Free A Sheriff in Tennessee by Lori Handeland

Nothing more, nothing less, nothing she had not lived with all her life.
    She could not sleep with Klein. He already thought she was a dim-brained tramp. She wasn’t going to prove him right, no matter how much she might want to touch the chest he kept hidden beneath the dirt-brown uniform and the badge.
    Twenty minutes later, still-damp hair slicked into a ponytail and face devoid of makeup, Belle stood in front of a dark and desolate police station. The morning air was already heating up, despite the factthat the sun had not yet broken above the mountains.
    She’d considered wearing shorts and a tank top to offset the coming spring day but had opted, instead, for capri-length khaki trousers and an oversize white T-shirt. The less attention she drew to herself the better. She was nervous enough already, without having people point and stare at her all day. Even though her presence in Pleasant Ridge was supposed to be a secret for the time being, she knew better than to count on that.
    Expecting Klein to arrive in a squad car or maybe even a pickup truck, she didn’t at first notice the solitary figure ambling in from Highway B. Once she did, she just watched Klein move.
    He walked the way he did everything else—slow, sure, determined. The man was like the mountains at his back. Did anything ever move him to anger, to joy, to passion?
    â€œâ€˜Morning,” he said as he crossed the deserted street.
    Annoyed at her inability to keep her mind off things it had no business thinking about, Belle blurted, “Where’re the damn doughnuts?”
    He laughed, the sound loud in the still of the morning, but comforting just the same. His laugh, too, was like him—strong and deep, uncommon—and she found herself smiling in response. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.
    â€œLesson number three.” Klein pointed down the street. “To know the job, you have to know the people. Watch Pleasant Ridge wake up.”
    Lights sparked against the mountain backdrop, like stars coming awake in the sky.
    â€œLucinda Jones,” Klein murmured as he pointed to the bakery. “Her husband died when she was forty, and she never remarried. Her kids scattered, and she’s devoted herself to the business. It’s been standing there since Pleasant Ridge was little more than four houses and a general store. There’s been a Jones baking in that kitchen for the better part of two centuries.”
    The back of Belle’s neck prickled. Imagine—the same family doing the same thing for two hundred years.
    â€œIf none of her kids come back and take over, she’ll be the last,” Klein said. “And that’ll be a shame.”
    Belle nodded in agreement just as her stomach growled, protesting her supper choice the night before—a can of tuna eaten in front of the TV during the six o’clock news, before she spent the rest of the evening making notes about her first day in Pleasant Ridge.
    She glanced at Klein to see if he’d heard, but he still stared at the lights of the bakery. “Thursday is cherry turnover day. My favorite.”
    â€œNo doughnuts?”
    â€œYou’ll learn, Ms. Ash—”
    â€œIsabelle,” she said automatically, then winced at the memory of the last time they’d had this conversation. Too close in too small a room; gently touching; secretly yearning; his heat and his scent surrounding her, enticing her. She didn’t want toremember his deep voice calling her Izzy. She’d already remembered it all night long.
    â€œIsabelle—”
    He lowered his head, a gesture that made her think of lords and ladies, courtly manners, times long past, then continued as if she had just invited him to call her Isabelle for the very first time. Perhaps he didn’t even recollect what still haunted her.
    â€œYou’ll learn that being a cop in Pleasant Ridge is a whole lot different from being a cop anywhere else.