Troublemakers and only curiosity kept him shining the light at them. "How are you, this morning?"
"Fine, Sheriff. Just fine."
"Mind if I ask what you were up to?"
"Just taking an early morning stroll," replied
Prissy.
"Through Stella's shrubbery?"
"I'll say," piped up Miss Tipplemouse.
Brendan's lips trembled as he fought to keep
from laughing. The women were always up to something-usually no good, but nothing actually
illegal. He was sure if he asked Stella about it,
she'd tell him that her mother and friends always
trampled through her yard every predawn.
Although he was tempted to take them in "for
questioning," just to tease them a little, he thought
better of it because the fair was due to open in
only a few hours. He'd be in hot water if it didn't
open as scheduled. Being wise in the ways of Littlemouth, he signaled that they could go. "It's dark
out, so you ladies need to be careful."
Janice switched on a flashlight and said with a
husky drawl, "Oh, Sheriff, we're always careful."
Quin had never considered himself in the least
bit artistic, other than how he managed to create a
journalistic style with his words, but looking at
Stella as she slept made him feel positively poetic.
He wasn't sure how it had happened, but they'd
both fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fire.
It was cozy and rather than fleeing, he was occupied composing a poem. If only he could find a
good word to rhyme with dawn.
Lawn.
Mowing.
Settling down. The thought yanked him out of
his romantic fog.
The fire had long since died and he couldn't
remember having slept this well in years.
Heck, most of the time, he only half slept for
fear a vicious drug lord or dictator would send
someone to silence his pen. Although his life
wasn't now at stake, certainly his lifestyle was. So
why did he feel so peaceful?
One glance at Stella told him everything he
needed to know. They'd belonged to each other
for as long as he could remember. The knowledge
gave him strength when he'd been thrown in jail
in Moscow, the time he'd been lost in a Brazilian
jungle, and when those bandits tossed him out of
the car. He could pretend otherwise, tell himself
he only wanted to get to know her better, but the
truth was, he wanted to be with her forever.
However, things weren't so easy. He had a job
to return to, a job he found fulfilling and intriguing. Sure it was lonely, but was he ready to toss
it all in to play house in Littlemouth, inspiring
though the idea might be?
The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Stella,
but wasn't that what they were heading toward?
He wanted to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from himself.
Bottom line, he was selfish and didn't deserve
a woman like Stella.
He rose quietly, not wanting to disturb her because they'd both been up late making the pies
that were due at the fairgrounds soon.
Only a jerk would leave without saying some thing, but how could he say anything until he figured it out for himself? He didn't want to consider
what would happen if his mother or one of her
pals learned where he'd been all night. Leaving
immediately would, he hoped, keep Stella's reputation intact.
He made a beeline to the kitchen.
Tramp barked a happy greeting when Quin
opened the door into the kitchen, but he quickly
hushed him. The more he thought about it, the
more it seemed that giving Stella, and himself,
time to think things through was a good idea.
He opened the outer door into the yard so
Tramp could go out. Taking a seat on the back
steps, he watched as the dog energetically circled
the yard a time or two before getting down to the
serious business of sniffing around the oak tree.
Quin wiped the sleep from his eyes, literally as
well as figuratively. How much had Stella
changed? Would she expect him to remain in Littlemouth or was it possible she'd like to come with
him? Did he want to expose her to that kind of
danger? How much could he change? Could
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