Chapter Three

      “Crown me.”

      Tate groaned and gave up one of his checkers, clunking the piece down with feigned annoyance. “You’re cheating again, old-timer,” he said with affection to the man sitting across from him.

      Every Tuesday at noon, rain or shine, Tate attended a Chamber of Commerce meeting in the conference room of Blackwood Community Center, then moseyed over to the Senior Room for a game of checkers or dominoes. Today former sheriff Bert Atkins, his friend and mentor, was beating the pants off him.

      “Ha! Don’t need to cheat when you play this bad.” The older man chortled happily and popped another peppermint in his mouth—his crutch to avoid smoking. “You must be working on a case the way your mind is off somewhere. Anything I can help you with?”

      Bert Atkins had served Seminole County as sheriff until his second heart attack had forced him to retire, but his mind was as sharp as ever. With uncanny accuracy, he always knew when Tate was struggling with a problem.

      Tate was, in fact, working on a suspected chop-shop operation, though that wasn’t where his mind had been. He hadn’t quite pinned down the source yet, but if he was right, the kingpin was a well-respected citizen. Bringing him down would be neither easy nor popular. And this was an election year.

      After frowning at the board for a moment he moved his black king, jumping two of Bert’s men. “Guess my mind isn’t as scattered as you thought.”

      But to be honest, his mind was scattered. Julee Reynolds was driving him crazy. Since he’d found her slumped outside his door two days ago, looking like her dog had died, Tate had thought of little else. Having her name and the bone-marrow drive on the lips of every Blackwood citizen didn’t help much and he was feeling like the county jerk instead of the county sheriff because he didn’t want any part of either.

      Bert slapped the table, sending the checkers into a quiver. “Gol’ dern it, boy. I’m gonna have to study on this next move.” He shoved a plastic bag in Tate’s direction. “Here. Have a peppermint while I think.”

      Obliging, Tate removed the crinkling cellophane and welcomed the candy’s cool sweetness. While Bert studied, his snow-white head bent over the board, Tate looked around at the group gathered in the Senior Room. A half dozen men played various games at other tables. He’d worked hard to gain the respect of this town, and in return the citizens of Blackwood had been good to him. He was happy, content. Or at least he had been until Julianna Reynolds blazed into town and reminded him of the hole inside his chest.

      At the far end of the long room a group of ladies chatted and crocheted around a sofa grouping. One of them looked up, caught his eye and waved. He knew by the way she elbowed her companion that the unattached sheriff of Seminole County had just become the topic of conversation.

      With an inward groan, he waited. Who would it be this time? The new librarian? Or maybe Mary’s recently divorced granddaughter? The ladies of Blackwood found his lack of a love life intensely interesting and seemed determined to remedy the problem by throwing unattached females in his path.

      Sure enough, before Bert had a chance to claim any more of Tate’s checkers, Mildred Perkins laid aside a long rectangle of pink fluff and headed in his direction. The busiest body in town, Mildred considered finding him a wife her sworn duty. They didn’t understand what he couldn’t tell them—he’d failed at love twice, and that was enough. He was good at a lot of things, but love wasn’t one of them.

      “Sheriff,” Mildred began, fingering the eyeglasses that hung from a beaded chain around her neck.

      “Mrs. Perkins,” he acknowledged politely. “How are you and the Crochet Club today?”

      “Oh, we’ve nearly finished that blanket for Cindy’s new grandbaby. Which is what I wanted to see you about.” She twisted the chain into a knot. “Not the baby exactly, but Cindy. Did you see the newspaper today? Cindy was right on the front page. Right there with Julianna Reynolds.”

      She said Julee’s name with such relish Tate flinched.

      He’d nearly swallowed a doughnut whole this morning when Rita had stuck the paper under his nose, berating him for not taking a more active part in Julee’s charity blood drive. There was Julee, smiling fit to kill as she signed up folks for the big donor drive.

      “Yes, ma’am. I saw that. Cindy looked mighty nice.”

      “Cindy?” Mildred’s piercing voice shot up a notch. “Cindy? Land o’ goshen, Sheriff, I’m not talking about Cindy. I’m talking about Julianna coming back to Black-wood to help cancer victims. Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, keeping a bland expression while hoping Mildred wasn’t about to set him up with Julee. “Real nice of her.”

      “Did you know the car dealership is having a drawing? The winner gets to drive a new car free for a whole month?”

      “I’d heard that.” Who hadn’t? In two days time, Julee had turned the entire town upside down. The radio station blasted a reminder of the bone-marrow drive every fifteen minutes, the newspaper couldn’t seem to print enough rosy articles about the small-town girl who made good, and everywhere he went somebody reminded him of how sweet and perfect and single Julianna was. To hear them talk she was a cross between Mother Teresa and Sandra Bullock.

      “Well?” Mildred crossed her arms over the huge red flower decorating her shirtfront and fixed him with a questioning stare.

      He pinched his lips between thumb and forefinger and arched his eyebrows. Had he missed something?

      “I didn’t see your name on the list of civic leaders who’ve signed up to donate.”

      Tate sighed inwardly, guilt warming the back of his neck. He fiddled with a checker, sliding it back and forth along the edge of the board. “I didn’t see yours, either.”

      “You gotta be under sixty,” she huffed impatiently. “And Lord knows I passed that a long time ago. You’re young and fit as a fiddle so you got no excuse not to help out those poor little suffering children.”

      The guilt of worrying about those “poor little children” was eating a hole right through the smothered steak he’d had for lunch. “Needles make me nervous.”

      Mildred laughed and patted his arm. “Oh, Sheriff, you big tease. I know you’ll do your part. Just have Julianna hold your hand while they poke you.” She beamed at the genius of her suggestion. “And afterward, the two of you can come over to the Bingo Game together.”

      Bert clunked down another checker, taking one of Tate’s. “Mildred, you’re interfering with my concentration. Why don’t you be useful and go get me a cup of coffee?”

      While Tate silently thanked his old friend for the change of subject, Mildred drew back like a hissing adder. “Bert Atkins, you go get your own coffee.”

      With a huff, she flounced back to the circle of crocheting ladies who’d been acutely attentive during the brief exchange. Six smiles beamed their goodwill across the room. Mildred’s mouth moved non-stop while she looked at Tate with an expression that said she was certain—absolutely certain—he wouldn’t let her, or Julianna, down.

      Sometimes Tate didn’t know whether to hug them or hate them. Dear sweet ladies who meant well, but somehow thought he needed their input in every facet of his life. Not that he didn’t appreciate their casseroles and pies and crocheted afghans. He did. But right now, the last thing he needed was another reminder of the woman he’d never been able to forget.

      “Why not donate blood, Tate?” A checker in one hand, Bert paused. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

      Tate