Lana's Lawman (11 page)

“Maybe Dad should talk to him, then.”

“That would be fine. But the reason I'm a little angry with your father is that I think he should trust me not to let anyone hurt you. I made one mistake, one error in judgment, and suddenly he thinks I'm Monster Mom from the Black Lagoon.” She said this last part in a Bela Lugosi voice, which made Rob laugh.
Good. She'd told the truth, she hadn't undermined herself in the process, and she'd done it in a way that didn't upset Rob.

“Maybe you should dress as a monster for Halloween. Oh, when are you gonna make my costume? I want to be Mr. Potato Head, remember? With the burlap sack and the cardboard glasses and ears and stuff?”

Yes, unfortunately, she remembered. When would she have time to manage a homemade costume? But she'd always made Rob's costume, every year. Somehow she'd have to find the time.

As soon as Lana and Rob arrived home, she pulled into the garage, then immediately stepped outside to inspect Sloan's roof job. It looked fantastic, straight and true. She picked up a rake and poked at the repairs with it. Sturdy as the Rock of Gibraltar. All the debris and lumber scraps had been picked up and hauled away. Bart would have nothing to complain about.

Still, Lana found herself wishing that Sloan hadn't finished the job so quickly.

“Hey, Mom, there's a note on the door,” Rob informed her. “It's from Officer Bennett.”

Lana's heart fluttered as she quickened her step. Sure enough, a piece of paper was tacked to the door: “Your lawn needs mowing,” the note said. “I'll do it for a sandwich and lemonade.”

He shouldn't have done it, Sloan thought as he walked a beat on Fifth Street, Destiny's main drag. He
shouldn't have offered to mow Lana's grass. First off, if he wanted to see her, he should call her up and ask for just that instead of manufacturing excuses that would throw them together. But the idea of calling her up and asking her for a “date” made him uneasy. That seemed so … so serious. It seemed so much safer to see her under the guise of friendship, assistance.

He had a feeling she would shy away at the idea of a real date too. She'd been pulled through the wringer by that selfish, idiotic ex-husband of hers. It would take a lot of coaxing to convince her ever to trust another man.

“Afternoon, Mr. Ruskin,” he said to the video store owner who'd come out to sweep the leaves off his sidewalk.

The man looked up, startled, then smiled. “Oh, hello, Officer, um …”

“Bennett,” Sloan said. The people on his new beat were still getting to know him. Unlike in Dallas, where beat officers were insulated by their cars, in Destiny he could get out and walk around.

“Officer Bennett, sure. It's nice to see a policeman taking such an interest in the neighborhood.”

Sloan nodded and continued on. As he scanned the street, automatically searching for suspicious characters or anything out of place, his thoughts returned to Lana.

He figured he could be friends with her first, get her in the habit of seeing him around. And then, if it was meant to be, the relationship would evolve naturally into something a bit more romantic. And carnal.

He censored that thought immediately. He wouldn't let his hormones lead him around by the nose this time. He planned to go about this methodically, sensibly, with his eyes wide open and aware of every step. Relationships weren't exactly his strongest suit. In fact, except for his ill-fated teenage affairs with Lana and Nicole Johnson, the only other halfway serious thing he'd had going was with Belinda Rogers, a fellow police academy grad who'd seemed to need him for a while. That relationship had disintegrated in less than a year, amid accusations of “emotional distance,” whatever she meant by that.

He was almost afraid to hope that things could be different. Maybe he wasn't meant to be any woman's long-term man. He didn't have any idea what a good partner was supposed to do, and it was probably too late to learn.

Well, no sense agonizing about all that now. After all, all he wanted where Lana was concerned was to perform a few chores in exchange for dinner. Period.

But that brought him to his second problem. Lana had made it pretty clear she didn't want or need his help. His
interference
, she'd called it. So the odds were very good that she wouldn't jump at the chance to have him mow her grass. It was an idiotic plan.

At the end of his uneventful shift he checked back in at the station, picked up his motorcycle, and rode home, expecting to enter the same old empty house and stare at the phone for another few hours, as he'd done the night before, waiting for Lana to respond to the note he'd left on her door.

But there was a surprise on his front porch—a cardboard box. Nestled inside was a glass terrarium filled with a variety of miniature plants and colorful rocks, arranged to look like a Lilliputian desert scene. Intrigued, he carried it and the box inside. It was only after making a careful inspection of the packaging that he found the card inside, from Full Bloom, the floral shop where Lana worked. “To thank you for the roof,” it read. “But I already mowed the grass.”

Ouch. Strikeout. That left him with two alternatives, neither of them pleasant. He could give up, resign himself to the fact that he and Lana were a page from the past, and leave it that way. Or he could swallow his apprehensions and take a more direct approach.

It was four o'clock on a Friday. Rob was off to a sleepover birthday party, and Lana had an exciting evening planned—sewing up a Mr. Potato Head costume.

“There you are, Mr. Sommers,” she said as she handed a dozen red roses wrapped in green tissue to a dashing young executive who often stopped in to buy flowers on his way home from work. “Special occasion?” She ran his credit card through the machine.

“No, nothing special. I just like to surprise my wife now and then. Keeps things interesting, y'know?” He winked, scrawled his signature on the credit slip, grabbed his receipt, and made a hasty exit. A man in a hurry to get home and see his wife.

Lana gazed after him, her chin propped on her
hand; she liked that idea. Certainly Bart had never surprised her with flowers, not after they were married. And he'd never been in a hurry to get home to her. She'd been lucky if he made it home for a late dinner. So often he had to “meet with a client” after hours.

