A Time To Keep

“St. Martin Parish Police. Deputy Jameson speaking.”

She took a deep breath. “Deputy Jameson, my name is Gwendolyn Taylor, and I’m stuck in a ditch on the road leading to Bon Temps. I called for road service, but was told they can’t come for another hour.”

“Are you alone, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“What type of ve-hic-le are you driving?”

Gwen shook her head. He’d drawled out vehicle into more than three syllables. “It’s a dark blue BMW sedan.”

“I’ll radio one of our officers to assist you. Make certain you keep your cell phone on in case we have to call you.”

“I will. Thank you, Deputy Jameson.”

“No problem, ma’am.”

Holding the tiny phone in a death grip, she sat back and waited for one of St. Martin Parish’s finest to rescue her.

* * *

Sheriff Shiloh Harper glanced at the watch strapped to his left wrist for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past hour. He couldn’t wait for his shift to end so he could go home, take a cool shower, and crawl into the hammock on the screened-in second-story veranda, where he could remind himself that he was one day closer to prosecuting criminals instead of arresting them.

He was covering for a vacationing deputy, and had spent the shift mediating petty incidents: a teenage boy had pumped two dollars more in gas than he had on him; a fifteen-year-old girl had tried to buy beer with a fake ID; and he’d issued a slew of tickets for drivers exceeding the speed limit in a school zone.

As he slowed the police-issued Suburban SUV, he maneuvered behind a copse of trees to wait for wannabe NASCAR drivers who used a stretch of roadway without a stop sign or traffic lights as their private racetrack. Leaning back in the leather seat, he stared at the radar device and waited for the sun to set. With the approach of nightfall, he was certain to catch at least a couple of speeders before his noon-to-eight-o’clock shift ended.

“Shiloh?”

He sat up, suddenly alert when his deputy’s voice came through the small two-way radio clipped to his left shoulder. “Yes, Jimmie.”

“I just got a call from a woman who’s stranded along the road to Bon Temps. I don’t think she’s from around here because she talks real funny. You want her number?”

“No. Call and let her know I’m on my way.”

Shiloh ended the call, placed the red light on the dashboard and headed onto the roadway. Motorists, seeing the flashing red light, moved over to the shoulder to give the official vehicle the right of way. Within minutes of Jimmie Jameson’s call, he had pulled up opposite a dark-colored, late-model sedan with Massachusetts license plates. A slight smile curved the corners of his mouth when he remembered what his deputy said about the stranded motorist talking funny. Pushing open the door, he reached for a flashlight before alighting from the SUV and approaching the car.

He switched on the flashlight and knocked softly on the driver’s door. Large dark eyes stared at him through the glass; he gestured for her to lower the window. She complied and the smell of new leather mixed with the subtle scent of a sensual perfume wafted from the interior.

“I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, miss.”

Gwen stared at the shadowy face of the man only inches from her own. “I can’t,” she said breathlessly. The eyes staring back at Gwen reminded of her a cat’s. They were an odd shade of gold-green. What made them appear so unusual was that they were set in a brown face with hues ranging from sienna to alizarin.

His eyebrow lifted. “Are you injured?”

She shook her head like someone in a trance. The time she’d spent in the car waiting for assistance had traumatized her. She’d imagined the most macabre scenarios: an alligator climbing up on the hood of the car and smashing the windshield with his powerful tail; a venomous insect crawling in and biting her; or that the mud was quicksand.

“I can’t get out,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice.

Reaching into the car, Shiloh released the lock, and opened the door. Hunkering down, he directed the beam of light around the car’s interior. He trained the flashlight on the woman’s legs and feet, which were clad in a pair of cropped pants and sandals. His expressive eyebrows lifted again. She had nice legs and beautifully groomed feet. Her sandals screamed couture with a price tag that probably exceeded the weekly salary of many local residents.

“Can you walk?”

“Yes, but…” Her words trailed off as she stared at the tall man in a crisp tan uniform and western-style light-colored hat. A star on his chest identified him as the sheriff, and a name tag as Harper.

“But what?” Shiloh asked when she didn’t complete her statement.

Sighing, Gwen closed her eyes. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what? Messing up your shoes?”

She opened her eyes and rolled them at the lawman. A slight frown marred her smooth forehead. How dare he believe she was so vain or insipid that she was more concerned about a pair of shoes than her personal safety.

“Alligators. Snakes.”

A hint of a smile softened Shiloh’s mouth. Jimmie was right about her talking funny. Her Boston accent was as thick as the haze blanketing the bayou before the heat of the sun pierced its shadowy veil.

“The snakes and gators are in the water, miss.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure?” Smiling broadly, he nodded. “How do you know there isn’t one under my car?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if there is, then I wouldn’t be here talking to you, because I definitely would’ve been dinner.”

Gwen crossed her arms under her breasts over a white tank top, bringing his gaze to linger there. “Exactly. Now, unless you can assure me that there are no animals lurking next to my car I’m not getting out.”

Shiloh was hard pressed not to bare his teeth at her. How was he going to get her car out of the ditch with her behind the wheel? If Miss Beantown refused to come to him, then he would have to take it to her.

After slipping the flashlight into a loop on his belt, he straightened up, reached into the car, and scooped her off the seat. The unexpected motion forced her to wrap her arms around his neck to maintain her balance. He shifted her slightly, molding her breasts to his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gwen shouted at him. Her right hand fisted. “Put me down.”

Shiloh tightened his hold under her knees. “In the mud, miss?”

“No. Over there,” she demanded, pointing to where he’d parked his sport utility vehicle.

He shifted her again, smiling. “What do you plan to do with that fist?”

Gwen looked at her hand as if it was something she’d never seen before. Heat suffused her face. There was no doubt she was ready to punch out the tall lawman holding her effortlessly as if she were a child. It was also apparent his diet wasn’t made up of pizza and beer or coffee and greasy doughnuts like some of the cops she’d come to know during her years as a reporter for the Boston Gazette. She relaxed her fingers.

Shiloh smiled. “Good. Now I don’t have to cuff you and haul you in for assaulting an officer. What’s your name, miss?”

“Do you have to know my name?”

Crossing the road, Shiloh ignored her hostile query. “Yes. I’m going to have to file a report.”

“Why?”

He met her questioning gaze in the waning daylight. “I don’t know how you do things up north, but down here whenever someone places a call to our police department we follow up with a written report. Which means I’m going to need your license and registration.”