Free How to Howl at the Moon by Eli Easton

was awkwardly tall. He found himself looking down into those blue eyes. The sheriff looked right back. The man was staring again, that champion stare. Boy howdy. Only this time, it didn’t feel like his stare was saying go the fuck awa y. This stare was looking down deep into Tim’s soul as if trying to puzzle him out, and it was maybe even a little sympathetic. Tim felt a tingle of excitement crawl down his spine like an inch worm. It blossomed in his groin. One of Beaufort’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
    Weird. Beaufort’s blue eyes really were the same deep sky blue color as Chance’s eyes. Or vice versa. The thought of Chance brought a wave of sorrow with it, killing the moment. Next came alarm.
    Did the sheriff really drive out here to deliver a fruit basket? Or had he heard about the accident last night? Was he going to give Tim a ticket? Or worse?
    “I didn’t hit him on purpose!” Tim blurted out, pulling back and tripping over the shovel. Again . “Ow! Fuck!” Then he realized what he’d just said. To a cop. “It was a dog! Not a person or anything. The ‘him’ I hit. I mean, I didn’t commit vehicular homicide yesterday. Or ever! Or even vehicular nudge. Except to the dog. Who wasn’t even badly hurt. You can ask Dr. McGurver. Are you here about the dog?”
    Tim pinched his mouth shut, cutting off the flow of verbal diarrhea . Beaufort was probably thinking what an idiot Tim was. God, Marshall was right. He did have the social aptitude of a gnat. And for some reason, every stupid bone in Tim’s body stood to attention around Sheriff Beaufort.
    “I am not. Here about the dog,” the sheriff said slowly and distinctly.
    “Oh. Okay.”
    Sheriff Beaufort took a deep, calming breath, probably calling on reserves of patience to deal with the nutso . He looked over the field and sighed. “You’re clearing a field.”
    “Uh… yeah.”
    The sheriff nodded and pursed his lips, as if he expected as much. “What are you planning to grow here?”
    Tim snorted. “Well, I’m not growing drugs.”
    The sheriff looked at him sharply.
    “I’m not! Just… you know. Vegetables. And herbs. And… stuff.”
    “Vegetables.”
    Tim barked a nervous laugh. “Heh heh. What else would I grow?”
    What was the matter with him? Why was it that when he was telling the complete and factual truth—well mostly, if you forgot about the hybrid roses that didn’t legally belong to him—he sounded like the biggest liar that ever lived? Why did the sheriff make him so nervous?
    Sheriff Beaufort stared at him. “I don’t know, Mr. Traynor . What else would you grow?”
    Tim shrugged.
    “It is Traynor, right? Timothy Traynor?”
    Tim felt a blush start at his ears and flood into his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied about that. But it was too late to take it back now. “Y-yeah.”
    Sheriff Beaufort rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb like he was getting a headache. “And you’re going to clear this entire field. By yourself. With that shovel.”
    Tim looked over the vast distances of stubborn long brown grass and sighed. He didn’t say anything, but a lump came into his throat. Daunting didn’t begin to cover it. This was gardening by the Herculean labor method.
    “Listen, Tim.” Beaufort took the shovel out of Tim’s hand and took it several yards away where he leaned it carefully up against a nearby tree, as if Tim might accidentally kill himself with it if it was left in his possession. Which, yeah, fair point. Then the sheriff walked back and put his hands on his narrow hips and looked into Tim’s eyes.
    “I don’t dislike you,” he said firmly.
    “O—kay. That’s good.”
    “I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I don’t think you’re a terrible person.”
    Tim felt a trickle of annoyance. “Wow. I’m flattered. Can I use you as a future reference?”
    “So if you’re in trouble… if you think you need to do something to earn money or… or something. Something you shouldn’t be. Doing.