Page 10 of Dusty
Sharon nibbled on her lower lip, a host of scenarios racing through her head. It was a given they’d find her fingerprints in the car. She hadn’t worn gloves and knew her prints would be on the steering wheel, the doors, even the radio knob. The minute those prints went into the state database, the arrest warrant for her in Illinois would pop, and Dusty would have no choice but to bring her in. Cooper would find her. She knew of at least one hacker working for him, probably more since she’d taken off, and they’d be covering any and all hits that came up under her information, even if the name didn’t match. It wouldn’t take him long to send his hired thugs straight to Shiloh Springs.
“So that’s it?”
“Already told you—we look after our own in Shiloh Springs.” Dusty settled his hat back on his head. “As far as I’m concerned, you were walking toward town, I helped you out, and Ms. Patti’s taken a shine to you. End of story.”
Relief made her knees weak. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you look the other way? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done.”
Something shifted in Dusty’s expression—an oh-so-slight softening, perhaps. “Sometimes people run because they’ve done something wrong. Sometimes they run because something wrong was done to them.” He studied her face. “I’ve been a deputy long enough to tell the difference. You don’t strike me as the criminal type, Ms. Elliott. You strike me as the survivor type.”
The accuracy of his assessment left her momentarily speechless.
“Besides,” he continued, “Our sheriff? He started out wondering about Tessa too. Caught her climbing through that window right there.” He pointed toward the window beside the front door, the one she’d looked through when he’d arrived. Tessa had relayed part of the story earlier, but Sharon suspected there was a lot she’d left out. Dusty placed his hand gently on her shoulder and squeezed. “Sometimes that’s how the best things begin.” There was something in his voice—something personal—that caught Sharon’s attention.
“Is that your professional assessment, Deputy Warner?” she asked, finding her voice again.
A smile spread slowly across his face—not the professional, polite smile he’d worn earlier, but something genuine that reached his eyes and transformed his features. “No, ma’am. That’s just Dusty talking now.”
The distinction shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did.
“I…thank you. For fixing the door,” she said finally. “And for earlier. For the ride. For breakfast…for everything.”
“Just doing my job.”
“I think we both know that’s not true.”
His smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “Maybe not. But it sounds better than admitting I went out of my way to help a beautiful woman who looked like she needed a friend. That makes me sound like a sexist jerk.”
The compliment caught her off guard, warming her cheeks. It had been so long since she’d been seen as anything other than a fugitive, a target, a problem to be solved. To be noticed as a woman—just a woman—felt like a luxury she’d forgotten existed.
“I should go,” Dusty said, breaking the moment. “Got a patrol to finish. But I meant what I said—about Sunday dinner. It would do you good to spend time with the Boudreaus. No one makes a person feel safer than that family.”
“I’ll think about it,” Sharon repeated, this time with less resistance.
Dusty nodded, satisfied. “Lock up behind me. Both doors. And Sharon?” The use of her name sent a jolt of awareness through her. “Get some rest. You’re safe here. I promise.”
After he left, Sharon stood at the window watching his patrol car disappear down the driveway.
His words echoed in her mind:You’re safe here. I promise.
She knew better than to trust promises. Knew better than to trust a man with a badge, no matter how kind his eyes or reassuring his smile. Knew better than to believe in sanctuary when experience had taught her that nowhere was truly safe from Cooper’s reach.
And yet, as she double-checked the locks, and pulled the curtains closed against the night, Sharon found herself wondering what it might be like to believe—just for a little while—that Shiloh Springs could be different. That Dusty Warner could be special.
That maybe, just maybe, she had found a place where her problems couldn’t follow.
She moved through the cottage, turning off lights, checking windows, performing the security routine that had become as automatic as breathing. But when she finally lay down in the comfortable bed, staring up at the ceiling, Sharon realized something had changed.
For the first time in months, she wasn’t planning her next escape route.
Instead, she was thinking about Sunday dinner at the Boudreaus. About Ms. Patti’s pot roast that Dusty had mentioned when trying to entice her to come. About his smile and the way it had made her feel—not afraid, not hunted, but seen.
Noticed.
Remembered.
