Slow Dance with the Sheriff. Nikki Logan

a couple more weeks. ‘It can.’

      He stood and turned his back on the fire to give the backs of his calves and boots a chance to dry off. A light steam rose from them. His new position meant he was five-eighths silhouette against the orange glow. Imposing and broad.

      But as non-threatening as the storm.

      ‘Have you eaten?’ he suddenly asked, his silhouette head tilting down towards her.

      Even after all these years she still had a moment of tension when anyone mentioned food. Back when she was sick it was second nature to avoid eating in public. ‘No. I was planning on having leftovers.’

      Though her idea of leftovers was the other half of the apple she’d had at lunch.

      ‘Want to grab something at Gracie May’s?’ he asked, casually. ‘Best little diner in the county.’

      The olive branch was unexpected and not entirely welcome. Was it a good idea to get friendly with the locals? Especially the gorgeous ones? ‘But you just got dry. And won’t her power be out, too?’

      ‘Right. Good point.’ He launched into action, turning for the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix us something here, then.’

      ‘Here?’ The delightful relaxation of her stormy evening fled on an anxious squeak.

      He paused his tracks, cocked his head in a great impression of Deputy. ‘Unless you want to come next door to my place?’

      How did he manage to invest just a few words with so much extra meaning? Did she want to go next door and sit down to a meal with Sheriff Jed Jackson? Surrounded by his cowboy stuff, his Texan trappings? His woodsy smell?

      Yes.

      ‘No.’ She swallowed. ‘Here will be fine. Some guy delivered enough groceries for a month this morning.’

      His smile did a good job of rivaling the fire’s glow and it echoed deep down inside her. He set about shaving thin slices of ham from the bone and thick slices of bread from the loaf. Then some crumbly cheese, a sliced apple and a wad of something preserved from a jar labelled Sandra’s Jellies and Jams.

      ‘Green-tomato jam. Calhouns’ finest.’

      That distracted Ellie from the sinking of her stomach as he passed a full plate into her lap and sank down onto the other half of the suddenly shrunken sofa. She turned her interest up to him. ‘Sandra Calhoun?’

      ‘Jess, technically speaking, but a family recipe.’

      Her family’s recipe. That never failed to feel weird. For so long her family had been in New York. She picked up her fork and slid some of the tomato jam onto the corner of the bread and then bit into it. If she was only going to get through a fifth of the food on her plate, then she wanted it to be Jess’s produce.

      Jed was already three enormous bites into his sandwich and he tossed some ham offcuts over to Deputy, who roused himself long enough to gobble them up before flopping back down.

      She risked conversation between his mouthfuls. ‘The Calhouns have quite a presence.’

      ‘They should. They’re Larkville’s founding family. Jess’s great-great-granddaddy put down roots here in 1856.’

      ‘And they’re…well respected?’

      The look he threw her over his contented munching was speculative. ‘Very much so. Clay’s death hit the whole town hard. They’re dedicating the Fall Festival to him.’

      ‘Really? The whole thing?’

      ‘The Calhouns practically ran that festival anyway. Was fitting.’

      ‘Who’s running it now?’ With Sandra and Clay both gone, and all the kids away?

      ‘Jess and Holt will be back soon enough. Nate, too, God willing. Everyone else is pitching in to help.’

      She filed that away for future reference. ‘What happens at a fall festival?’

      He smiled. ‘You’d hate it. Livestock everywhere.’

      Heat surged up her throat. ‘I don’t hate cows…’

      ‘I’m just teasing, relax. Candy corn, rides, crafts, hot-dog-eating competitions. Pretty much what happens at fall festivals all over the country.’

      She stared at him.

      His eyebrows rose. ‘Never?’

      The heat threatened again. ‘I’ve never left New York.’

      ‘In your entire life?’

      She shrugged, though she didn’t feel at all relaxed about the disbelief in his voice. ‘This is my first time.’

      ‘Summers?’

      Her lips tightened. ‘Always rehearsing.’

      ‘Family vacations?’

      ‘We didn’t take them.’ The way he’d frozen with his sandwich halfway to his mouth got her back up. ‘And you did?’

      ‘Heck, yes. Every year my gram would throw me and her ducks in her old van and head off somewhere new.’

      The ducks distracted her for a moment, but only a moment. ‘You lived with your grandmother?’

      His eyes immediately dropped to his plate. He busied himself mopping up the last of the jam.

      She’d grown up with Matt for a brother. She knew when to wield silence for maximum effect. Jed lasted about eight seconds.

      ‘My parents got pregnant young. Real young. Dad got custody after Mom took off. Gram was his mother. They raised me together.’

      Mom took off. There was a lot of story missing in those few words. If only she didn’t respect her own privacy so much—it necessarily forced her to respect his. ‘But your dad wasn’t in the van with you and the ducks every summer?’

      ‘He worked a lot. And then he—’ Jed cleared his throat and followed it up with an apple-slice chaser ‘—he died when I was six.’

      Oh. The charming cowboy suddenly took on an unexpected dimension. Losing your parent so young… And here she was whining about having too many parents. ‘That must have been tough for you to get over.’

      ‘Gram was a rock. And a country woman herself. She knew how to raise boys.’

      ‘Is she still here in Larkville?’

      The eyes found hers again. ‘I’m not from Larkville, originally.’

      ‘Really?’ He seemed so much part of the furniture here. Of the earth. ‘I thought your accent wasn’t as pronounced as everyone else’s. Where are you from?’

      ‘Gram was from the Lehigh Valley. But my dad was NYPD. He met my mother while he was training.’

      New York. Her world—and her hopes at anonymity—shrank. She moderated her breath just like in a heavy dance routine. ‘Manhattan?’

      ‘Queens, mostly. He commuted between shifts back out to the Valley. To us.’

      ‘And he’s the reason you became a cop?’

      ‘He’s part of it. He, uh, died on duty. That meant there was legacy funding for my schooling. It felt natural to go into law enforcement.’

      Died on duty. But something much more immediate pressed down on her. ‘You studied in New York?’

      His eyes hooded. ‘I lived and worked in Manhattan for fifteen years.’

      Her voice grew tiny. ‘You didn’t say. When I told you where I was from.’

      ‘A lot of people come from New York. It’s not that remarkable.’

      So she just asked him outright what she needed to know. ‘Do you know who I am?’

      That