Page 3 of Sour Layer

I chuckled. “No.”

“That’s sad,” Clark said as if meaning it.

He was sexy in a rugged, manly kind of way where cold and living in the wild required it. His dark wavy hair and tanned face made his sea-glass green-colored eyes look like contacts.

“So, who are you looking for?”

“Descendants of Maxine Bennett,” I said.

He tsked. “I wish I’d have known that. I could have saved you a trip.”

“Why is that?”

He glanced my way for a second, taking his eyes off the road. “The local Bennetts died years ago. I’m afraid you came all of this way for nothing.”

He was lying. I didn’t have to have my cousin Mike’s ability as a human lie detector to know it. My intuition told me as much. It was written in the heated air between us like an unspoken word. The only question was, why?

Electricity danced beneath my skin, heating through my warming veins. My aggravation was rearing its head. The thunder was louder and deep, like it rattled my bones. “Is that right?”

“Afraid so,” he said. His jaw was set in a fine line, and he kept his eyes on the road as he spoke. “All the flights are done for the day, but if you want, I can pick you up in the morning and carry you back to the airport.”

I shrugged off his offer. I wouldn’t be convinced until I saw every single one of the graves and checked with the local historians. My sisters would only send me back if I wasn’t thorough.

“No, I think I’ll take in the sights and see what this town has to offer. I’m sure there has to be some kind of pull for the Bennetts to have settled here.” I raised a brow and grinned. “There always is.”

The rest of the truck ride was spent in heated silence. I stared at the blanket of white snow covering most of the greenery. I didn’t know how people enjoyed living in the cold. Not when sunshine, margaritas, and pools were an option several states away.

Main Street consisted of a few mom-and-pop-type shops, a local diner, a coffee shop, and the Mountain View Inn, which I’d be calling home for the next week. Color was gone on the weathered sign. A painted outline of the mountain I’d been staring at was next to the name.

“Well, here we are.” He climbed out of the truck and rounded the hood to open my door before he hefted my luggage out of the truck bed.

His jacket shifted, giving me a glimpse of the shiny badge attached to his belt.

“You’re a cop?” I asked, taking my luggage.

“I’m the sheriff and sometimes taxi driver in order to get to know the strangers coming to town,” Clark said as a sly smile slid onto his face showcasing his sexy deep dimples. “Getting an unbiased opinion of newcomers helps me stay on my toes in the event I need to run off trouble.”

My lips twisted into a grin. He’d fooled me, and my trouble was sitting online for everyone to see. One internet search with my name and he’d know one of my secrets, even if he didn’t understand that I was working with the Reaper’s playbook.

“You think I’m trouble?” I asked as I headed toward the inn.

“I don’t know yet. Mercy Abbigail Bennett. Age thirty-four. Survivor of a lightning strike that took the life of another person.”

He’d done a bit of research but not nearly enough.

I pulled the door open and glanced back with a grin. “And here I was worried you might know more. Thanks for the lift, Sheriff.”

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