When Zoe started muttering and filling her arms with onions, tomatoes, and some kind of cheese, Mel backed away. “I need my knives.” Zoe dumped the ingredients on the counter and disappeared out the front door.

Wyatt started to say something but the words didn’t articulate before Zoe marched back inside, a black bag in her hands. “What are you two still doing in here? I’d put you to work, but I don’t need a hammer for dinner . . . and Melanie, bless her, is useless.”

“Hey, I manage.”

Zoe snorted before turning away. “And take those cookies to the parlor. I’m sure Miss Gina already has a plate ready.” Another muttered sneaky bitch left Zoe’s lips as Melanie and Wyatt left the room.

The noise generated by Hurricane Zoe drifted the farther they moved away from the kitchen.

“Is she always like that?” Wyatt asked.

“Only when she cooks,” Mel told him.

In the parlor, a crystal serving tray sat empty. A small piece of paper sat to the side. Crafted in calligraphy were the words Compliments of Chef Brown.

“Oh, she’s good.” Wyatt snaked one last cookie and waved it in the air.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Finishing up the roof. Bathroom still needs work.”

Melanie froze. “You didn’t leave the ladder—”

“I learned that lesson. The ladder is still on my truck. I smelled these before I could set up.”

“Zoe’s cooking is a beacon.” She finished setting out the cookies, had to tilt her head to catch Wyatt’s gaze. His eyes wandered to her lips.

“A beacon,” he repeated.

When she bit her lip, Wyatt looked away and stepped back. “I guess I should . . .”

“You probably should,” she agreed, though she enjoyed the heat he generated in her belly.

He took three steps before turning back. “I hear you’re thinking of sticking around for a while.”

“Is that right?”

“Small town. News travels fast.” He was smiling.

She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m considering it.”

He nudged the wall and changed course. “That’s good.” He didn’t elaborate before he waved the cookie her way and walked out of the house.

That’s good?

Two seconds later, she followed him out. He stood at his truck, pulling the ladder from the back.

“Why?” She yelled across the driveway.

“Why what?”

“Why is that good?” She knew, but wanted to hear him say it.

Wyatt paused in his task, offered a smirk. “You used to pole vault.”

Pole vault? What the . . . “Yeah, so?”

“We haven’t had a good pole vault coach since I moved here.”

“Pole vault.” Seriously?

His muscles worked in perfect unison as he pulled the ladder free. He leaned on it for a minute and posed. At least it looked like he posed. Like one of those guys in the calendars pretending to be carpenters. Only those men didn’t wear shirts. The thought of what Wyatt looked like shirtless had Melanie biting her lip again.

“You still remember the basics, right?”

“Of course.”

“So you’ll consider it?”

“I . . .” Pole vault. He was interested in her track talents. Not that they did anything for her. “I guess.”

Wyatt sent her a full dimpled smile, shook his hair out of his eyes.

She muttered pole vault under her breath and turned away.

Wyatt’s laugh followed her back into the house.

CHAPTER SEVEN

All small towns across the country had a few fundamental things in common. Gossip ran like water in a stream, most teenagers left as soon as they learned to drive or graduated from high school, and they honored their heroes on the appropriate holidays and the anniversaries of their passing.

Sheriff Ward had been a River Bend hero.

So much so that the town endorsed his sometimes delinquent daughter when she finished the academy and returned home.

Jo didn’t need this day as a reminder of her father, but the town did. So when her deputy lowered the flag to half-staff, she didn’t suggest he not. She accepted the handshakes and pats on the back when she passed people in town without having to ask why they stopped her. This had been going on every year since his death; this year wasn’t any different. Except, of course, the fact that many of the kids she grew up with were home to partake in the ritual.

Jo found herself scowling through a mental Rolodex of names. Who went out of their way to find her on this seventh anniversary of her father’s death, who avoided her. Even Grant, the town drunk who spent a few nights in her lockup like that man from Mayberry, removed his hat and shook her hand.

What the town didn’t know was how keenly she categorized everyone and everything on this day. Not for the desire of wallowing in her loss, but in an attempt to find her dad’s killer.

The town may not remember all the details of her father’s death . . . but she did. It helped that upon her return from the academy, she opened her father’s files and studied the report of his death to the point of memorizing nearly every word.

Her father was murdered. She knew it, the Feds suspected it, the local townspeople thought his death was accidental.

Problem was, the FBI didn’t find his case dirty enough to investigate once they found a satisfactory nonhomicidal angle.

Jo knew better.

Her daddy had been murdered. And she would, one day, find his killer and bring them to justice.

At quarter to noon, the door to the station opened. Zoe walked in beside Melanie. It was good to see her friends. She missed them both, terribly. Having them there sparked all kinds of memories.