Page 4 of Her True Blue
He tips a smile at me. “Jordana. You’re a brave woman. You didn’t lose your cool and followed protocol under intense pressure. I know you’re relatively new in town…”
I quirk an eyebrow inquisitively, wondering how he knows that. I mean, obviously, if I’ve seen him around, the same holds true for him. And it’s public record, and all.
He shrugs, coughing to clear his throat. “Small town. There’s been talk about the beautiful new bank manager.”
My face flushes as I fiddle with the Kleenex in my hand, damp and falling apart, keeping my eyes off his gorgeous, rugged face and his rough layer of scruff that I want to touch.
“If you can believe it, I actually moved here from Denver, hoping to get away from the crime. Among other…things.”
He’s quiet and reflective for a moment, his dark, full brows narrow into a crease between expressive blue eyes. I don’t elaborate on my comment because I don’t want to draw attention to my past or anyone I was with before this. I wanted to leave that all behind and start fresh.
And something in the way Officer Clawson looks at me feels just like that…a fresh start.
Cord
For crying in the beer,I’ve never had a problem keeping my composure or remaining professional in the midst of doing my job ever before. Not until her.
But Jordana had me sporting a hard-on the size of Texas. In the middle of a goddamn investigation. Did she notice it poking into her backside while her head was cradled in my lap? While her face was buried in the crotch of my uniform pants, as we awaited medical assistance?
It also didn’t help matters that I’ve seen her around town over the last few weeks, looking sleek and gorgeous, a nice easy-swing in her hips and a pretty smile across her lips. I practically discharge my weapon every time I catch a glimpse of her.
And I don’t mean my service issued-gun.
Sometimes in the mornings, I’ll see her as she stops in the Milltown Bakery down the street, always thoughtful to buy a cup of a coffee and an extra pastry for Homeless Hank and his dog, Chuck, who she’d stop by the park to visit.
I think I fell for her the first time I saw her bend down and let that old mangy rascal lick her face. I mean Chuck, not Homeless Hank.
So, you can imagine what having her on my lap, alone in the privacy of the bank, did to my muddled brain and libido. Her scent was a sweet aroma. She smelled like a baked apple pie and the Fourth of July.
While I was completely enamored by her beauty and essence, I still had enough brain capacity to read between the lines during my questioning of the robbery events and my Spidey-senses perked up with what she didn’t say.
My instincts went on high alert, knowing there was something she was leaving out. And as the FBI rushed in and took over the investigation and I hauled it back to the station to write up my report and begin putting out the APB’s, I also did a little back ground checking of my own on Jordana Bolton.
Born in Durango, Colorado. Twenty-six-years old. Last known address, Cherry Street, Denver, Colorado. No traffic violations or reported accidents.
But wait. What’s this?
A year ago, she filed a restraining order against one Trever A. Castillo. Twenty-five-years old from Denver.
Okay, this is interesting.
I dig a little further and see he has quite the excessive history of prior arrests, including an arrest last October in Aurora for petty robbery and breaking and entering. Since then, it looks like he’s been serving time in county for the last nine months.
And that’s all I need to know to make my decision.
For as long as necessary, I will find a way to keep a close watch on our new Milltown bank manager and protect her from whatever harm might come of her.
With all the festivities around town this week, it’s been especially busy for our small-town police force, which includes myself, my brother Crawford Junior, or just Jr., and my father Crawford Senior. Yep, it’s a family affair. Even goes back to my grandfather, the Chief of Police.
The blue runs deep within our blood when it comes to serving our town and the generations of families living in this peaceful mountain town.
In fact, I was named after my grandfather, Cordell Clawson, who remained the chief of police until he passed away ten years ago, leaving my father to pick up the mantel. We Clawson’s take great pride in protecting our community and being part of this tradition as humble service men.
As I walk through the town square, now finely decorated in banners of red, white, and blue, the sound of kids playing in the neighborhood pool, women from the local churches getting their tables ready for the bake-off and quilting contests, and the men from the Rotary opening their booths the charity raffles, it fills my heart with contentment and purpose as those whom I’ve known all my life call out to me as I pass by.
“Afternoon, Officer Clawson.” Marlena Schwiezer waves from her position near the ticket counter, her sister Mitzie sitting by her side.
“Morning, ladies. It’s going to be fine evening for a celebration.” I tip the brim of my hat toward them, dipping my chin in greeting. “Tomorrow should be even better.”
