she bit back a sigh. Once she’d been able to tell him anything, but now time and heartache had built a wall between them. “The hospital administrator tells me you’re the man to see about traffic control.”
He shifted sideways, away from her. The fluorescent lights cast a glare along his square jawline, highlighting a narrow white scar. With a shock, she remembered the night he’d gotten that scar…because of her.
“Why would a blood drive require traffic control?”
Julee forced the memory away, though looking into his moss-green eyes proved just as tumultuous. “Because the high-school band has volunteered to drum up interest, if you’ll pardon the pun, by marching down Main Street Saturday morning. People will hear the band and be reminded that the drive has begun.”
A gaggle of ladies, all carrying bags of yarn, twittered past, poking each other as they cast knowing looks at the handsome sheriff. Tate nodded politely, trying to cover an expression of amused exasperation.
“Look, Julee,” he said, leaning near enough that she caught a whiff of peppermint and some wonderfully warm male scent. “I’m the sheriff, not a parade marshal. Can’t the city police take care of that sort of thing?”
Julianna’s pulse stumbled. From this close she could count the black spiky lashes framing Tate’s green eyes. He had such beautiful eyes, deep and fathomless, and as full of mystery as the man himself.
Hands in her lap, she nervously twisted them together. Why was she thinking of Tate and that scar and his gorgeous eyes? Hadn’t she had enough bad experiences with men? And why was she suddenly hub-deep in memories of the two of them jouncing along in that old beat-up Chevy truck, its heater barely keeping the fog off the wind-shield while they listened to Pearl Jam on their way to a football game? It was in that pickup that they’d first… Julianna mentally slammed on the brakes. Do not go there.
“The city police are helping,” she said, amazed to sound so normal when her thoughts were anything but. “But they suggested your office was needed to erect detour barriers for through traffic and such things as that. In fact, Chief Little suggested the two of you coordinate efforts.”
On an exhale Tate leaned back in his chair and glanced down at his watch. Light reflected off the handsome copper band with turquoise insets. “I’ll talk to him.”
Relieved, Julianna pressed clammy hands to the table-top. With any luck, she and the enthusiastic townspeople would wear down his resistance. Come Saturday, Tate would stretch out that dark, sinewy arm and give their daughter a new chance at life. “I appreciate this. I really do.”
With an accepting tilt of his head, Tate’s gaze fell to her hand. “That’s quite a ring.”
“Thank you.” Nervously, she clasped the ringed hand to her chest, twisting the sapphire that matched her eyes.
“Engagement ring?”
“No.”
He arched that black eyebrow again and she wished he’d stop it. The movement of that one little eyebrow had the power to reduce her to nothing. Embarrassed by her completely aberrant thoughts as well as the ostentatious sapphire, which had been a gift from a former beau, heat rushed to her cheeks. The cut and size of the stone weren’t all that unusual in L.A. but here in Blackwood the ring seemed out of place. And so did she.
“So you’re not married?” Behind the unfathomable eyes lurked an emotion Julee couldn’t identify.
Uncomfortable with the personal turn of conversation, she gestured vaguely. “Not at the moment. My life is far too busy.”
She didn’t want to admit the truth, especially to Tate, but the last man she’d dated had lost all interest when Megan’s cancer returned. Though Julianna was too occupied with saving her daughter to mourn his loss, his disappearance had cemented her belief that she was only an ornament, a decoration.
“Too busy,” he said softly, the words a reminder of how their own busy lives had pulled them in different directions.
The double doors leading into the center flapped open and a slight breeze swirled around their legs, bringing with it the scent of coffee and the remnants of the Chamber luncheon. A rattle of voices, the words incomprehensible, drifted around the room, but Julee felt isolated, captured in the aura of Tate McIntyre. An odd lump of longing filled her throat.
For a nanosecond the air vibrated with memory. Julee studied the remains of an interrupted checker game, making every attempt not to look at Tate.
Breaking the mood, Tate scraped back from the table and rose. “Sorry to run out on you again, but duty calls.”
She looked up at him, grateful for the tiny crack in the fence between them. For one entire minute there had been a feeling, a something hovering around that table, that gave her hope. “Your job seems very important to you.”
“It’s my life.” His wonderfully angled jaw clenched. “And I’m good at it, Julee. I’m good at it.”
He turned to move away, his muscular legs long and fluid in the creased uniform pants.
“Tate,” she called.
He turned back, waiting.
“I’m glad you’ve made a good life, that you’re happy.”
A flash of something—pain?—quickly masked, flared as he held her gaze. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to feel the magnetism of Tate and the old memories, but she couldn’t seem to tear her attention away. And truly she was pleased that the hurting boy she’d loved had found fulfillment.
“What about you?” he asked, his words intense, almost harsh. “Are you happy?”
“I…I…” Julee stuttered. “Of course.”
“Good.” For another interminable moment he held her with a look that brought a flush to her face and trepidation to her soul. And then he was gone, the beautiful athletic physique striding out of the Senior Center.
Why had he asked such a thing? And why had she hesitated? Her life was busy. She had her career, her friends. And most of all, she had Megan. Certainly, she was happy with the life she’d chosen.
Wasn’t she?
Chapter Four
The day of the bone-marrow drive dawned with the perfect sunny weather of mid April in Oklahoma. Tate awoke, just as he did at least three times a week, in the front seat of his SUV. Only this morning the blast of the Blackwood High School marching band yanked him upright. He cracked his bad knee on the steering wheel and cursed. In the seat next to him a warm wiggling form yelped, reminding him of his only reward for a sleepless night.
Last night he’d sat inside a rusted-out station wagon inside the B & D Auto Salvage where he’d observed a transaction he could only view as suspicious. To his disappointment, no hard evidence of a chop-shop operation had come his way.
A warm wet tongue scraped at his hand.
“Hey, partner.” With a grin, he stroked the skinny, red, mixed-breed pup he’d found scrounging around the Dumpsters outside B &
