Amy Frazier - Single-Dad Sheriff

“You really don’t know much about twelve-year-olds, do you? He’d be mortified.”

“Ah, yes. So much easier to investigate me.”

“Come on now. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot.”

“But you did run a background check on me. Beyond the license.”

He got the feeling this woman could hold her own. Anywhere. “Yes.”

“And would you tell me what you found out?” she asked politely, as if they were discussing the weather for an upcoming polo match.

Screw finesse. “That everything from your phone bills to ownership of Whistling Meadows traces back to a corporation. Ashley Dreams, Inc.”

“Yes,” she replied without offering further explanation. “Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Well, I guess I can’t blame a man for doing his job.” Her tone said otherwise.

“Just out of curiosity, what’s your connection to Ashley Dreams?”

“Is this a sheriff question or a father question?” He noticed her brown eyes were flecked with gold. And they got darker the more serious she became.

“Neither. Just a question.”

“You want to know if I’m the CEO or the hired help. Is that what you’re getting at?”

One thing was certain, this woman was no one’s hired help.

“Let’s put it this way,” she continued. “On paper Whistling Meadows is owned by Ashley Dreams, Incorporated, but no one really owns that slice of pasture land and mountain. You should know that, sheriff. Your son says you grew up here. Its geologic history alone reaches so far back no human can really claim it. The llamas sense that if the people can’t. The animals just live on the surface. Day to day. Content to be here amid the splendor. I suspect they chuckle at the idea that someone—corporation or individual—thinks he or she owns them or the land. But they humor us. Me, I’m just part of the scenery. Trying to live on Whistling Meadows without leaving too intrusive a footprint.”

“A philosopher,” he said, noting rather cynically she hadn’t come close to answering his question.

“Now that’s the nicest thing I’ve been called in a long time.” She rose. “On that positive note, I need to get back to the farm. Thanks for lunch.”

She smiled, then left his office, leaving him with a cold meal, the hint of some sophisticated fragrance she’d been wearing and the firm conviction that, philosopher or not, Samantha Weston—if that’s who she really was—was one self-contained woman.

Outside, Samantha shook herself as if chilled. She was so mad she could bite someone. And wouldn’t her mother be shocked at even the thought of such behavior. Well, this wasn’t the Orchid Court at the Singapore Ashley. It wasn’t even the breakfast room back home in Virginia. This was Main Street, Applegate, North Carolina, and the sheriff seemed to think he could be rude—rude and nosy—and get away with it.

So much for Abel’s assessment that the town didn’t abide snoops. Outside snoops, perhaps. The homegrown ones seemed to come with a badge.

Trying to let off steam, she pedaled her bike furiously back to the farm.

So what was she to do about the sheriff? What she always did with rude people. Ignore them. But what about Rory? With him working for her, she upped her chances of running into his father. She could fire the boy. And his “vigilant” guardian would probably seek legal redress. Wouldn’t he think he’d discovered the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow when he realized how much she was worth?

No, she’d have to fly under the radar. With both the sheriff and Max on her trail…damn, she’d forgotten about Max. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t have forgotten about her. That she hadn’t seen him in town meant only one thing—he’d found out what he wanted and was headed back to her father to report. Then her daddy would take his time. He hadn’t built his hotel empire by being rash. The grand opening of the Singapore Ashley would occupy him for a week or two. Maybe. If she was lucky. He wouldn’t mention anything to her mother, not until the very moment he’d say, “Throw a few things in a bag for a little getaway.” Then the two would sweep south. And Samantha’s new life would be turned topsy-turvy by the whirlwind that always accompanied her parents. She could just picture Mother in the farmhouse. She’d do an extreme makeover in no time. And Father? She couldn’t quite imagine him and Red and martinis on the bunkhouse porch.

Despite her request for time, her parents would arrive. Like a tsunami. There was absolutely nothing Samantha could do to stop them. She only hoped the press wouldn’t follow.

Wouldn’t that give the sheriff something to investigate?

As she turned her bicycle into the lane running up to Whistling Meadows, she realized she’d worked up quite a sweat under the June sun. How unladylike. Well, Mother would have to get used to her daughter’s adaptation to the rigors of country living. And Samantha would simply have to not think about tomorrow. Stay in the moment , she chided herself. Right now, neither the press nor your parents are here. Right now, there is no reason for you to see the sheriff. Right now …there appeared to be a body on her front porch.

Yes, a man. Sprawled. Unmoving.

She looked toward the bunkhouse. Red’s truck was gone. Instinctively, she moved to page hotel security, then gave herself a reality check. Her next move was to call 9-1-1 and pray the sheriff didn’t think she’d added murder to her sketchy résumé.

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