Dylan’s grin instantly disappeared. “You have something against a man drinking a beer after a hard day’s work?”
“Well…no—”
“Then let me clue you in on the way things are around these parts, Ms. Montgomery. Nearly every man in town stops by Luke’s Bar and Grill after work for a beer and the latest gossip. It’s a tradition—drink a beer, swap a story or two and go home.” Dylan shrugged. “Pete’s no different than the rest of us. He goes to Luke’s regularly. But I’ve never known him to drink more than two beers at one sitting.”
“I realize this is a tight-knit, little community and, believe me, I want to be a part of it just like everyone else.” Her ankle-length skirt rustled like a bed of dry leaves when she tapped her toe. “But Pete Winstead’s drinking habits aren’t the issue here. When a stranger grabs a woman and kisses her, it can be very frightening. It’s your job to prevent things like that from happening.”
Dylan’s arms dropped to his sides, his hands flexing in frustration. He was good at his job and he didn’t need a high-strung, big-city female telling him how to do it. He’d had that happen once, he wasn’t going to allow it to happen a second time.
He leaned forward and braced his hands on the polished surface of the desk. “I said I’d talk to him. Now, is there anything else you feel the need to complain about, Ms. Montgomery?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good if I did, now would it, Sheriff?” She’d managed to make his title sound like a dirty word.
Before he had a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her so hard that the plate-glass window rattled ominously.
Shoving his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, Dylan silently watched her march across the street, gather the yards of her ridiculous skirt into a bunch around her knees and stuff it all into an aging Toyota.
He didn’t doubt for a minute that the incident with Pete had scared the hell out of her. Her pale complexion and the tremor in her voice when she walked into the firehouse had been quite genuine.
But he’d dealt with Brenna Montgomery’s brand of trouble before and wanted no part of it. Her kind moved in and started trying to change everything in sight. Her complaint was proof enough of that. She hadn’t even been a resident of Tranquillity two full weeks and she was already trying to stop his uncle Pete’s friendly tradition.
Dylan shook his head. No doubt about it. That little lady was going to be trouble with a great big, capital T. Unfortunately, even in those weird clothes Brenna Montgomery had to be the best-looking trouble he’d ever laid eyes on.
And he had a feeling if she stayed in town, Tranquillity would never be the same.
“Get a grip, Brenna. The sheriff’s probably right about old Deke,” Abigail Montgomery said.
“Pete,” Brenna corrected her grandmother. “The old man’s name is Pete.”
Abigail waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever. I’m not interested in the old goat. I want to know more about the hunk wearing the badge.”
Brenna sighed. She and her grandmother had been down this road before. “What’s to tell? He listened to my complaint, then gave me his biased opinion.”
Abigail’s bright orange curls danced as she shook her head. “You know what I mean. What color are his eyes and hair? How tall is he? Is he a super stud or a major dud?”
Exasperated, Brenna stared at the woman. Since her retirement a little over a year ago as a high school guidance counselor, Abigail had made it her sole purpose in life to find Brenna a husband. She’d even gone so far as to sell the house she and Brenna had shared since the death of Brenna’s parents ten years ago to move to Tranquillity, Texas, with Brenna in order to keep up the pressure.
“Granny, every time I meet a man, we go through this same inquisition. Aren’t you getting a little tired of it?”
“Brenna Elaine Montgomery, you’re almost twenty-six years old and the only thing you’ve had that even resembles a serious relationship was a college fling with that jerk, Tim Miller.”
“Tom Mitchell,” Brenna said, making a face. “And he taught me a valuable lesson—men use women, then cast them aside when they’re done.”
“If you’ll remember, I told you from the beginning he reminded me of a weasel. And when he talked you into helping him get through law school, I knew I was right.” Abigail shook her head. “But don’t judge all men by that loser.”
Brenna felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Well, I haven’t seen a man yet who could tempt me into finding out if my first assessment was wrong.”
Abigail gave her a knowing look. “Maybe old Devin—”
“Dylan.”
“Whatever. Maybe he’ll prove you wrong.” Her grandmother’s gray eyes twinkled merrily. “You know, that’s probably why you’re so uptight all the time. You need a man like Darwin in your life and a little hanky-panky to help you unwind.”
“Granny!”
“I just call it the way I see it.” Abigail pushed the sleeves of her hot-pink, nylon warm-up jacket to her elbows and leaned forward in the ladder-back chair. “Now, tell me about Sheriff Chancellor. You know I never get tired of talking about good-looking men.”
“His name is Chandler.”
“Whatever.”
Brenna frowned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.” Abigail winked. “I’ll bet my new Reeboks this guy is a real stud. Probably better-looking than Mel Gibson and muscled up like Ronald Schwasenhoofer.”
“Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Whatever.”
Brenna rose from the table to place her plate in the dishwasher. She was only delaying the inevitable. Abigail Montgomery could have been a top-notch interrogator for the CIA.
“Just how did you arrive at your conclusion that the sheriff had to be something special?”
“I didn’t deal with teenagers for over forty years and not learn to recognize a hedge job when I see one,” Abigail shot back. “You think he’s a hunk.”
“I do not.”
“Do too. Now spill it.”
Brenna threw up her hands, as much in exasperation as in surrender. “He’s tall—”
“How tall?” Abigail pressed.
“I’d say he’s a little over six feet tall and has black hair and green eyes.” When her grandmother frowned at the lack of information, Brenna tried to sound indifferent. “He looks to be somewhere in his early thirties. Now, that’s all I know about the man. And all I care to know.”
“Uh-oh! He must have a spare tire around his waist.” Abigail
