A Sheriff in Tennessee by Lori Handeland Read Free Book Online

sidewalk and the paper in the paper box nixed that theory.
    The main building was huge—three stories, with a lived-in attic from the appearance of the highest window, which was also curtained. A wraparound porch sported rocking chairs at every corner—another indication the farmhouse had not been abandoned.
    Belle swallowed against a sudden thickness in her throat. Her mama would love this house. Shoot, Belle was already half in love with it, and she had no need of such space when there was only her, and probably always would be.
    She was so interested in the house that she didn’t see the man on the other side of the road until he spoke.
    â€œLike my place?”
    Belle tripped over the toe of her running shoe and tumbled headfirst into the ditch. Lucky for her it was a grassy ditch. The only things skinned were her pride and her elbow.
    She lay there for what seemed a long time, staring at the clouds and muttering every curse word her brothers had ever taught her, until Klein’s head blotted out the sun. His eyes were the same shade of blue as the sky and as calm as the sea at midnight.
    The observation annoyed her enough that she snapped, “What did you do—stroll over here? I might have killed myself.”
    â€œI could hear you cursing. No one with breath left to curse is seriously hurt.”
    Klein put one foot on the incline, leaned over and held out his hand. He was so tall he could reach her with that minute movement. For some reason, the thought calmed Belle more than her run had.
    She placed her palm in his. He hauled her to her feet, straight on out of the ditch, then released herso abruptly she stumbled again. He caught her, steadied her—fascinated her.
    Even though he must have walked out from town—a distance of several miles—he still appeared crisp and clean in his uniform. His ebony hair sparked blue and silver in the sun and his bronzed skin shone. He should be sweating, as she was. He should smell, as she probably did.
    Belle took a deep breath. He did smell—terrific—a combination of sun and wind and grass. Or maybe that was just the sun and wind and grass—although those things had never smelled quite so good before. She swayed.
    â€œYou twist something?” he barked. “Knee, ankle, arm?”
    She shook her head. “Why?”
    â€œTripping, stumbling, falling—you don’t seem the type.”
    Belle narrowed her eyes. “What type do I seem?”
    â€œThe smooth type. I doubt you got where you are today by tripping down the runway or stumbling through your screen test.”
    True enough. She lifted one shoulder, then lowered it again. Her T-shirt stuck to her chest. Lovely. “I didn’t do a screen test.”
    â€œNo? Thought that was standard.”
    â€œThey came after me for this show. It was mine before anyone else was even cast. The director and I have a rapport. The producers knew what they wanted.”
    â€œ Baywatch comes to Mayberry,” he grumbled.
    The sweat trickling down Belle’s spine turned cold. “Is that what they told you?”
    â€œIsn’t that what it is?”
    Good Lord, she hoped not. But it wouldn’t be the first time people in the business had lied to get her to do what they wanted.
    Belle patted her chest, trying to soak up some of the sweat and get rid of the annoying trickles. “I was told Mayberry RFD meets Picket Fences. We tap the good memories for the senior set and the kids who watch a lot of Nick at Night with the Mayberry angle, and we gain the mid-age group with the Picket Fences aspect. That show was brilliant—funny and dramatic. Didn’t you watch it?”
    Klein stared across the road at the big, white house and not at her. “I don’t watch much television.”
    â€œNo VSC, no SI, no TV. What do you do for fun, Klein?”
    â€œI don’t do fun.”
    â€œI’ll just bet you don’t.”
    He snorted, and