Susan Sleeman - Silent Sabotage

“She could talk to others. Change her story.”

“Look,” Archer added, “I’ll be glad to accompany her home and keep an eye on her all night. If someone is helping Withrow get back at her, I can keep her safe and ensure she doesn’t talk to anyone about the incident. Then if you have questions, I’ll personally escort her to the station in the morning or you can come to the B and B if you’d rather do it that way.”

Carothers took a long breath, let it out, then shoved a legal pad and pen across the table to her.

“Write down your version of the incident, leaving nothing out, and you can go.” He stood, gestured for Deputy Marsh to follow him and stepped away from the table.

She looked up at Archer. “Thank you. Normally, I wouldn’t put you out like this, but the fund-raiser is basically our last chance to keep Birdie’s B and B afloat.”

“I don’t mind.” He sounded sincere and his eyes were warm and friendly. “Besides, it seems like you could use some help getting ready for the fund-raiser, and I’m nothing if not helpful.”

He turned on a megawatt smile, and she had to look away before she found herself smiling up into eyes that were at times icy blue and like now, a warm, soothing baby blue. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was one of the many dopey-eyed women who must fall at his feet all the time.

She didn’t want to date anyone or even engage in a flirtation. Her mind needed to be squarely on helping Birdie. That, and if Delmar’s threat was true, watching her own back so she stayed alive to take care of her aunt.

* * *

Archer trailed Emily Graves’s classic pickup truck around another bend and onto a gravel road lined with tall pine trees. The temperature had dropped and the once-vibrant sunshine disappeared, replaced with heavy shadows moving in the breeze.

As they approached the B and B, an uneasy feeling settled in his gut. His agency patrolled the large county with both urban and rural areas, but he’d never worked the rural beat. Coming from cosmopolitan New York City, where he’d lived his entire life, he was far more comfortable in a city setting than a rural one.

He followed Emily another three miles over hills, around bends, and she finally clicked on her blinker near a large house set back from the road. She turned the rusty truck under a blistered white sign with Birdie’s Bed-and-Breakfast etched in black lettering hanging from large log poles over a dirt-packed driveway. They wound around a few curves until he spotted a guest-parking sign near a small paved lot, but Emily gestured out her window to follow her toward the house.

Two stories, the place was painted a cheerful yellow with white trim, but as he drove closer, he could see the building needed a fresh coat of paint. A wide wraparound porch held white wooden rocking chairs and large planters filled with red and purple flowers. Off to the side of the house, he spotted a small cottage painted in matching colors with window boxes overflowing with the same flowers.

Emily suddenly stopped, and Archer had to slam on his brakes not to rear-end her truck. She jumped out and rounded the front of her car before bending down and disappearing from sight.

A spear of adrenaline sliced into his body, and he charged across the space to check on her. He was aware of Birdie getting out of the car and mumbling, but his focus remained on Emily. He reached the front of her vehicle, and she stood, her back to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to keep the concern from his voice.

She turned and was holding a coffee-colored chicken with white tail feathers. “Birdie left the chicken coop open again.”

“Did not,” Birdie said, but Archer suspected she wouldn’t remember if she had.

“Here.” Emily shoved the chicken into his hands and let go.

“What...” Archer complained, but Emily was already chasing after another chicken running toward the road.

Archer gaped after her. What in the world was he supposed to do with a chicken? His only experience with chickens was in a dining room, and he hadn’t a clue what to do with a living bird.

It squirmed and squawked in his hands, and he held it out as he searched for a place to get rid of it. Instead, he found five more chickens pecking the ground and scurrying around. He searched for Birdie, but she’d ignored the fiasco and was climbing the wide steps to the house.

So he stood like a dolt, hands outstretched until Emily returned with her fingers around the wayward chicken’s feet, the body clutched against her side and the head tucked under her arm.

“Follow me and hold that chicken this way.” She lifted her arm. “Or she’s going to squirm out of your hands.”

He tried maneuvering the plump bird, but she clucked loudly so he held her as close as he could and trailed Emily. She zigzagged around the yard, corralling the other birds. Together, they all clipped across the clearing and down a hill toward a small weatherworn building. It sat on raised stilts with a side room made of wooden uprights and covered in chicken wire. Emily scooted the chickens through a door into the open area, then slipped the one she was holding into the space.

Good. Archer could get rid of this animal, too. He rushed forward, maybe too fast for the bird, and made it nervous as it deposited a big splotch of white-and-brown gunk on his shirt.

“Ack,” he shouted and held out the chicken.

Emily watched him for a moment, then started laughing.

“It’s not funny,” he warned sternly. “This is my uniform, and I don’t want it ruined even more than it already is from the mall.”

“You’re right. The shirt isn’t funny, and I’m sorry this happened.” Her grin widened. “But you stared down a guy with a bomb not more than an hour ago with hardly a hint of what you were feeling, and now? Now the horror on your face is from a chicken. That’s priceless.”

“I’m not a country guy, all right?” He shoved the bird at her.

“That goes without saying.” She cradled the chicken and settled it in the building. “If she was making an egg, the way you held her would surely be the end of that.”

Archer didn’t care about an egg. He looked down on his shirt and gagged. He quickly undid the buttons and rubbed the offending gook onto the grass. He wore a khaki-colored T-shirt to match his uniform shirt, but it had a moist spot as well so he held it away from his body.

Emily turned and when her gaze landed on him, she stopped in her tracks and peered at him. The humor was long gone in her expression, and she stared at him with a clear look of interest.

If he wasn’t so creeped out about the goo on his shirt, he suspected he’d be returning the gaze, but this mess outweighed most everything else. “Is there somewhere I can clean up? I’ve got clothes in my trunk, but I’m not putting them on until I wash up.”

“I can wash your shirt.” She held out her hand.

He gladly turned it over. “I’ll grab my clothes.”

He sensed her watching him as he walked back to his car and could just imagine what she was thinking. He was a deputy. Could carry a gun and shoot people. Was trained in defensive combat and worked out to keep in top physical shape, and yet, a little bit of bird poop and he’d acted like a big sissy.

He didn’t like it any more than she did, but he was raised with overly strict cleanliness standards and, try as he might, he’d never been able to relax them. His pants and shirts were pressed at all times. If he got a spot on them, even a small one, he changed. Sure, it was prissy, but it was ingrained, and he made no apologies.

He grabbed his duffel bag and met Emily on the front porch. Without a word, but the remaining hint of a smile on her face, she escorted him straight to an upstairs bathroom.