no! He felt like he’d just been run down by a herd of stampeding longhorns. He had to swallow hard to get words to form in his suddenly dry mouth. “Uh…sure. I’m fine.”
He quickly looked around to see if anyone else detected his discomfort. Noting several curious stares, Dylan cursed his luck.
The room boasted the largest collection of gossips he’d seen since arresting Jed Phelps for getting drunk and crashing Corny’s Tupperware party. And that had been three years ago. If the old hens thought there was even a remote possibility that he found Brenna Montgomery attractive, they’d be like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
He glanced over at the woman standing beside him. Mildred Bruner was the county clerk and responsible for issuing all the marriage licenses in the county. It was common knowledge she was an incurable romantic and carried her book of forms everywhere she went just hoping someone would stop her and ask to apply for a ticket to wedded bliss.
He shifted from one foot to the other. If he didn’t leave, and damned quick, Mildred would start digging around in that suitcase of a purse she carried, trying to find her license book, and by sunrise the rest of the busybodies would have everyone in town taking bets on when the wedding would take place. He silently ran through every curse word he knew. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and even if he was, Brenna Montgomery wasn’t likely to ever be a candidate.
“I’ll be over at Luke’s if you need a ride home, Mildred.”
His cheeks burned as he watched several of the women smile knowingly. If they hadn’t noticed he was having a problem before, they sure as hell would now. His voice hadn’t sounded that uneven since puberty.
“You aren’t staying for class, Sheriff?” Brenna asked when he headed for the door.
Dylan stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t believe his ears. Brenna Montgomery wanted him in her painting class about as much as a poor, lost soul wanted to see a heat wave in hell.
He turned to face her, his scowl deepening. “No.”
“That’s a shame. Some of the most talented craftspeople I know are men.”
She took a step in Dylan’s direction. He took a step back. What was the woman up to now?
She thoughtfully tilted her head, her blue eyes dancing. “Of course, some men lack the patience and coordination it takes to learn the techniques.”
Her challenge punched him right square in his ego. When she took another step forward, Dylan stood his ground and reaching out, took her hand in his. “Oh, I’m sure I could master any technique, Ms. Montgomery. And I’m very patient.”
The moment their fingers touched, a tingle raced the length of Dylan’s arm, making his blood pressure skyrocket. But pride wouldn’t allow him to back down. “I’ve never had any trouble getting my hands to do what I want,” he assured. Letting a provocative drawl warm his words, he smiled suggestively. “Nor have I ever had anyone complain about their ability to obtain a satisfying result.”
She jerked her hand out of his so fast, he thought she might have sprained her wrist.
“It was nice of you to stop by, Sheriff, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to start my class. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
Dylan knew for sure he’d turned the tables. He could tell Brenna had been as affected by the touch of his hand as he’d been by hers. And, she was trying to give him the bum’s rush.
But he’d be damned before he let it happen. She’d started this confrontation. He intended to finish it.
“Where do you want me to sit?”
Her eyes grew round. “You…you don’t mean you’re staying?”
“Yep.” At her stunned reaction, he didn’t even try to hold back his satisfied smile. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Oh, this is wonderful,” old Corny said, clapping her pudgy hands to gain the women’s attention. “Now that Dylan’s taking the class, we shouldn’t have any trouble convincing our men they could use a measure of culture, too. I intend to speak with Myron about it this very evening, and I encourage every one of you to do the same with your husbands.”
Dylan’s triumphant grin evaporated, and he barely controlled the urge to squirm when several of the women bobbed their heads in eager agreement. He’d forgotten all about the guys over at Luke’s. Once they got wind he was taking an art class, he’d never hear the end of it. Now, short of humiliating himself in front of the entire room full of world-class busybodies, there wasn’t any way out.
Every Tuesday night for no telling how long, he’d miss the poker game over at Luke’s. He’d be forced to listen to Brenna’s soft voice as she instructed the class. He’d have to watch her silky, red hair brush the top of her shapely rear—
His body tightened noticeably, and muttering a curse, he removed his Resistol, lowered it to zipper level and took a seat. As he sat watching Brenna, his mood lightened and he fought back a grin. If any good came out of this mess, it had to be the dazed look on her face.
Brenna Montgomery looked like she’d just sat down on a bumblebee.
Two
Dazed, Brenna turned and slowly walked to the front of the class. What had she been thinking? The sheriff had been ready to leave. And he would have, if she’d just kept her mouth shut.
But, no. She couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’d tried to get even for this afternoon’s disagreement—tried to practice being assertive—and ended up making a mess of everything. Becoming a stronger, more self-assured woman was a balancing act. And she’d just proven she was tilting a little too far to one side.
“Okay, ladies…and gentleman.” She purposely avoided looking at the man as she handed out the supply lists. “These are the items you’ll need for the course.”
“What’s the difference between Folk Art and painting a landscape or a portrait?” one of the women asked.
Brenna perched on the edge of the desk as she tried to organize her tangled thoughts. The sheriff’s presence was playing havoc with her already jangled nerves and had her ready to kill for a Hershey bar.
“Originally the label Folk Art was given to all forms of art created by people who knew little, if anything, about method or design. A folk artist ‘created’ without knowing how or what they’d done. Fine art requires more disciplined techniques.”
“How did it get started?” Mildred Bruner asked.
“You could say it evolved out of envy,” Brenna answered, trying her best to ignore the man sitting in the back of the room. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “In Europe, peasants wanted to simulate the expensive furnishings of the noble class, so they used Folk Art to paint their furniture, dishes and pottery. They even used it on store signs.”
Mrs. Worthington frowned. “Store signs?”
Brenna nodded. “Around the seventeenth and eighteenth century, the craft was used for practical, as well as decorative, purposes. Most of the common people were illiterate. But by having signs painted with bright
