Jill Limber - The Sheriff Wins A Wife

“There’s a box with Mom’s name on it. I thought we went through everything after she died.” Jenn put the box on the bed.

Miranda pushed herself up against the headboard. “Roger found that in the rafters in the garage about a year ago and brought it into the house. I kept meaning to go through it, but never got around to it.”

“Are you up to it now?”

“Sure.”

Jenn went back downstairs to the office and began to scrub the walls of the closet.

A few minutes later Miranda appeared at the office door holding a large manila envelope. “Jenn, you need to see this.”

Jenn dropped her sponge into the bucket and wiped her wet hands on her jeans. She took the envelope from her sister and slid out the papers. The date on the cover sheet was eight years old. It was a checklist of information that would be needed to complete an annulment. And the original, completed forms filled out with Trace’s and her names. Jenn’s knees felt weak and she sat down on the desk chair. As she stared at the form, the realization of what she held in her hand sank in.

The final papers for her annulment had never been filed.

Miranda lifted the papers from Jenn’s numb fingers, then picked up the envelope and studied the postmark. “This must have come the week Mom was diagnosed. I remember, because we went to the doctor on Kelly’s birthday.”

Jenn nodded. She’d never forget that phone call. “You called me at school to tell me about Mom. I was studying for midterm exams.”

She covered her mouth with both hands and mumbled through her fingers. “Oh, my gosh. Do you know what this means?”

Miranda skimmed the papers again and gave Jenn an evil little smile. “I suspect you and Trace McCabe are still legally married. So what are you going to do?”

Jenn reached for the phone. “First of all, I’m going to make sure I’m not legally married,” she said in a voice full of bravado.

Then, she thought with a sinking feeling, if her instincts were right, she was going to have to tell her husband the truth.

Jenn sat in her car outside Trace’s house. It was old, but the wood siding and trim sported a fresh coat of paint, and the walk was bordered with neatly tended flower beds. The sheriff’s car was parked in the driveway.

Catching Trace at home was better than meeting him at his office. After all, she wanted privacy when she dropped her bomb, didn’t she?

She got out of her car and nervously smoothed the skirt of her yellow sundress. Taking a deep breath, she rang the doorbell and listened to it chime inside the house. When there was no response, she rang again. All she got was an unnerving silence. Butterflies churned in her stomach.

Had he seen her arrive and decided not to answer the door? The thought bothered her. Even though she’d begun her visit to Blossom wanting to avoid him, she irrationally didn’t want him treating her the same way. Especially now that they’d crossed paths and exchanged words.

She had raised her hand to knock, to give it one last try, when she heard the unmistakable cough and sputter of a gas lawn mower starting up.

She listened for a moment. The noise was coming from the back of the house. She blew out a little sigh of relief. He wasn’t ignoring her. He must be mowing his yard.

She stepped down off the front porch and walked across the lawn to the driveway, headed toward the uneven growl of the mower. As she cleared the side of the house and got a full view of the backyard, she stopped dead.

Trace had his back to her, pushing an ancient mower through tall grass. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts that sat low on his hips, and sneakers without socks. The muscles of his arms and shoulders stood out as he wrestled the mower. Glistening, sweaty muscles that had not been on his lean frame eight years ago.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

The body she remembered had belonged to a lanky twenty-year-old boy on the brink of manhood. The body that held her attention now was fully matured, filled out and beautifully sculpted.

As he turned the mower to make another pass, he didn’t look up and she stayed in the shadows, watching.

He had grown quite a lot of hair on his chest. It was curly like the hair on his head. She swallowed again and felt the tips of her fingers tingle as she remembered how she’d loved to touch him.

Dangerous, forbidden feelings surfaced like hot water bubbling out of a thermal spring. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him or forget no other man had ever made her feel the way Trace had.

She’d told herself over the years that she’d exaggerated her memories of him. It was only normal. After all, Trace had been her first love and she’d been an inexperienced teenager with overactive hormones. Of course he’d seemed exciting, passionate, wonderful.

So why did she suddenly think he might still all of those things, and possibly more?

She looked down, fiddling with the tie at the waist of her dress as she tried to compose herself.

She didn’t need those kinds of thrills. She didn’t want them. A relationship with that much passion was too complicated, too messy and took up far too much time.

She had her life right where she wanted it. And it didn’t—couldn’t—include Trace.

The sound of the idling mower caught her attention. Trace had spotted her.

He stood in the middle of his yard like a bronzed statue. His large hands clutched the handle of the unmoving mower, and he was staring at her.

She couldn’t read the expression on his face. He seemed distant. It shouldn’t bother her, but it did.

Jenn pasted on a smile and stepped into the sunshine, hoping he would think she had just arrived. “Hey, Trace.”

He leaned over the mower and shut it off. The sun glistened in his hair, and bits of grass clung to his sweaty skin. He straightened, and the silence that stretched between them seemed very loud.

She took a hesitant step forward, then said in a rush, “I need to talk to you, but you’re busy. I can come back.” Chicken, she scolded herself.

He shook his head, then wiped his arm across his forehead. “Now is fine. I could use a break.”

He left the mower in the middle of the yard and picked up a hose, dousing himself with water and then shaking like a dog.

He’d always been so at home with himself, a quality Jenn, who usually felt self-conscious, admired.

As Trace picked up a T-shirt hanging from the back porch railing and dried himself off, she tried her best not to stare. What was she doing, alone with a half-naked man? She could almost hear her mother’s often-voiced refrain: what will the neighbors think?

Jenn glanced around and realized Trace had no neighbors within sight. She could grab him right here, outside, and there would be no one to see.

Now she had managed to shock herself.

“Jenn? Something wrong?” Trace pulled the rumpled shirt over his head.

“No! Everything’s fine.” She shook her head. At least he had removed the visual temptation.

“Well, not exactly fine,” she said. Where did she begin?

Politely, still keeping his distance, he motioned toward the back door. “Come on in. Let’s get out of the sun. I’ve got cold sodas in the fridge.” He climbed the back steps and toed off his grass-caked shoes.

He held the door for her and she stepped past him into a tiny utility room. He smelled like sunshine and grass and sweaty man. A tempting combination.

Trace ushered her into a tidy kitchen with clean white counters and white appliances. A row of windows looked out on the backyard and a round wooden table sat on the terra-cotta tile floor. The only thing that looked out of place was the holstered gun sitting in the middle of the table.