once again, sparking her awareness of him. Why couldn't she just slip out of his touch? She couldn't. He turned out the lights and closed the door behind them.
Inside the Jeep again, she shivered and said, "Brrrr!" But her inner glow warred with the cold winter night.
"Everyone tells me this is really cold for early November." He made a wide U-turn and headed down the road to the highway.
"The temperatures do feel more like January. But every year is weird in its own way." She shrugged.
He chuckled softly.
The sound skittered up her spine. "You know what I mean," she chattered. "Every year the weather has something unusual about it. People complain about so much snow so early, but if we were warm and dry, they'd be worried about the snowshoeing and the snowmobiling season not making money."
Then she regretted her reference to snowmobiles. By the dash light, she saw his hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm sure you'll catch the thief," she said.
His dash radio crackled to life. He picked up. The voice on the radio barked, "Sheriff, you there? Disturbance. Respond to Flanagan's Bar. Code three."
"I copy that." He snapped it off and the siren blared. "Sorry. I guess we'll have to make one more stop before I get you home."
Wendy felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. As they sped down the road, her pleasant evening dissolved. Why did it have to be Flanagan's? Her hand went to her mouth. But when she felt her nail touch her lip, she sat on her hands—hoping against hope that this wouldn't be what she feared. Surely not.
Within minutes, they surged over a rise and saw the garish, green neon sign with a shamrock that emblazoned the night sky with "Flanagan's." Then, with sinking spirits, Wendy foresaw her worst nightmare happening now.
Chapter Three
An unruly gathering filled the road in front of the bar. At its center, two middle-aged men—one with short dark hair and one with long white blond hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail—yelled curses at each other. They circled each other with menace. Their anger must have been hot because they'd come out of the bar into the bitter cold without jackets or hats.
Wendy recognized both men instantly—Dutch and Elroy, Trav's uncle—just as she'd feared. Flanagan's, the most notorious bar in the county, had always been their favorite place to fight. The loud voices, the raucous music from inside the tavern, the rotating red light on top of the police car lent the scene an unearthly quality. She wanted to shrink down in the seat.
Reporting his arrival on the radio, Rodd parked the Jeep and jumped out. He strode forward to the center of the crowd. But before he could do or say anything, Dutch swung at Elroy. Wendy watched in alarm as Rodd stepped between the two.
Dutch pulled his punch. The fight ended.
The onlookers drew back toward the entrance of the bar but waited outside, not wishing to miss any of the evening's "entertainment." Wendy pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Dutch's blond hair, which had earned him his nickname, shone in the dim light. Dutch talked loudly to Rodd. gesticulating toward Elroy, who was backing away with his hands in front of him. It was like a scene from some TV reality cop show.
Dutch glanced at the sheriff's Jeep; then ignoring both Elroy and the sheriff, he walked quickly toward Wendy.
Wendy felt something in her mouth. She spit out one of her pale pink nails and groaned silently.
Rodd trailed behind Dutch, but she watched the sheriff's face. Did he know?
As Dutch came closer, he shouted in a drunken slur, "Hey, Wendy girl! Sheriff, why's Wendy in your car? Hi, Wendy!"
Wendy sat up straight and met the sheriff's questioning gaze head-on. Family was family. "Hi, Uncle Dutch."
The next morning, the opening prayer ended, and Rodd sat down in the very last pew to listen to church announcements. But his mind wasn't
Inside the Jeep again, she shivered and said, "Brrrr!" But her inner glow warred with the cold winter night.
"Everyone tells me this is really cold for early November." He made a wide U-turn and headed down the road to the highway.
"The temperatures do feel more like January. But every year is weird in its own way." She shrugged.
He chuckled softly.
The sound skittered up her spine. "You know what I mean," she chattered. "Every year the weather has something unusual about it. People complain about so much snow so early, but if we were warm and dry, they'd be worried about the snowshoeing and the snowmobiling season not making money."
Then she regretted her reference to snowmobiles. By the dash light, she saw his hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm sure you'll catch the thief," she said.
His dash radio crackled to life. He picked up. The voice on the radio barked, "Sheriff, you there? Disturbance. Respond to Flanagan's Bar. Code three."
"I copy that." He snapped it off and the siren blared. "Sorry. I guess we'll have to make one more stop before I get you home."
Wendy felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. As they sped down the road, her pleasant evening dissolved. Why did it have to be Flanagan's? Her hand went to her mouth. But when she felt her nail touch her lip, she sat on her hands—hoping against hope that this wouldn't be what she feared. Surely not.
Within minutes, they surged over a rise and saw the garish, green neon sign with a shamrock that emblazoned the night sky with "Flanagan's." Then, with sinking spirits, Wendy foresaw her worst nightmare happening now.
Chapter Three
An unruly gathering filled the road in front of the bar. At its center, two middle-aged men—one with short dark hair and one with long white blond hair pulled back into a straggly ponytail—yelled curses at each other. They circled each other with menace. Their anger must have been hot because they'd come out of the bar into the bitter cold without jackets or hats.
Wendy recognized both men instantly—Dutch and Elroy, Trav's uncle—just as she'd feared. Flanagan's, the most notorious bar in the county, had always been their favorite place to fight. The loud voices, the raucous music from inside the tavern, the rotating red light on top of the police car lent the scene an unearthly quality. She wanted to shrink down in the seat.
Reporting his arrival on the radio, Rodd parked the Jeep and jumped out. He strode forward to the center of the crowd. But before he could do or say anything, Dutch swung at Elroy. Wendy watched in alarm as Rodd stepped between the two.
Dutch pulled his punch. The fight ended.
The onlookers drew back toward the entrance of the bar but waited outside, not wishing to miss any of the evening's "entertainment." Wendy pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. Dutch's blond hair, which had earned him his nickname, shone in the dim light. Dutch talked loudly to Rodd. gesticulating toward Elroy, who was backing away with his hands in front of him. It was like a scene from some TV reality cop show.
Dutch glanced at the sheriff's Jeep; then ignoring both Elroy and the sheriff, he walked quickly toward Wendy.
Wendy felt something in her mouth. She spit out one of her pale pink nails and groaned silently.
Rodd trailed behind Dutch, but she watched the sheriff's face. Did he know?
As Dutch came closer, he shouted in a drunken slur, "Hey, Wendy girl! Sheriff, why's Wendy in your car? Hi, Wendy!"
Wendy sat up straight and met the sheriff's questioning gaze head-on. Family was family. "Hi, Uncle Dutch."
The next morning, the opening prayer ended, and Rodd sat down in the very last pew to listen to church announcements. But his mind wasn't
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