Page 70 of Surly Sheriff
Clement Armstrong.
Now there was a tragic story. Clement’s mom had been murdered at the beginning of the year by a serial killer, and the Armstrong’s had moved to Clearbrook several months back. They lived a short way outside of the town. He had met Frank, Clement’s grandfather, but not his father, Oliver. The man was a bit of a recluse. Then again, he had lost his wife in a brutal manner.
Beau looked back at Rae. If anything happened to her …
He couldn’t contemplate not having her in his life. In the three-and-a-half months he’d known her, she had become essential to his happiness.
Rae looked up and met his intense stare. Her smile lit up her entire face, shining brighter than the Christmas lights strung along Main Street. His blood sizzled, burning a path all the way to his groin.
He glanced at his watch. Almost seven. Then she was his for the rest of the night.
“Deputy Stirling,” Frank called out, drawing his attention away from his woman. “Have you met my son?”
“Not yet.” Beau faced the middle Armstong male, stretching out his arm. “Beau Stirling.”
“Oliver,” the man replied, taking his hand. It wasn’t hard to notice the ravages of grief on his face.
“Quite the show you folks put on,” Frank continued.
Beau grinned. “The switching on of the Christmas lights is one of our major events, pulling visitors from across Nebraska. It equals the Labor Day Apple Festival in attendance.”
Rae sauntered their way. “Frank, how’s Priscilla handling her move to Nebraska?”
Priscilla was the man’s pink Cadillac — a pristine 1957 version — and Rae and Frank had bonded over their love of vintage cars.
Frank chuckled. “Just dandy, Rae. And Esmeralda?”
“Itching to show her superior powers on an empty road.” She grinned and shifted her gaze between him and Frank. “Somewherefarfrom the eagle eye of the sheriff’s office.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I get no special favors for being the Chief Deputy’s girl.”
“Dad,” Clement called out, holding up a book. Oliver turned away, focusing his attention on his son.
Rae moved with the man to his son. “I found a book on whittling with great step-by-step illustrations.”
He watched Oliver examine the book, hand over some money to Rae, and accept the change. Beau made a mental note to contact Oliver during the coming week and draw the man into his own small circle of friends. Frank excused himself and joined his son and grandson, and the three continued down the sidewalk.
Beau moved in behind the table and snaked his arms around Rae.
She, too, was staring at the trio. “Heartbreaking,” she whispered, relaxing against him.
“Yeah.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head.
“Clement says his dad is writing a story,” Davey piped up.
“He is?” Rae leaned forward and tugged the boy’s woolen cap to cover his ear.
“Uh-huh. About a P.I.”
“Wow. Our very own resident author.”
“Who’s our resident author?” Ruth asked, walking up.
Davey repeated his story while Rae gathered her purse from the crate under the table.
“Ruth, do you want us to come back and help with the packing up at eight?” Beau asked.
“Nah. I’m sorted. Davey will help. And Mom and Dad are here somewhere with Michaela. Now” — Ruth made a shooing notion — “it’s Friday. Take your girl, Beau, and go have some fun.”
Rae laughed and pointed to the coffee shop next door. “First, he needs to buy me something hot to drink.”
