Free Beckett's Convenient Bride by Dixie Browning Page B

chart she was twenty-five.
    Too young for you to be thinking what you’re thinking, good buddy.
    He cleared his throat, which was still on the raw side. “When do you have to work tomorrow?”
    â€œSame shift. Five to nine. I usually go in a few minutes early and stay after to set up for the morning trade.”
    â€œGood. First we’ll check out your car and then we’ll drive out to this church of yours and look around. After that, we might drop by the sheriff’s office. And if you don’t mind, I’ll borrow your couch again tonight. Six a.m. suit you? It ought to be light enough by then, but a flashlight would come in handy.”
    She nodded, a dazed look on her peaked, not-really-pretty-but-beautiful face. “I feel like I’m on a runaway escalator. Sooner or later I’ll either have to get off or crash. Trouble is, there’s no getting-off place.”
    Carson wanted to touch her, to reassure her. He lifted a hand and let it drop. Don’t go there, Beckett.
    Hell, he was probably contagious, anyway. The last thing she needed was what ailed him.
    The moment passed. “What do you eat for breakfast?” she asked.
    â€œCold pizza. Barring that, coffee and whatever.”
    â€œYeah, well, it’ll probably be whatever,” she muttered as she shrugged and headed down the hall. “Turn off the light before you go to bed, okay? I don’t like to waste electricity.”

Five
    L ong after she had cleared the bathroom and closed her bedroom door, Carson lingered in the kitchen, washing the few dishes he’d left in the sink, which she had ignored. Then he rummaged around until he located a box of baking soda, mixed some in a glass of water, and used it to swallow a few more aspirin. His mama’s favorite cure-all. Had something to do with the pH factor, not that Kate had ever put it in those terms, bless her sweet soul.
    He wished to God it would help her now, but there wasn’t enough aspirin and soda in the world to bring back a woman who was slipping a little farther away each day.
    He yawned and went out to retrieve his overnight bag. He needed to get out of here, like yesterday. Yawning again a few minutes later, he switched out the lamp and reminded himself that this wasn’t his case. He had more on his agenda than delivering a long overdue payment for a debt that wasn’t even his own. But the lady needed ahand, and he happened to be on the scene. As a man, as a Beckett and as a cop, he owed her whatever assistance he could provide.
    His body cried out for sleep, but his brain was still too wired to surrender, and so he lay awake thinking over the things she’d said, slotting them into the things he’d observed. Which wasn’t a whole lot, in either case.
    Still, whatever else she was, the woman was not quite the flake he’d first thought her. Taken in context, most of what she’d said even made sense. But what the devil was a woman like Katherine Dixon doing in a place like this, waiting tables at a restaurant that probably would see no more than a couple dozen customers on a good day? Maybe not even that many.
    According to her, she’d had two books published, for cripes sake. Outside his mother’s church circle and their fund-raising cookbook, he didn’t know anyone else who had actually written a book and had it published. And this was no homemade job. Even he had recognized the name of the publisher.
    He had offered to set an alarm clock, but she’d told him not to bother. “I never need an alarm, not even when I’m on early shift.”
    â€œYour call,” he’d told her, being none too fond of the things, himself. The last twenty-four hours had been a real rat race. Napping through the late afternoon and waking up after dark had only screwed up his internal clock. Now, at barely 11:00 p.m., he was wiped out, but too wide-awake to fall asleep.
    Switching on the radio, he searched