Shiloh wanted to tell Gwen that only Gwendolyn Pickering was able to keep her private life private. Those she’d invited to Bon Temps swore an oath never to reveal what went on behind the door once they crossed the threshold.
“What about yourself, Sheriff Harper? Does everyone know your business?”
“I’m a public servant and that means my life is an open book,” he admitted.
“You don’t have a private life?”
He hesitated, then said, “Right now I don’t.”
The journalist in Gwen wanted to know more about the sheriff, but she hadn’t moved more than fifteen hundred miles to get involved, even if it was on a superficial level, with a man. Besides, she didn’t know whether Shiloh was married, engaged or involved with a woman.
“I’ll wait here for you to complete your search,” she said, deftly dropping the topic and letting Shiloh know she wanted him gone.
Shiloh averted his gaze from the softly curved luscious mouth. “I’ll try to be quick about it.” He switched on a flashlight and headed for the staircase.
His footsteps were muffled by the pile of the well-worn carpet lining the winding staircase. He hadn’t lied to Gwen about his private life. He hadn’t had one in three years, not since his divorce, and not since he’d left the district attorney’s office to serve out his father’s term as sheriff after Virgil Harper was gunned down during a botched bank robbery.
Flipping on a light switch on the wall at the top of the stairs, he saw firsthand the fading beauty of Bon Temps concealed under dust and cobwebs. The last two years of Gwendolyn Pickering’s life had been shrouded in mystery. She’d stopped receiving visitors and rarely ventured off the property.
Shiloh entered and exited bedrooms attached by adjoining sitting rooms and baths. He checked the locks on the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling French doors in the bedrooms overlooking the rear.
It appeared as if no one, other than whoever had covered the furniture with dustcovers, had returned to the house since Gwendolyn Pickering passed away. One thing he knew was that the house was not fit for human habitation—at least not until it was aired out.
He returned to the first floor by a back stairway and found himself outside an expansive state-of-the-art, eat-in kitchen. A pantry and laundry room were set up in an alcove behind the kitchen. His booted feet left distinctive footprints on the tiled floor.
Turning the faucet on in one of the stainless steel twin sinks, Shiloh waited for the water to run clear. There were two things Gwen did not have to concern herself with: water and electricity. Both were in working order.
Returning to the front of the house, he found Gwen where he’d left her, in the living room. She stood next to the massive crystal chandelier resting on a drop cloth in a corner.
“You can’t stay here tonight,” he announced in a voice layered with an authoritative undertone.
Gwen turned, an expression of indecision freezing her delicate features. “What?”
Shiloh closed the distance between them. “The house is safe, but you can’t stay,” he repeated. “The air quality is unhealthy. This place has been closed up for months and should be dusted and aired out before you sleep here.”
She groaned audibly. “It’s that bad?”
He nodded. “Yes, it’s that bad.”
Gwen worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Is there a hotel or motel around here that I can check into?”
“The nearest motel is right off the interstate. But on the other hand, Jessup’s boardinghouse is just up the road.”
There was no need for her to agonize over where she would spend the night. After driving more than twelve hours Gwen loathed getting behind the wheel of her car again. Her eyelids fluttered. “I’ll stay at the boardinghouse. How do I get there?”
“I’ll show you.” Shiloh extended his hand. “Give me your key and I’ll lock up.”
Delving her hand into the pocket of her slacks, Gwen handed him the key, then turned on her heels and walked out of the house, feeling the heat of Shiloh’s gaze on her retreating back.
She got into her car and waited for Shiloh Harper to turn off the lights and lock up Bon Temps. And for the second time that night she found herself following his vehicle.
* * *
Gwen’s eyelids drooped as she waited for the proprietor of Jessup’s boardinghouse to swipe her credit card. She was past being tired; she was exhausted and hungry. She’d left Chattanooga, Tennessee earlier that morning, stopping only to refuel her car.
Forcing herself to stand upright, she gave Shiloh a half smile. He’d brought in her luggage and offered to wait until she had gotten a room in the family-owned establishment. “How can I thank you for all you’ve done for me?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Shiloh angled his head. “You can buy a ticket to an upcoming fund-raising dinner-dance to benefit the bayou’s needy families.”
“How much are they?”
“Fifty.”
“Put me down for two.”
Shiloh lowered his arms. Gwen admitted to not being married, but she hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend. Women who looked like Gwendolyn Taylor usually did not spend their weekends watching rented videos or reading novels that promised a happily-ever-after ending because it was missing in her life. He knew very little about the current owner of Bon Temps, but what he saw he definitely liked.
Willie Jessup placed a key and her card on the solid oak counter. “You’re in room two-one-four. It’s at the top of the stairs.” He nodded to Shiloh. “I’ll take her bags up,” he said in French.
“It’s all right, Willie. I’ll do it,” he replied in the same language. “Keep an eye on her, because she’s not from around here,” Shiloh said quietly.
“No problem,” Willie replied.
Gwen’s fatigue vanished quickly. She’d taken an accelerated course in French before her European vacation and had come away with only a rudimentary fluency in the language. During the two weeks she’d spent in France she was able to order food, ask street directions and negotiate with shopkeepers. The French were impressed because she’d at least tried to communicate with them in their language.
Shiloh picked up her bags and headed for the staircase, Gwen following. She was intrigued by the man named for a horrific Civil War battle; a man who as sheriff of St. Martin Parish had gone beyond the call of duty to make certain she was safe; a man who understood and spoke French fluently. The reporter in her wanted answers—a lot of answers, but they would have to wait until after she’d gotten some sleep.
Soft light coming from two table lamps revealed a room that was spacious and clean. A mahogany four-poster bed draped with mosquito netting, a matching highboy and rocker beckoned her to come and spend the night.
Shiloh
