His Arch Enemy's Daughter. Crystal Green

to lose? Maybe she could even talk her way out of trouble if she said the right words. “You know your sister-in-law and all the gossip about her baking. Eat an angel food cake of hers, you’ll get married. Eat her chocolate cake, you’ll get pregnant. I’m just saying she’s been making a lot of blueberry pies since you came to town.”

      The sheriff didn’t even bother to comment, just suddenly became very preoccupied with a slim pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “How thick is your file here in the sheriff’s office, Ashlyn?”

      “Pretty huge.” Maybe some flattery would be useful right about now. “At any rate, since you became sheriff, women have been experiencing all sorts of emergencies in town, haven’t they? False alarms, cookies that need to be eaten…”

      His face got ruddy at this comment. Ashlyn decided to lean back in her chair, to put a cork in the cake conversation. This was obviously not a man who preened under the onslaught of compliments.

      She recalled when his foster brother, Nick, had first come back to town, how he’d rarely smiled, either. But Meg, his wife, sure had him smiling now. Nick had fallen in love with Meg’s surefire optimism and sense of self-worth. They were the happiest married people Ashlyn had ever seen.

      She watched Sheriff Reno simmer down as he stood and ambled to the file cabinet. Ever so slowly, as if he had all the time in the world at his disposal, he thumbed through the manila folders, retrieving a War and Peace-thick collection. He tossed it onto the desk, the file thumping in her ears like a slap upside the head.

      “Mine?” she asked, pointing at the folder.

      “All fifty pounds of it. I have to admire your perseverance, I suppose.”

      She poked at it, remembering the contents without even having to look. Wait until he saw how idiot-stupid she could be. When it came to making her father angry, she was a very creative camper. Everything from decorating the factory’s outside wall with pictures symbolizing workers’ rights, to hiring a neighboring county’s high school band to march in Spencer High’s homecoming parade playing Twisted Sister’s “We’re Not Gonna Take It.” Unfortunately, Horatio Spencer had appreciated none of this.

      As she looked into Sam Reno’s lifeless gaze, she saw a reflection, a young girl who needed to grow up, to let go of this bitterness she’d lived with since the age of seven, to get past her “bad girl” reputation and make a new life for herself.

      She sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap, head down. “I won’t make your job harder than it needs to be.”

      “Thank you,” he said, his voice wry enough to make her wonder if he was kidding.

      She glanced at him, but he was still expressionless.

      He continued. “Town pride isn’t a bad thing to have, Miss Spencer.”

      Guffaws ricocheted through the holding cell, where Junior and Sonny were obviously listening.

      “Yeah, Ashlyn, town pride!”

      “Be a good neighbor! Come on back here and—”

      A door slammed, and Gary Joanson’s tinny voice rose above the taunts, quieting the drunks.

      The sheriff shook his head, taking a step nearer to her. “Sorry about that.”

      “No, you’re right,” said Ashlyn. His thigh just about brushed her arm, and her skin actually buzzed from the almost-contact. “No more games, Sheriff. I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

      “Sounds sincere enough.”

      She met his gaze and almost fell into the bottomless depths of his eyes. What had happened in life to make him so sad? “Not to say I won’t still have my fun, you understand.”

      He merely raised his brows.

      “What I mean,” she added, her protective shield of tough talk rising to the surface, “is that we come from utterly different places. This is my time to be carefree. You’re Generation X and I’m Generation Why-Me…”

      What was she trying to say? His stare, his brooding, was tangling her thoughts. Great, now she felt even younger, even more stupid.

      When she looked at him again, a ghost of a smile lit over his mouth. A slanted grin, just as rusty as his badge. She wanted to use her fingertips to brush over his full lower lip, to test its softness.

      Admit it, she thought. You’ve been dying to touch him since he hauled you away from Emma Trainor’s porch.

      Ashlyn sighed out loud, grinning in a heated flush when she caught the sheriff’s still-cocked brow. “At any rate, you have my word. No more trouble.”

      Deputy Joanson walked into the office room, proud as a rooster. “How do, folks?”

      Sam, smooth as still water, watched Ashlyn as he addressed his deputy. “You took my car tonight.”

      Ashlyn didn’t break eye contact with Sam. Her pulse thudded in her ears, Gary Joanson’s voice becoming nothing but background chatter.

      “I thought you wouldn’t mind—”

      “—I mind.”

      Gary stepped into Ashlyn’s view, dwarfed next to Sam Reno’s sturdy frame. “I kinda like the Bronco, Sam.”

      Slowly, Sam turned to Gary, who took an unsteady step backward.

      “Okay,” said the deputy. “I’ll take the grandma car.”

      That done, Gary tipped his cop hat to Ashlyn. “I was wondering when you’d make your first trip here, Ashlyn. What were you up to?”

      She had the grace to look ashamed. “It depends on your point of view, I suppose.”

      “Isn’t that always the case with you?” Gary slapped his knee in mirth. “Sheriff Carson would’ve been beet red by now.”

      Gary addressed Sam, who’d returned to staring at Ashlyn dispassionately. “This gal used to be a real firecracker, Sam. Before you hired me on, the other deputies would talk about how she kept Sheriff Carson busy and blowin’ steam. Did ya decorate the town with some jokes tonight, Ashlyn?”

      She kept her tongue. This night was becoming more humiliating by the second, but she wouldn’t lose her cool in front of Sheriff Reno. She’d never let anyone—especially this man—know that she was crying inside. When people laughed at her jokes they were laughing at her and her family.

      Sometimes it hurt to be laughed at.

      “Deputy, do you have work to do?” asked Sam.

      Gary hesitated, then, slump-shouldered, sat at the scanner desk, shuffling through papers.

      Ashlyn heard Sam move closer to her again, felt him looming over her. The breath caught in her throat.

      “Up, Ashlyn,” he said softly, his drawl lazing over her skin with the warmth of slow molasses.

      She stood, almost body to body, eyes at the level of his corded throat. She’d always been considered a tall girl, gawky as a forest creature, all elbows and knees, but standing next to Sam Reno made her feel as if she were a normal person. As if she didn’t stand out in a crowd.

      He took her elbow, walking her near the door. When he let go, she wanted to seize his hand and put it right back. She didn’t mind that her knees were turning to liquid, that she was all but clawing for breath inside.

      After a pause, Sam took a step backward. He lifted up a finger, a wall between them. “I don’t want to be called out on account of your wild schemes.”

      “I’ll do my best to keep to myself, Sheriff.” No more charitable gestures, no more caring. Nobody would believe her capable of it anyway.

      “My name’s Sam,” he said, shrugging one wide shoulder. “Just…call me Sam.”

      She didn’t want to leave, to go back to her house where