How nice it must be for Mrs. Sommers to have such an adoring husband. Adoring, not controlling. It had taken Lana a long time to figure out the difference. She'd always gotten plenty of attention from Bart when he was home. But it was the wrong kind.

“Better alone than to have to put up with that stuff,” she murmured as she filed the charge slip away in the cash register. Still, the quiet Friday night looming ahead of her made her wonder if she'd done the right thing by rebuffing Sloan's offer. She could have gotten her lawn mowed,
and
she'd have had someone to prepare a meal for, someone to talk with while she ate.

But, no, stubborn woman that she was, she'd gotten up at the crack of dawn that morning so she could mow her grass. She'd let him shame her into doing it. She'd pulled out the old push mower, grumbling all the while. And nearly dropped from exhaustion after mowing the whole lot.

At the time she'd thought, Ha-ha, Sloan Bennett, I'll teach you to think I'm some damsel in distress who can't perform the simplest of chores. But now her body ached from head to toe. Worse, she'd thrown away the only opportunity she might have to see him again. She knew she was being prideful. But instinctively she also
knew that if she wanted to rekindle any sparks with a high school flame, she'd better be darned careful. The relationship was absolutely
not
going to be based on her need—whether physical, emotional, or financial—and his willingness to be of service.

Listen to her. Relationship? Who was to say he had anything like that in mind?

It was almost closing time, and not a customer was in sight, thank goodness. She sealed up her latest creation, a terrarium very much like the one she'd sent Sloan, and set it on the shelf in her workroom. She worked on them during slow times at the shop, creating miniature desert or mountain or English garden scenes with tiny plants nurtured in the back room under a grow light. She'd gotten the idea last semester from a horticulture class, and her boss, Sue Coldwell, let her set a few out around the floral shop to sell on commission.

They'd proved pretty popular, and they generated a little extra pocket money. She was even toying with the idea of expanding the business in the future. “Lana's Landscapes” she would call it. Had a nice ring.

As soon as the clock hit five, she strode to the front door and flipped the Open sign to Closed, then threw the lock, relieved that no last-minute customers had slipped in. She turned off all the lights, turned on the security system, and let herself out the back door into the alley, where her car was parked.

It was still daylight outside, but sometimes she felt nervous going out there by herself in the evening. The alley was secluded, and a woman alone would make an
easy mark for a mugger or worse. She thought about the murder of Callie's father-in-law and shivered, hoping the crime wasn't a portent of things to come. She liked to think of Destiny as friendly and safe.

As she inserted her key into the door lock of her Mercedes, she heard the rumble of a motorcycle coming down the alley. She fumbled the keys, dropped them. By the time she'd picked them up again, the rumble was right behind her. Did she dare turn? Or was it smarter to dive for her car?

The engine cut out. She whirled around. And darned if it wasn't Sloan Bennett, riding a huge Kawasaki. In his worn jeans and leather jacket, he reminded her sharply of his high school persona.

“Oh! You shouldn't sneak up on a girl like that. I thought you were a mugger.”

Sloan smiled wickedly, reminding her that he carried his own brand of danger. “It's kinda hard to sneak on this big ol' bike. I tried the front door, but you were flipping the sign to Closed right as I rode up. I thought I might catch you out back.”

“Well, you did.”

“I wanted to thank you for the terrarium.” He inched the bike closer, so close that the smell of his leather jacket teased her nose. “Did you make it yourself?”

She nodded. “It's a hobby. I'm glad you like it.”

“I thought I recognized your handiwork. Guess I'm not surprised to find you working in a flower shop. You always liked flowers. We spent a whole Sunday afternoon picking wildflowers one time, remember?”

She must have blushed three shades of red. She remembered picking armloads of Indian paintbrushes, black-eyed Susans, buttercups, and bluebonnets. She also remembered making a bed out of those flowers, and the exquisite sensation of making love surrounded by the sweet scents of nature.

She nodded again. Sometimes it was so hard to find her voice when Sloan looked at her like that. “Is there something I can … do for you?”

“I just wanted to see you. You busy tonight? We could throw some steaks on the grill—”

“Yes, I have a date,” she blurted out. With Mr. Potato Head. And if she was lucky and finished the costume in a reasonable length of time, she had a date with a long, hot bath and her botany textbook.

She wasn't sure why she'd fibbed. Maybe because that's the way her mother had trained her.
Don't ever let a boy get away with asking you out for that same night. Even if you're going to stay home and wash your hair, don't give in.

“I see.” His stare was a challenge. Didn't he believe her?

“Maybe another time?” she added weakly, though she knew the question defeated the whole purpose of lying in the first place. If she was going to agree to see him at all, why not tonight?

“Yeah, sure,” he said, but she had this sinking feeling she'd blown it, failed some kind of test. He started the motorcycle and roared off without further comment.

 SIX

As soon as she got home, Lana rinsed the day's grit from her body with a lightning-fast shower, then threw on a pair of old stirrup pants, a sweater she could get lost in, and thick wool socks—comfort clothes.

Next she surveyed the house and decided some upkeep was long overdue. She made a whirlwind trip through the living room, picking up Rob's action figures by the armload and dumping them in his room, scooping up old newspapers and grape soda cans and pitching them into the recycling bin.

Nothing like keeping busy to keep her mind off second thoughts.

She'd just started on the mountain of dishes she'd been neglecting, mentally inventorying her freezer for likely dinner possibilities, when the bell rang. She wiped her hands on a dishcloth and went to the door, wondering crossly who was dropping by unannounced, and right at the dinner hour. In her present mood she
wouldn't hesitate to take a chunk out of the offender's hide.

She flung the door open—and there stood Sloan on her front porch with two plastic bags full of groceries.