The Bachelor Project

“Or held hostage by hungry deer,” he teased.

“No.” Her smile faded as the joking ended. She felt the tension building now just as surely as she’d smelled coffee brewing earlier.

“Well, then, thank you for the coffee,” he said.

He seemed to take up way too much space in the kitchen. His blue eyes, as warm and dark as the coffee he’d brewed, looked at her in a very un-policeman-like manner.

“You’re welcome,” she answered, her voice an octave lower than when she’d stood on her front porch in her sleep shirt and robe. “Thanks for fixing it.” Darn it, she’d already thanked him for that once. Did he think she was babbling? Well, perhaps she was.

“No problem.”

The silence stretched on for just a moment too long. A breathless, quiet moment that made her forget about everything but the man standing before her. But then he shifted his weight, his hand automatically resting on a holster that held a large and dangerous-looking pistol, and she remembered that he was a law enforcement officer, and that she was a new resident who’d called in with an emergency.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. Maybe she was imagining this tension between them. Or you could just be mentally exhausted and rambling, she told herself as she gripped the back of her chair.

“Thank you for coming out, Chief Parker.”

“You’re welcome. And the name’s Ethan.”

“Ethan.” A strong name. A simple, basic name—one without nicknames and unusual spellings.

He smiled at her again, then picked up his flashlight and walked toward the front door. She followed behind, a sense of déjà vu reminding her she’d walked guys to the door before. Dates…and one nice, safe fiancé. Not police chiefs she barely knew.

“By the way,” he said, pausing as he pushed open the front door, “I did come out because you called. That was duty. I stayed because I wanted to. Sitting down and sharing a cup of coffee had nothing to do with my professional responsibilities.”

She looked up at his well-defined features and Mel-Gibson-blue eyes. Her heart beat so fast, she wondered if he could see the blood rushing through her veins. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I just wanted you to understand the difference. I don’t come on to women I meet in the line of duty.”

“No hugging?” she whispered.

“No.” His eyes focused solely on her lips. She couldn’t help herself; she licked away the dryness in a nervous gesture.

“No kissing, either.” He leaned forward ever so slightly. The night noises sounded overly loud, drowning out her heartbeat as she lost herself in his eyes. But then he blinked, startling both himself and her. He jerked upright, the moment gone as quickly as a cricket’s chirp.

He started to say something, just as the dispatcher’s voice came over the communication unit. “Dispatch to Parker. What’s your 40?”

He punched a small button. “Leaving the Franklin house right now.”

“You had a call. Someone checking up on you.” Even a couple of feet away from the communication device, Robin heard the humor in the dispatcher’s voice.

Ethan smiled. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

Her? He’d said he didn’t have a wife. Then who was checking up on him this late at night?

Robin frowned, envisioning an impatient girlfriend waiting for the police chief, but apparently he didn’t pick up on her…unease. She refused to call the feeling anything else.

He seemed in a sudden hurry to be anywhere but her front porch. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, backing through the doorway. “Keep yourself safe.”

“I will.” She tried not to frown.

“Good night, Robin.”

“Good night.”

She reached for the storm door, securing it as he strode toward the patrol car. Then she folded her arms and leaned against the door facing, her jumbled impressions of the last call colliding with images of Ethan, the man, and Chief Parker, the protector. And all of it churned by exhaustion that left her longing for a thick, soft mattress and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

A few seconds later, he started the engine of the patrol car, then turned on his headlights. As she slowly closed the heavy wood door, he pulled out of the driveway onto the county road, scattering a few errant leaves and some small puffs of dirt on his way back to town.

Leaving her with more questions than answers.

THE NEXT MORNING, Ethan headed to the Four Square Café for his lunch break. He needed a simple answer: who was Robin Cummings? Why did a born-and-bred city girl move to a small town, even temporarily? His instincts told him she was the type of person who was close to her family. Who had friends who’d comfort her during an obviously trying time. She’d said her wedding was to be an expensive one, which meant money. So if she needed to get away, why had she chosen Ranger Springs, of all places?

As he pushed open the country-style door, the jingling bell announced his arrival. The smells of chicken-fried steak, French fries and sizzling bacon drifted through the high service window at the back of the restaurant. Conversations, which had been humming along as he’d entered, subsided, replaced by the clink of knives and forks placed on Texas Places of Interest paper place mats. Heads turned in his direction.

Eating lunch in a public place wasn’t really news, but as he looked into the curious faces of the diners, he half expected a headline to that effect in the Springs Gazette’s Sunday edition. Perhaps he had been going home for lunch fairly often, or eating one of Aunt Bess’s meatloaf sandwiches at his desk, but surely he hadn’t become so much of a curiosity. Surely, he hadn’t become that predictable. Boring, some might say, he thought with a frown.

“How are you, Thelma?” he asked the newspaper editor as he walked past her table. She was having lunch with the perpetually strawberry-blond owner of the town’s only beauty shop. “Good afternoon, Joyce.”

Both women acknowledged his greeting, but he didn’t pause and chat. Not when the object of his search was seated in the last red vinyl booth, picking her way through a Cobb salad, her red hair sleeked back in a no-nonsense style that matched her conservative pale yellow dress. At one time, the matchmakers in town had tried to push him toward the career-minded real estate agent. His experience with women who valued their careers more than their relationships had made him understandably shy of getting involved with her.

He passed by Jimmy Mack Branson, Ranger Springs’s hardware expert, who was eating lunch with Pastor Carl Schleipinger and banker Ralph Biggerstaff. Nodding at the men, he continued to the rear of the café.

“Afternoon, Gina Mae,” he said, creasing his hat to keep his hands busy. He didn’t want the crafty real estate lady to know he was just a tad nervous about approaching her.

“Chief Parker! How are you?”

“Fine. Do you have a minute?”

“Of course. Have a seat.” She gathered up some papers she’d spread across the table’s gray Formica surface. “I was just working on a new listing. You’re not interested in a larger house, are you?”

“No, I’m real happy where I am.”

“Well, then, what can I do for you?”

“I drove out to the Franklin house last night. I suppose you rented it out.”

“Actually, the Franklins wanted a house-sitter. I thought you knew that.”

So Robin had told the truth to the dispatcher last night. “I know they’re out of the country for another two or three months. I wanted to make sure the person living there was legit.”

“They weren’t looking for rent—just someone to care for the place and the plants while they’re gone. You know how dangerous it is to leave a house vacant.”

“Absolutely. Anyway,” he said, getting the conversation back on track, “I met the new occupant. She’d been startled by some raccoons.” And upset about the wedding that hadn’t taken place to the fiancé she’d stood up at the altar. Not that he had any intention of asking Gina Mae about that particular detail. He just wanted to know more about the town’s newest resident. The one who looked really great, even late at night, and could laugh at herself with refreshing honesty.

“Ah, yes,” Gina Mae said, her sudden interest in the conversation making her push the half-eaten salad aside. “A very nice young woman from Houston. An interior decorator, I believe.”

He could hear the unspoken comment: a nice single young woman. “Miss Cummings,” he added, keeping his comments professional.