out of the cruiser and approached her. “Can I help you?”
She smiled, and her fresh face framed by tousled strawberry-blond hair, made him think she’d never been disappointed in her entire life. “Is this the road to Applegate?”
“One of them.” He gave her car’s interior a cursory inspection. Books, notebooks and loose papers filled the back seat. She was probably a student at the college over in Brevard, although she looked too young to be even a freshman.
“One of them? Is that local humor?” Cocking her head to the side, she gazed directly at him. Mack blinked and discovered the proverbial shoe on the other foot. Usually he was the one who made other people uncomfortable because of his size and uniform.
But his presence didn’t faze this young woman in the least. She stood almost toe-to-toe with him, so close he could see a dusting of freckles across her nose, and waited patiently, with an air of innocence he found disconcerting.
He scowled. “Humor? No. I’m told I don’t have an ounce left in me.” To prove the point, he added, “Do you know your car has a broken taillight?”
“You should see the other guy.” She grinned wickedly, revealing perfect teeth. “Humor,” she explained.
“It’s not a laughing matter. I could write you up—”
“Oh, please, don’t,” she said as she might say no, thank you to a second helping of cake. “When I get to Applegate, I’ll get it fixed.”
Kids. Not a care in the world. Making it on looks and youth alone. Mack felt a jolt of envy. After what he’d seen and done half a world away, carefree would never be a mood ascribed to him again.
He ran his fingers over the broken plastic of the Yugo’s taillight. “See that you get this fixed. Take it to Mel’s on Main Street.” He turned to go. “And afterward, come to the sheriff’s office with the receipt. To show me you kept your word.”
“Yes, sir. If nothing else, I’m a woman of my word.”
Was he mistaken or was there a hint of sass under the show of respect? He looked back at her. Her gray eyes revealed nothing but a clear, ingenuous light. A kid. That was what she was. A wet-behind-the-ears kid cut loose from her mama’s apron strings.
“And I should ask for whom?” She squinted at his name tag, sounding suspiciously defiant.
“Deputy Sheriff Whittaker.” Without wasting any more time, he walked back to his patrol car.
“Deputy Whittaker?” Her voice, clear, high and musical, sailed through the air like birdsong on the spring breeze.
Reluctantly he turned to look at her again. “Yes?”
“You said this was one of the roads to Applegate, but am I headed in the right direction?”
Had he ever, even as a boy, exuded such a wide-eyed innocence?
“You’re…you’re headed in the right direction.” He took a step backward and bumped into his car’s grille. When she winced, he added hastily, “You can’t miss Mel’s repair shop. Right next to the county courthouse.”
She fluttered her fingers next to her head, a half-wave, half-salute that made him think she might be mocking him.
Settling behind the wheel of the cruiser, he waited for her to be on her way. That was his excuse. Actually he’d have liked to sit on the side of the road indefinitely. Do nothing more than watch the wrens gather materials for their nests. But in an hour he had an appointment back at headquarters with that reporter from the Sun.
Another reason for the headache that originated at the base of his skull and pounded a path to his temples.
In a PR move to show the county residents how far the newly rehabilitated department had come, Sheriff Garrett McQuire had requested the newspaper interview. Mack saw the need. His boss and longtime buddy had worked ceaselessly, cleaning up the mess the former sheriff Easley and his cronies had left behind. What Mack hadn’t foreseen was that Garrett would take off on his honeymoon and leave Mack with the reporter. He suspected the sheriff saw the handover of responsibilities as part of his deputy’s personal rehabilitation. If Mack didn’t owe Garrett so much—both as a boss and as a buddy, he would’ve rescheduled.
Instead, he put the patrol car in gear and headed back to town. If he was going through with this, he needed to be the first on-site for the appointment. He didn’t need a member of the press waiting, unsupervised.
THE YUGO BUCKED IN complaint as Chloe drove in second gear down Applegate’s Main Street. Squinting against the sunlight, she searched for Mel’s repair shop. Ah, there was the domed courthouse and, in its shadow, a two-bay cinder block garage with kudzu creeping up one side. She parked in front, then pulled on the stubborn emergency brake. Reaching into the back seat, she grabbed a pad of paper to jot down a few notes and capture her first impression of Deputy Whittaker.
Thirty-something, he was handsome—the uniform automatically did that for a guy. Strong jaw. A nose that could have been considered classically Roman if the deputy hadn’t broken it. An old sports injury? From the barred and bolted look in Whittaker’s dark brown eyes, Chloe had an instinctive feeling he’d reveal nothing he didn’t want known. Either about his job or himself. If she had anything to do with him this week, he might prove problematic. A difficult lock resisting the pick.
The Colum County Sheriff’s Department. Now there lay a potentially rewarding project. Her first feature story. Her first byline. A tiny shiver ran through her as she anticipated the opportunity. Hastily she wrote, “Deputy Whittaker. Humorless. Stickler for details,” before tossing the notepad onto the passenger seat.
She wrestled with the door of the Yugo. “Honestly, you are one more act of resistance away from the scrap heap,” she warned the mutinous vehicle when she managed to break free. She kicked the door shut behind her.
At the garage’s first bay, she gingerly stepped around a pick up to approach the bottom half of a coverall-clad mechanic leaning well under the truck’s raised hood.
“Mr. Mel?” she inquired with well-practiced Southern deference. “Deputy Whittaker sent me.”
“Mr. Mel! Now that’s a hoot!” The top half of the technician popped into view.
Chloe immediately recognized her error.
The person in the coveralls would never be mistaken for a man. She had wild red hair caught up in a bandanna, a movie-star smile and classically feminine features, not to mention a voluptuous body. But the woman’s voice belonged to the racetrack pit or smoke-filled juke joints. Chloe didn’t even hazard a guess at her age.
The mechanic stuck her greasy hands on her hips. “So the deputy sent you over to see Mr. Mel. Maybe his sense of humor’s finally coming back.”
“It was my mistake. He said to pull into Mel’s auto repair. I jumped to conclusions. Sorry. That’s not my style.”
“Well, I’m Mel. Short for Melody. My mama was hoping for a girlie-girl.” She rolled her big blue eyes. “But grease monkeys defy gender, honey. Come on in the office. I’m due a break.” She wiped her hands on a rag.
Chloe followed the woman into a cramped
