’s gotten pretty rundown over the years.”

      “Worse than we expected,” she con firmed. “When we decided to come back we thought the house would need a little paint, a little fixing up. But so far it’s needed a whole lot more than that. Today we’re having to put in a new septic tank. When we left this morning there was so much machinery in our backyard it looked like a construction site.”

      “I can imagine,” he said, smiling just enough to cut creases down both cheeks and prove just how lithe those lips were. It also in creased the level of his hand some ness by another notch. If that were possible.

      Megan gave herself a quick, silent talking-to about the inadvisability of letting herself be distracted by a client’s appearance and cut the chitchat to get down to business before she completely forgot herself and why he was here.

      “When your secretary made the appointment—at least I assumed