TREASURES OF THE HEART ANTHOLOGY
The Sheriff Takes A Wife
By Nancy Pirri (Dame Sapphire of Jewels of the Quill)

 Harmon Junction, Minnesota
June 2000

"Harmon Junction is looking for brides, my foot," Summer Sanders muttered as she thought about the astonishing ad in the newspaper she'd tucked beneath her car seat.

For the hundredth time, she contemplated the unpleasant reason she was driving across the country-to track down her runaway sister. Heaviness settled in her chest as she realized she might be too late to stop her from making a big mistake. After completing a two-month long modeling assignment in New York, Paris and Italy, Summer had arrived home to an empty apartment. On her pillow, she'd discovered a letter from Autumn, along with the newspaper ad.            
Autumn used to daydream, and spoke often of getting married and having babies, but to a complete stranger? Summer couldn't fathom it. But then, she couldn't contemplate marrying and having kids in the first place. She had goals to achieve and no room in her life for a husband and kids.

Though she admitted there was nothing wrong with dreams, as long as a woman didn't take them too seriously.

And wouldn't you know it? The air-traffic controllers decided to strike, with this looming personal disaster on her horizon, hence the reason why she was driving across the country instead of flying.
She exited the highway onto the country road she'd been watching for, then drove a few more miles. She took a left turn onto another road simply named Main Street. There wasn't another vehicle in sight. Trees lined either side of the road and the ground was cloaked in bushes in shades of greens and yellows. Up ahead, a faded green sign with white lettering made her straighten in her seat. Her heart raced, excitement kicking in when she realized she'd reached her destination.

Her hand shook as she dug inside her purse for a cigarette, the one vice in her otherwise untainted life. After she lit it and took a satisfying drag, she glanced up into the rear-view mirror and groaned audibly. A tan-colored police car, rack of lights flashing, came up fast on her tail.

"Damn!" With the palm of her hand, she struck the steering wheel before pulling over to the side of the road and reading the sign, 'Welcome to Harmon Junction, Minnesota.'

Some welcome.

A cop was hot on her butt, probably hoping to make his daily quota of speeding tickets. "Population five hundred-forty?" she said as she read the sign. That many people lived in her condo-complex in Los Angeles.

As she waited for the officer, she took another drag on her cigarette. Unfortunately, this would be her third speeding violation in a year. She grimaced at the thought of her insurance rates escalating. She could blame her bad habits on the pressures of her modeling career but knew that was a poor excuse. Simply put, she'd always been in a hurry.

Glancing in her mirror again, she saw the officer step out of his car. She clenched the steering wheel at the view of the hunk walking up behind her. He appeared to be about her height of five-ten, possibly an inch or two taller. But, due to his well-developed physique, he appeared much larger.

He walked with an ambling, 'I've got all day' sort of gait, a notepad in his hand and a gun settled comfortably on his right hip. His powerful shoulders and biceps rippled beneath a tan colored, short-sleeve shirt as he strode toward her. The shirt did justice to his fabulous pecs, or, maybe it was the other way around; his fabulous pecs did wonders for the shirt.

Once he'd reached her car he turned sideways and swept a cursory look from one end of the silver Porsche convertible to the other. At that moment, she wished his eyes weren't concealed behind sunglasses. Eyes spoke volumes about a person.

He wore a trooper-style hat angled low on his forehead. But his wide-stance, loose-limbed casual demeanor didn't fool her. She had yet to meet the man who didn't covet a Porsche.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" she said, plastering on her most innocent expression.

Lips pressed together, he made a twisting motion with the fingers on his right hand. She looked at him, baffled, until she suddenly understood his gesture and flicked off the radio.

He gave her a noncommittal little smile. "Now that we can hear each other, mind telling me what's the hurry, lady?"

Summer's first thought was that any D.J. would envy his low, melodious voice. Then his words sank in and she grinned at the typical one-liner. The guy had a sense of humor. But her mirth subsided when he removed his sunglasses, tucked them into his breast pocket, then narrowed his dark eyes on her.

She took another long drag on her cigarette and tried formulating a reply that would hopefully convince him not to give her a speeding ticket. Smoke drifted up toward his face. He continued staring at her with those fantastic brown eyes until he coughed and waved his hand in the air to disperse the haze.

"Sorry," she murmured, smashing the cigarette into the ashtray. She gave him one of her famous cover-girl smiles. "That line came from some movie, didn't it?"

He raised his brow. "Excuse me?"

"'What's the hurry, lady?'" She thought a moment, then added, "Or, an even better one might be-"

"Your license, ma'am," he interrupted. "I clocked you moving fifty-five in a forty mile an hour zone."

He took off his hat and swiped sweat from his brow. Summer caught her breath at the sight of his hair. It was blue-black, long and silky and tied back in a ponytail. Somehow, the idea of a cop with shoulder-length hair seemed more than a bit contrary.

The name on his badge, Sheriff Nathaniel Whitefeather, and his bold facial features, led her to believe he must be Native American. As she admired his high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and fine chiseled lips, she decided he was one of the most handsome men she'd ever seen.

Her gaze moved to his unadorned left hand. Could he be one of the bachelors of Harmon Junction searching for a wife? In her opinion, he'd never find one if he issued every woman a speeding ticket upon entering town. He stood in silence, his eyes riveted on her, waiting patiently for her license.

She rummaged inside for her billfold, pulled out her license and handed it to him.

While he looked at it, he said, "What's your reason for visiting Harmon Junction?"

"I'm looking for my sister who came here about six weeks ago. Her name is Autumn Sanders."

His head snapped up and he regarded her steadily. "Autumn is an unusual name. Even more unusual is the fact we do happen to have a woman here who answers to it, but her last name is Michaels."
Summer frowned. "That's not her." She gasped and darted a quick look at him. "Unless she got married!"

 

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