A Time to Keep (2 page)

“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.”

Gwen frowned. “You think I stole the car?”

Not bothering to answer her question, Shiloh deposited her on the passenger seat of the Suburban. “Stay here until I come back.”

Gwen registered the edge of authority in his slow drawling speech pattern. He'd told her to stay as if she were a dog. Where was she going in the backwoods, and in the dark?

Shiloh returned to her car. Not only did she talk funny, but she also had a quick tongue. What he didn't want to think about was how nice she smelled and how good she felt in his arms.

Slipping behind the wheel, he adjusted the lever under the front seat to accommodate his longer legs. Not bothering to close the driver-side door, he shifted into Reverse, turned the wheel slightly, then shifted into Drive, maneuvering out of the mud and onto the shoulder. He adjusted the air-conditioning, noting the gas gauge. It registered a half tank. At least she knew enough not to drive around on E, or even close to it.

He picked up her handbag off the passenger seat, recognizing the designer logo with a single glance. His ex-wife's closet overflowed with designer bags, shoes, sunglasses and
clothes. If the item didn't have someone's name stitched or stamped on it, then she refused to buy it.

A knowing smile softened his mouth. Miss Beantown drove a six-figure car, wore very nice shoes and carried a very, very nice handbag. There was no doubt the lady from Massachusetts was top shelf. And he wondered, what was she doing driving around back roads at night in Cajun country?

* * *

Gwen could not stop the wave of heat washing over her face and upper body. All it took was a little maneuvering to get her car out of a ditch. How, she thought, was she able to drive through mounds of snow, not spin out on icy streets or highways, yet couldn't extricate herself from a mud bank?

She stared at the mud-covered boots rather than at the face of the man striding toward her, breathing in quick shallow breaths. Never had she been so embarrassed. She thought about slipping out of the SUV and making a run for her car, but quickly changed her mind. There were enough televised police chases, and she had no intention of adding to the footage.

The driver's side door opened and she stared, wide-eyed, at the man climbing into the vehicle beside her. Not only was he tall, but also big. Not fat big, but muscled big. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his uniform, and she forced herself not to glance below his chest.

Tilting her chin, lowering her lashes, and affecting a smile that usually left men with their mouths gaping, Gwen sought to replace the scowl on Sheriff Harper's face with one that was more friendly. After all, he'd taken an oath to protect and serve, not berate and abuse.

Shiloh gave the woman sitting beside him a sidelong glance. “You can stop flirting with me because I'm not going to give you a citation.” He dropped her handbag in her lap.

An audible gasp escaped Gwen's parted lips. Scorching
heat swept over her from head to toe. “I'm not flirting with you. Why would I? I've done nothing wrong.”

“No, you haven't—not yet anyway.” Shiloh gave her a direct stare. “May I have your license and registration?”

Gwen glanced at his long, well-groomed hands when he opened a leather binder, then removed a pen from a breast pocket. Searching through her handbag, she took out a small leather case and removed the documents he'd requested.

Shiloh took a quick glance at her license. “What's your name?”

“Gwendolyn Taylor.”

“Address.”

“Which one?”

Shiloh went completely still, his fingers tightening on the pen. “You have more than one?”

She smiled. “Yes. You have the one on my license and registration, but…”

“But what, Miss Taylor?” he asked when she didn't finish her statement.

“I have a new address.”

He stared directly at her, liking what he saw. Gwendolyn Taylor wasn't as pretty as she was attractive—sensually attractive. Her round face made her look much younger than her actual age. Her large dark eyes sparkled like polished onyx in a flawless sable-brown face; her nose was short and cute, her mouth full and lush; and her hair was a profusion of dark flyaway curls that fell over her forehead and along the nape of her slender neck. He didn't want to think of her rounded body. It was a bouquet of lushness. He remembered the tagline about real women having curves. Gwendolyn Taylor had enough curves for two women.

“Where do you live now?”

“Here in St. Martin Parish. I'm moving into
Bon Temps.
Gwendolyn Pickering was my great-aunt.”

Shiloh stared at Gwen. There had been a lot of talk after the owner of the house passed away earlier in the year. Developers swooped down on
Bon Temps
like scavengers on rotting carrion. The men had come, checkbooks in hand, to purchase the house and the six acres on which it sat, but Gwendolyn Pickering's attorney refused to meet with them. He'd turned them away because his client had willed her property to a relative—a Massachusetts relative.

“That should please a lot of folks around here,” Shiloh said, after he'd recovered from his shock.

“Why's that?”

“Because a few fat cats came around asking about buying the property. You're not thinking of selling, are you?”

“Of course not.”

Shiloh nodded and smiled at her. The expression transformed his handsome face and gave him a boyish look. “Good.” Flipping the top to a computer, he entered the information from Gwendolyn Taylor's license.

She leaned to her left to view the screen. “I have no outstanding warrants or citations.”

Shiloh inhaled the floral scent of the soft curls brushing his cheek. “Just procedure, Miss Taylor.” He stared at the photograph on the screen. Gwendolyn's hair was much shorter, the style too severe for her face. She would turn thirty-five in November, and he'd just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday the month before.

Gwen watched as he entered the information on her car's registration. The commonwealth of Massachusetts DMV had listed Gwendolyn P. Taylor as the owner of the car.

“What does the P stand for?”

“Paulette.”

“Pretty,” Shiloh said without any emotion in his voice.

“Can I go now?” she asked after he'd given her back her documents.

He noted the time on his watch and entered it into the computer. It was seven-forty-five. In fifteen minutes he would be officially off duty. “Yes, you can, Miss Taylor. I'll come around and help you down.” Shiloh stepped out of the Suburban at the same time a police cruiser pulled up, lights flashing.

Frank Lincoln got out, right hand resting on his firearm. “You all right, boss?”

Shiloh stared at the overzealous young deputy. Frank's father was a special agent with the FBI, and his grandfather a retired Louisiana state trooper. He'd hired the new recruit because he was ambitious, honest and dedicated to his profession.

“I'm good, Frank.”

There was just enough sunlight left to discern the flush creeping up his face, the bright color matching his orange hair. “I saw your flasher, then I noticed the perp sitting in the front seat, so I thought you were in trouble.”

Now Shiloh knew why Frank had stopped. “Miss Taylor is not a perp. I stopped…”

His explanation died on his lips. He didn't have to explain to a subordinate what he was doing and why Gwendolyn Taylor was in the front seat instead of in the rear behind a heavy mesh partition where perpetrators were handcuffed when they were taken to the station house for questioning or locked up before they were arraigned at the courthouse.

“It's almost time for your shift, Lincoln.” Whenever he addressed his deputies by their last name it was usually followed by a reprimand.

Frank saluted Shiloh. “Good night, sir.”

He returned the salute. “Good night, Frank. Don't forget to turn off your lights.”

“Yes, sir.”

Waiting until the cruiser disappeared from view, Shiloh came around the SUV and scooped Gwen off the seat, then set her gently on her feet. Cupping her elbow, he led her back to her car. He released her arm and opened the door to the BMW.

“If you follow me, I'll show you how to get to
Bon Temps.
”