13. Fisher
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
fisher
“Dammit.” With a grunt, I yank Betty’s collar again. “I know you love the strawberries as much as Sutton does, but Todd is going to turn you into goat stew if you keep breaking into his greenhouse.”
“Maaa,” she bleats, stubbornly digging her hoofs into the dirt floor.
I don’t know why Doris needed a white horned billy goat, or why she can’t keep the damn thing in its pen—or why it’s my job to deal with the damn thing—but apparently, these are all facts I’m supposed to accept.
“Grrwoof.” Bing pushes his head against Betty’s side, forcing her from the berries.
“Thanks, buddy.” I can always count on my dog to help herd the goat.
Together we get her through the greenhouse door and out into the chilly June air. The days are getting warmer as we move into summer, but it’s still only about fifty-five.
“Tell Doris she needs a higher fence, or we’ll kick Betty off this rock.” Todd points a crooked finger at me. “I’m taking this back to the town meeting. This island should be menace-free.”
I nod, still leading the goat to the dirt road.
Now that we’re away from the fruit, I suppose she’s the one leading me.
I release her and follow as she trots happily back to the fenced area behind the general store, where tourists stop and put quarters into a machine to buy food for her.
Summer is her season. People from all over love to feed her and watch her scale the bridged towers that Doris’s husband renovates weekly.
“I mean it, sheriff,” he calls after me. “I’m going to take matters into my own hands. I will get bear traps.”
The threat is nothing new, but he’s never followed through.
He’s cranky, but not cruel. He won’t hurt the goat.
He won’t even force her out of the greenhouse.
If he would, it would make my life a whole lot easier.
Although I don’t respond, Bing barks in answer, then takes off.
He makes his way past the gray building with sky blue trim that serves as the town’s art gallery and the much plainer souvenir shop next door, heading for the dock, probably to beg Cank for attention or treats.
“Look, it’s Betty!” A tourist a bit younger than Sutton comes running my way with her parents behind her.
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s a good idea to touch her,” the mother warns.
It’s not. But before I can say that, the dark-haired girl gives the goat a hug.
“Baa,” Betty protests, dancing away from the child and kicking up a cloud of dust as she goes. It’s been dry this spring, leaving my boots constantly covered in a layer of fine dirt. If we don’t get rain soon, I’ll have to start worrying about fires.
“I need to get her back,” I say as I pull the goat past the girl and her parents. “Enjoy your stay.”
I’m coming up on the gray shingled house we use as the medical center when Lindsey appears.
“Betty.” The three-year-old waves wildly from the porch.
Eddy peaks out the door and smirks. “Driving Todd to drink again?”
“We know the brewery needs the business. And that old man needs the stick out of his butt.” Doris frowns from the porch of the general store, arms crossed over her long, flowing red dress. Although she’s probably had it since the seventies, it’s finally back in fashion. “Come on, Betty.”
At the sound of her owner’s voice, the goat takes off, freeing herself from my hold, and follows Doris behind the building.
“She’s in a mood. She’s complained all morning about hating sherbet. Apparently it melts on everything and makes a mess.” Rolling her eyes, Eddy tucks her long French braid over her shoulder. “Like ice cream doesn’t.”
This is one of those situations where I should probably ask her to explain what the hell she’s talking about. Luckily I’m saved from responding when Bing shows up beside me.
“Puppy,” Lindsey says. “I can ride him?”
“Sorry, sweetie. You’re too big for that.” Eddy bends down to pick Lindsey up, but before she can, the three-year-old shrugs her off and darts away.
“Rocks,” she shouts, taking off toward the water, little pigtails bouncing, with Bing hot on her heels.
“Lindsey.” Eddy sighs. “This girl is going to be the death of me.” She flings a white box at me, then takes off. “Take that first-aid kit to Maggie for me,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Sheriff? More like errand boy,” I grumble.
“At least no one asks you for diet ginger ale.” Doris stomps up the porch steps, huffing.
With a sigh, I say, “Keep Betty away from Todd’s shit.”
She grumbles and waves a dismissive hand.
Whatever. Happy not to be pulled into any more drama there, I head up the dirt road to the schoolhouse on top of the hill.
I pass a crowd of people hanging out at the Monhegan Fish House.
All the tourists love Sherman’s crab rolls, so I duck my head and pick up the pace, doing my best to not make eye contact.
