The Reluctant Hero by Lorraine Heath Read Free Book Online

shirt with a black jacket. Over his arm dangled a wicker basket. “I have no plans to eat a cold breakfast.”
    Breakfast?
    She could smell enticing aromas wafting out of the basket as the man walked farther into the room.
    â€œI didn’t know we’d have such lovely company for our morning ritual,” he said, setting the basket on the table.
    â€œMorning ritual?” she asked, coming to her feet.
    He removed his hat. His blond hair was shaggy, his light blue eyes twinkling. She thought he was close to the age of the sheriff, whatever age that might be.
    â€œWhy, yes, ma’am. The owner of the boardinghouse where I live cooks a hearty breakfast for the sheriff and me each morning. Since my cantankerous friend isn’t one to make introductions, allow me. I’m John Martin, and I’m assuming that you’re the writer everyone is whispering about this morning.”
    She didn’t know whether to be glad that food had arrived or to throw something at Matthew Knight for feeding her horrid beans when he’d known food was coming. Warring against her instincts, she fought back her anger and decided to be pleasant. This man could no doubt provide her with information.
    â€œI find it difficult to believe the sheriff has a friend,” she said sweetly.
    â€œNot cooperating, is he?” He glanced at her cup on the desk. “Don’t tell me he gave you his awful coffee to drink.”
    â€œNothing wrong with my coffee,” Knight said.
    John Martin shuddered. “As long as you were born without the ability to taste. Matt, why don’t you start setting the food out, while I fix us something proper to drink?”
    He walked over to the stove, and Andrea leaned over the desk until her nose was almost touching the sheriff’s. While he’d offered beans, he’d known something better was coming.
    â€œDon’t think I haven’t figured out your game. You promised me today, and I’m not about to walk out without a fight.”
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    â€œ ‘Sadly, his aim failed to equal his courage.’ One of your more memorable lines,” John told Andrea. “Although I was saddened that the poor man was done in by the outlaws.”
    Matt sat behind his desk, watching with disgust as John poured on the charm and Andrea—Andi—lap-ped it up.
    â€œI can’t believe that you’d remember the exact words,” she said. “I’m not sure the sheriff has even read one of my stories.”
    â€œI’m not even sure he can read,” John said with a chuckle.
    â€œI can read,” Matt muttered.
    She looked at him now, a pinch of strawberry jam nestled at the corner of her mouth. His gut clenched with the thought of what it might be like to taste the jam and her mouth at the same time, just dip his tongue into that corner and . . .
    â€œHave you ever read any of my novels?” she asked.
    He wanted to lie, wanted her sparkling gaze directed at him instead of John, but his friend was a more likely hero. After all, he saved lives; he didn’t take them. “Not that I can recall.”
    He dunked the biscuit into the bowl of gravy that Mrs. Winters had sent over with John. She prepared them a breakfast every morning, and John always brought it over. Matt felt a bit spiteful for having hoped that sitting here doing nothing, offering his poor excuse for a breakfast, would have sent Andrea on her way.
    And when had he started to think of her as Andrea? Maybe as she’d watched him shave, the intimacy of it making him long for a woman who was there every morning as he prepared for the day. But a woman in his life would no doubt mean him being peppered with more questions than a writer might ask him.
    Not that Andrea had asked him a lot of questions, but she’d sure taken a lot of danged notes.
    â€œ. . . sheriff going on three years now,” John said.
    Matt snapped to attention, realizing he’d been focused