Beauty & the Biker (10 page)

“Sheriff Ryan McClure of the Dawes County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like a word, if you don’t mind.”

“About?”

“Open your gate and I’ll tell you face-to-face.”

Joe moved to his bedroom window, parted the curtain. He noted the official police truck and the uniformed man leaning against its hood.

Tall, lean, fit, and official
.

The sheriff glanced up, touched the brim of his cowboy hat in greeting.

“Be right down.” Joe disconnected, shoved his phone in his pocket, and moved downstairs. “What the hell?” he muttered to Killer as he hit the porch.

Raking his damp hair off of his face, he crossed the newly mowed lawn wondering what had prompted this visit. He didn’t know McClure. He didn’t want to know McClure or anyone having anything to do with the local, county, state, or damned federal law. He unlocked the gate, but instead of inviting the man inside, Joe approached the truck. “Sheriff McClure.”

“Mr. Savage.”

They shook hands then parted.

Joe stuffed his fingers in his rear pockets.

McClure lazed against the truck.

They sized each other up and Joe knew in an instant that he was dealing with a sharp man. A fumbling yokel would have been preferable. “This an official visit?”

“Yes and no.” McClure thumbed up the brim of his hat. “If I’d known you were a fellow officer, I would’ve extended a welcome sooner.”

“Former
officer.” He assumed his history would come to light sooner or later. But, damn, he’d been hoping for never.

“Fourteen years with the Chicago Police Department. Assigned to the Bureau of Organized Crime. One of their top undercover detectives. Impressive record. What I could learn of it.”

“Any reason you’re sniffing around my past, Sheriff?”

“None of my business why you resigned—”

“Agreed.”

“But if it has something to do with your last investigation, if you distanced yourself from Chicago to distance yourself from some nasty bastards with a vendetta, that’s potentially my business.”

“Worried I’ll entice a criminal element to Nowhere?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

Joe shifted, considered. He couldn’t blame a shepherd for protecting his flock. “I don’t foresee an issue.”

“But if you suspect trouble—”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“I appreciate that.”

Joe nodded, but instead of taking his leave, McClure stood his ground.

“Anything else?”

“Heard you struck a deal with Bella Mooney.”

Hell
.

“She’s a sweet girl. One of my sister’s closest friends. I’m fond of Bella and I’m not alone.”

Joe folded his arms, cocked his head.

“Screw with her and I’ll kick your ass.”

The forthright threat earned Joe’s instant respect.

McClure pushed off the hood and set to leave. “That sex trafficking investigation,” he said, proving he knew far more than Joe was comfortable with. “Must have been hell.”

He had no idea.

Chapter Eight

Bella had every intention of cooking her dad’s dinner before driving over to Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland. But by the time Angel dropped her at home, the plan changed. It wasn’t a full-fledged, detailed plan, but it was a start.

Angel drove off and Bella stood on the front lawn staring at the house she’d grown up in. A house filled with memories. A house filled with her mom. No. The memory of her mom.

Every night for the last few months, every time Bella walked into that house, she expected to see her effervescent, homemaking hero. A petite blond with a bob haircut and a weakness for vanilla-scented bath products and leather or fleece clogs—depending on the season. “
Easy to kick off
,” she’d say since half the time she preferred bare feet. Archie used to comment on how shoes belonged in a closet and not under tables or beside the sofa. Now every once in a while Bella would find his shoes abandoned next to his recliner, an unconscious homage to Laura.

Bella acknowledged the missing chunk of her heart as she moved toward the porch. She wouldn’t find her mom in the kitchen cooking beef stew or at her sewing machine stitching a new quilt. She wouldn’t bump into her in the hall or trip over her clogs.

Laura Mooney had moved on.

Bella imagined her mom looking down from heaven, tapping her bare foot in a celestial cloud, waiting for her husband and daughter to move on as well. As if she couldn’t enjoy her new adventure until they’d embarked on one of their own.

And that
,
combined with Carson’s irritating persistence, was the final nudge that pushed Bella into revising her plan for the immediate future.

Shoulders bolstered, she shoved through the screen door. “Dad?”

“In here.” He backed out of the downstairs bathroom, drying his hands on a grease-stained towel. He must have been in the garage, working on the riding mower or some other project. She loved that he’d been tinkering. He had a gift with engines although he hadn’t dabbled in months. Come to think of it, last night he’d spent a good hour with his head buried in a landscaping book—another interest that had died along with Laura. Had the gambling fiasco nudged him toward less reckless pastimes?

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Her heart swelled as she took in his rumpled appearance, his kind eyes, and concerned expression. Archie Mooney, in spite of his recent missteps, was the best of souls.
Tough love
. Swallowing hard, Bella smiled. “Just rushed,” she said while hooking her messenger bag over the back of a chair. “I’m committing a few neighborly hours to Savage tonight. Remember? Renovations?”

“I remember. About that—”

“Sun sets around eight-thirty so I want to make the most of the daylight.”

“You put in eight hours at the library.”

“And boy, could I use some fresh air. I’m changing my clothes and heading straight over. You’ll have to fend for yourself for dinner,” she said as she blew up the stairs. “The fridge and pantry are stocked,” she yelled over her shoulder.

“Or,” she said to herself as she breezed into her bedroom. “You can order in or go out.” Which meant she should leave him the truck. In case he wanted to grab dinner at Café Caboose or Desi’s. If he decided to have a beer with friends after…if he drank too much, if he gambled too much—that was on him. Trusting her dad to make his own choices, the right choices, was crucial. Angel was right. Archie Mooney was capable of pulling himself up by the bootstraps. He just needed more incentive.