The last thing I need is more chitchat. I scoot past the red wooden announcement board and stride up the hill without incident.
Just as I round the corner, a flash of pink catches my eye, and when I catch sight of the accompanying blond hair, I almost smile.
But what the hell is she doing half crouched on a boulder along the path? The woman makes my head spin. But my stupid heart picks up just a hair at the prospect of talking to her.
“Princess,” I call.
She lifts her head, her eyes going wide, and sniffles. And is that—is she crying?
My heart lurches oddly at the thought, so I pick up my pace, jogging the last few feet to the rock.
“Go away.” She lowers her head, averting her gaze, but she can’t hide the red-rimmed eyes or the damp cheeks.
Dammit. I was right about the tears. Like hell I’ll leave her.
“What’s wrong?” I fist my free hand at my side, clenching so tightly it throbs. With a forced inhale, I stretch it out and rack my brain for a way to make her feel better. Being nice, being humorous, even being friendly, doesn’t come all that naturally, so the effort is in vain.
“No need to growl.” Her still misty eyes snap up, but now they’re blazing.
Good. I can handle mad, but the forlorn expression won’t do.
“Growling is the only way I know how to communicate.”
Like I hoped, her lips lift a fraction.
My stomach jumps at the idea that I could make her happy. God, I’m a sappy idiot. “Get used to it.”
She rolls her eyes and huffs. Hands planted on the rock, she drags her focus to the ground between us. Instantly, she shoots up to standing and teeters on the rock.
On instinct, I dart forward and grasp her hip.
“It’s going to get on you,” she says, though she clutches my arm to steady herself, her nails biting into my skin.
Get on me? What the hell is going to get on me?
Frowning, I follow her wide-eyed stare to the dirt by my feet. “Oh. A fish spider.”
It’s relatively small—only about twice as big as my thumb.
I shift closer and set the first-aid kit on the rock.
Then I wrap an arm around her waist, settling my hand along the hem of her high-waisted black leggings.
She’s got an irrational fear of the eight-legged creatures, and the last thing I need is for her to fall off the rock the way she tumbled off her dining room table the day we met.
Instead of shrugging out of my hold like I expect, she relaxes against me. As her sweet scent fills my nose, my body buzzes. Every nerve ending keys up at her proximity. I swallow, trying to fight the sensation. Fuck, I hate the way I lose control when I’m around her.
“Is it going to hiss again? Because when I was trying to poke it away with the stick, it hissed at me.”
The insane image of Libby poking at the spider with a giant stick flashes through my head. No wonder the little guy hissed.
Chuckling, I shake my head. “That was probably the issue.”
The silky strands of her hair brush against my cheek as she turns and locks those blue eyes on me.
I have to fight the shiver working its way down my spine.
Jesus, I swear this woman possesses some kind of magic that makes my body react.
As I tuck the hair behind her ear, my finger brushes her soft cheek, and she still doesn’t pull away.
“No one likes to be poked by a stick, especially spiders. Next time try being sweet. Maybe if you smile pretty, it’ll move for ya.”
The words are out and her eyes are wide before I realize how flirty that sounds. I don’t even know what to make of it. I don’t flirt.
She shudders. “I hate spiders.”
“Ready to go home yet, Princess?”
For the first time, I hope she snaps back with a quick no.
She straightens her shoulders, taking the bait and pulling herself together. “Neither spiders nor mean grocers will get me to leave. I am home.”
My lips twitch, coming dangerously close to tipping into a smile. That is until her words sink in. “Mean grocers?”
Yeah, Doris can be cranky, but she isn’t usually outright mean.
Eyes narrowing, she lifts her chin.
Fuck, I love the defiance in her expression.
“Apparently the groceries I request are either ridiculous or items she can’t get.”
Items she can’t get? What the hell? Doris can order pretty much anything that the Hannaford mainland stores carry. Spider issue aside, Libby isn’t the high-maintenance Hollywood prima donna that the tabloids make her out to be, so I can’t imagine that her requests are outrageous.
“Anyway.” She huffs. “I’ll figure it out.” She glances back to the ground where the spider about the size of a silver dollar is still milling about, her body racked with another shiver. “Probably from this rock. Because I’m never getting down.”
“Never?” I release her slowly, and once she’s steady, I take a step back so I can look at her.
She eyes the spider again, lip caught between her teeth. “Never,” she confirms. “Please let Maggie and Sutton know that a spider is holding me hostage.”