On Dean's Watch. Linda Winstead Jones

“Why are you really here?” she asked.

      Dean started a little, but not so much that he splashed coffee on himself.

      “I told you—”

      “You told me part of the story. I just wonder why a man who’s more comfortable in a suit than he is in jeans and a T-shirt would come to a small town to become the local Mr. Fixit.” There was definitely more to Dean Sinclair than he was telling. She’d already warned him; there were no secrets in a town like Somerset. She wanted to ask him what, or who, he was running from, but it was much too early for such a deeply personal question. “You bought a hammer at the hardware store this afternoon,” she said. “Screwdrivers, a box of nails, glue, work clothes and a hammer. I can explain away everything else if I try hard enough, but what kind of contractor doesn’t already own a hammer or two?”

      He didn’t look at all guilty. “You were right about living in a small town. I buy a hammer, and word is on the streets before the sun goes down.”

      Reva found herself smiling. “I warned you.” She really should send Dean Sinclair packing and wash her hands of him once and for all. The only thing she needed in her life less than a man was a man with secrets. “You don’t have to tell me—I’m just curious.”

      Dean sat a few feet away, swaying gently. The old rocking chair squeaked faintly. His hands were wrapped around his coffee cup. There should not be anything at all stimulating or arousing about this moment. So why did her heart act this way? Why did a sensation she had forgotten flutter in her stomach?

      “I wasn’t always a handyman,” Dean finally said. “I guess I’m just looking for something new. A lifestyle less stressful than my old job.”

      “And what was that old job?” She had to know. If anything were to come of this—and it wouldn’t, she told herself, it couldn’t—there could be no secrets about his past. No bombshell waiting to be dropped. Her heart couldn’t survive that kind of shock again.

      Good heavens! Reva took a sip of coffee and took her eyes off him. Dean Sinclair, a man she barely knew, already had her worrying about her heart?

      Dean took a deep breath. “Law enforcement,” he said. “I was in law enforcement for years.”

      It was not the answer she’d been expecting. The news startled her. Reva held her breath for a moment. Her fingers trembled, very slightly. Not so much that he would see of course. She had gotten pretty good at hiding her feelings. At least on some days and from some people.

      A moment passed and she relaxed. She had nothing to fear, not from Dean Sinclair or anyone else. “Really?”

      “Really,” Dean answered softly. He stared at her, obviously waiting for a response.

      “I understand that can be a very dangerous business,” she said. Of course it was dangerous. Cops carried guns, she knew that. Again, her fingers quivered.

      “It was never the danger that bothered me,” he said.

      “What was it, then?”

      Would he answer? This was getting very personal, considering that they’d met just last night. He’d been skulking; she’d threatened him with a hefty stick. She didn’t know him; he didn’t know her. What were they doing here?

      “Sometimes I feel like I’m running around in circles,” he said. “We win a few battles, but we never win the war. It goes on and on, and it can wear a man down. You work hours on end, you give the job everything you’ve got, and in the end…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes you win, but too often the bad guy gets off on a technicality, or serves a few months and then ends up back on the streets.”

      “Sounds frustrating.”

      “It is. And the divorce rate is brutal,” he added.

      “Are you?” she asked, almost immediately regretting her question. Talk about too personal!

      “Am I what?”

      “Divorced.”

      He shook his head. “Never married. I came close a couple of times, but…here I am, thirty-five years old and never married. You?” he asked.

      “Me what?” Her heart climbed into her throat.

      “Divorced?”

      “Never married,” she said softly. Would he walk away now? There were still lots of men out there, even in this day and age, who had a huge problem with an unmarried woman having and raising a child alone. She’d done the best she could for her son, and she wouldn’t change anything, but she didn’t want to see a condemning or disappointed look in Dean’s eyes.

      She didn’t get one. Instead, she got one of his half smiles. “Maybe we’re the smart ones.”

      She returned his smile. “Maybe.”

      Reva took a deep breath and allowed herself to enjoy the moment. The quiet night, the company. She liked Dean; she had a feeling he liked her. Nothing could come of it, but still the feeling was nice. She allowed her mind to wander for a moment, to imagine what might happen if not for everything that came between them.

      So much came between them, and no one but she would ever know.

      When Dean rose to leave, Reva stood and took his empty coffee cup. Her fingers brushed his; the contact was brief and electric, as it had been that afternoon at lunch when they’d both reached for biscuits at the same time. When he thanked her for the dessert, she told him anytime, but refrained from the invitation to come again tomorrow night. And the next. And the next.

      Dean didn’t kiss her, but he thought about it, she could tell. He definitely thought about it. Blue eyes went to her mouth for a split second. His lips parted, his gaze cut to the side, and then he offered her an awkward good-night.

      As Dean walked away, Reva called after him. “What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

      He spun in the grass. “Nothing.”

      “Come look at my loose banister? I really need to get it fixed.”

      He grinned. “I can try out my new hammer.”

      The lights in the room at the top of the stairs were out, the upstairs parlor dark so no one would see Alan and his telescope at the window.

      “You look ridiculous, you know,” Alan said without turning as Dean entered the room and closed the door behind him.

      “No, I didn’t know.”

      “John Deere?” Alan scoffed.

      Dean glanced down at his T-shirt. There hadn’t been a lot to choose from at the hardware store. Truth be told, he’d forgotten what he was wearing while he’d called on Reva Macklin.

      And that was what it had been—a social call. A pleasant evening. The start of something unexpected.

      “She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Dean said as he crossed the room. “I think we should tell Reva who we are and why we’re here, and ask if she’s heard from Eddie since he escaped. She could help us.”

      Alan turned slowly. “Have you lost your mind?”

      “No, but—”

      “Well, something fishy is going on here.” Alan ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. “You know better. Tell her? Ask for her help? No way. She could call Eddie and warn him that we’re here, and then he’d go under so deep we’d never find him.”

      “She wouldn’t do that,” Dean insisted softly. “She doesn’t know where Pinchon is, I’m sure of it.”

      Alan leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Hellfire. She’s grabbed you by the nuts, hasn’t she.”

      “Of course not.”

      “She has, I can see it. Dean Sinclair, I never woulda thought it of you. Be realistic. Think. You believe