Adrenaline rushing, Bella fired up her laptop while changing out of her capris and polo and into a purple tee and her faded baggy overalls. She laced up her sneakers then logged into her email. She clicked on the note from [email protected].

Joe Savage… Nowhere, Nebraska… Custom Artist… Sense of humor, generous heart, optimist, hard worker, kid friendly…Cannot verify magical kisser

Bella felt as blindsided now as she had when she’d first read the note on her phone. It couldn’t be the same Joe Savage. Dark and broody wasn’t an artist. Was he? He didn’t possess her ideal qualities. Did he?

Impossible Dream offers the most likely prospects based on data, research, and ID-tuition.
(whatever that was)
It’s up to the applicant to follow through. We provide the magic. You provide the derring-do. True passion and faith required. Patience recommended.

She had passion and faith, but derring-do?

She typed the unfamiliar word into
Webster’s Dictionary
online.

Derring-do…
brave acts: behavior that requires courage.

Bella grinned, tucking derring-do into her personal word file for future story use.

She signed off the Internet, still unconvinced that ID’s Joe Savage was her Joe Savage. Then again, it was the bizarre stuff of fairy tales.

I’m desperate for something good to happen. Something unexpected and magical
.

What if this was it?

She flew down the stairs. “I’ll take my bike,” she said as she breezed into the living room. “When I’m done at Savage’s, I’m pedaling over to Angel’s. I’m staying overnight and plan on spending most of tomorrow at the Arts and Fiddler Festival with her and the girls. Will I see you there?” Bella asked, expecting a “no” because of the quilt show. Her mom had been a longtime member of the local quilting club and this was one of their biggest and brightest showcases. Only this year, Laura wouldn’t be there.

“I doubt it,” he said.

Which was as good as no. Forcing herself not to press or coddle, Bella glanced at her watch. “Gotta fly.”

He snagged her elbow. “If this is about that poker game. About my debt—”

“It’s about Rootin’ Tootin’ Funland, Dad.” The words came easily because they weren’t a lie. A half-truth, yes, but not a lie. “I’m hoping to convince Mr. Savage to revitalize the park. Imagine what it would mean for the local kids. Imagine what it would mean for Nowhere.”

“Savage isn’t anything like Mike, Peaches.”

“I don’t need him to be like Mike. I just need him to have a heart.”

Archie rubbed the back of his neck, frowned. “That boy’s got demons, Bella.”

She’d sensed the same thing. “That doesn’t make him a bad man.”

“Can’t blame me for worrying.”

“I love you for worrying, but don’t.”

“Near as I can tell,” he said, while she looped her bag crisscross over her chest, “you worry about me every second of the day.”

Her actions slowed along with her pulse. “Maybe we should both stop worrying,” she said while chancing his narrowed gaze. “And start embracing new adventures.”

He poked his tongue in his cheek, nodded. “Maybe so.”

It was as close to a heart-to-heart as they were going to have about the permanent absence of Laura Mooney. At least at this stage of their acceptance. Choked up, Bella smacked a kiss to her dad’s cheek, nabbed her bag, and zipped out the door.

She envisioned her mom smiling which only put more pep in her stride. Energized, Bella snagged her bike from the garage and hit the pavement, pedaling hard and fast down Eagle Butte Road. Not a car in sight. Just a long stretch of asphalt and miles of rural beauty. She tipped her face to the sun, relishing the warmth and welcoming the exercise. Nothing like racing into the wind to alleviate stress and heighten the senses. Time blurred as she pedaled and mused on possible scenarios.

Savage as a tortured artist. A recluse who toiled over impressionist oil paintings.

Savage as a frustrated artist. A man who’d suffered paralyzing rejection because his sketches were too fantastical.

Perhaps he’d lost or abandoned his creative muse. What if Bella could provide the inspiration that reignited his artistic passion?

What if he could infuse Bella’s stories with bewitching zing via unique and powerful illustrations?

Words from her original fairy tales floated through her brain.
Castle
.
Unicorn
.
Wizard
. Images materialized.
Colorful
.
Whimsical
.

She was all smiles and high hopes as she veered off the main road onto the lane that led to the front gate of her potential dream partner’s home.

But then the turn went wrong.

The bike slid one way and Bella flew the other—airborne for the blink of an eye then hitting and skidding over gravel.

She lay there, stunned and breathless, her palms stinging, knees throbbing.

Get up. Buck up
.

“Jesus, Bella.”

Tender voice. Gentle pressure. Someone—Savage—rolled her into his arms. The world tilted a second time as she blinked up into his dark eyes. Eyes swimming with concern. In that moment she tapped into the essence of Joe Savage. The man beneath the tough veneer. A good man. A caring man. She sensed it with every fiber of her aching body.

“Where do you hurt?”

“Everywhere.” She’d yet to catch her breath. First the heart-stopping crash. Now the heart-pounding embrace. Okay. Not technically an embrace, not the affectionate kind. But he was holding her and it felt…wonderful.

Bliss and pain warred.

Mortification stirred.

“I can’t remember the last time I fell off my bike.”

“You didn’t fall. You wiped out.”

Her cheeks burned. “You saw?”

“Where’s your helmet?” he asked while reaching into his pocket.

“Who wears a helmet for a leisurely country ride?”

“Anyone who wants to prevent serious head injury as a result of an accident.” Frowning, he pressed a folded bandana to her brow. “Your forehead’s bleeding.”

“So are my hands.” Bella studied her scraped and purpling palms and suddenly the pain overrode the wonder of being cradled on Savage’s lap. Had she hindered her ability to type? As if being creatively blocked wasn’t bad enough. Tears welled as the throbbing intensified.

Swearing under his breath, he gently nabbed her fingers. “Hold the compress,” he said while sweeping her up and away.